{the party} michael kozlowsky

{the party}
michael kozlowsky

Doyle Weathers, drunk, depressed, and dripping wet, aimlessly roamed the streets of New York City in search of happier times. He pulled his soaked coat closer to his chest and averted his eyes from the spiking rain that smacked his face without pity. No one had pity for Doyle these days; there were few people who even talked to him. He didn’t have any family, friends were a just a delightful childhood memory, his job as a mail carrier wore down his knees and his personality (he could remember a time when he used to converse with people on his routes), and girls, especially girls, wanted nothing to do with him except to sneer at his approach and laugh at his departure. But all that didn’t prevent Doyle from wandering in and out of random bars until he made it home all the way across town. In fact, it inspired him.

The last bar he was in bored him, nothing going on. It was a dive bar, dark with broken wood chairs, cracked glasses, shattered mirrors, and even more shattered souls sitting slumped against the rail scattered a good distance from each other, because, Doyle thought, in a place like that being social was a cough no one wanted to catch. No one moved unless it was to sip their drink and no one talked unless it was to order their next; the bar was quiet and dull, exactly the type of place Doyle didn’t want to be. Not that Doyle would talk to anyone, of course, but he liked to watch, he liked to observe everyone else having fun, flirting, laughing, cursing, dancing, reminiscing, and cheering. He liked to sit back and watch people live and at the last bar the patrons were on death beds.

So Doyle moved on. The wind numbed his hands as it whipped around the dark corners and rushed past him, his knuckles cracked and his hair blew in random directions, keeping in sync with the man it was attached to. Few people were on the streets and it depressed Doyle even more. There were always sounds but it was like he was disconnected from them, inanimate objects doing what they do so people could do what they needed to do, and it all happened without him. Some people would shuffle by quickly, running across the street before an empty cab splashed them with dirty water dampening their night, or a bum would waddle from one alley to another spotting a trash can ripe with broken treasure; there were stray cats darting along with the rats and the subway cars would rattle the city reminding them that they were still alive.

Then, laughter stretched around the block. The sound tingled in Doyle’s ear and he started to run towards its source. He could feel his heart perk up and his adrenaline take off as he rounded the corner. His feet kicked up water, soaking his toes, inching them closer to numbness. The laughter still echoed in the empty streets and Doyle saw that it was a group of girls attempting to hail a cab while reveling in the rain, making the most of their night. He stopped before he was seen and ducked into a doorway under an overhang from where he could watch them. The girls twirled in the rain without an umbrella, clearly enjoying each other’s company, dancing and smoking on the sidewalk. One of them began to sing and they all put their arms around each other’s shoulders, swaying as the wind blew their dresses past their knees. It was a genuinely happy moment, a performance of extreme exuberance unknowingly in front of a crowd of one. Doyle smiled in the dark, wishing so badly that he could approach the girls and talk to them. But he knew what would happen; he knew how weird they would think he was. He knew how they would blow him off in an unassuming way and laugh the entire cab ride home at his expense. He knew they would make fun of his appearance, his looks, he knew they wouldn’t give him a minute to converse with them like pleasant strangers in a chance encounter. He knew he hated the year 1956 and every year he lived before it. He knew he wasn’t made for these times. He knew it all. But he still smiled for them and their moment, he might have even cried, hoping that they would never forget this night, never taking it for granted. The smile remained on his face until a cab finally picked them up.

Doyle continued on and knew the moon was out but he couldn’t see it, he stretched his neck checking, trying to maneuver his eyes around buildings in search of the white orb that he was sure was full. He tried for many blocks, but didn’t see it. He did see a suspicious man outside a building he wasn’t quite sure he ever noticed before. Doyle made his way in that direction, not bothering to jump over puddles, not even bothering to check for traffic. As he walked along the building he saw shadows behind the window curtains and the faintest sound of music echoing from the walls sounding like a prayer. The building was behind an iron gate fence and was well taken care of. As Doyle got closer to the lone man outside the doors he noticed the man was dressed in a tuxedo, smoking to keep warm. Without slowing, without looking out of place Doyle attempted to walk past the man, through the doors, and into the building.

The man was massive. He was a good foot taller than Doyle and probably a hundred pounds heavier, all muscle. The man put his hand against Doyle’s chest and Doyle almost fell backwards. They took each other in, the man looking Doyle up and down, Doyle staring the man in the eyes. In an almost robotic voice the man told Doyle he couldn’t let him in, that only guests were allowed. Doyle put his hands up in surrender and turned around, expecting just as much. When he was on the second step down the walk, the man called out to him. Doyle turned around and the man asked if he had ten dollars, which Doyle did as it was the last of his drinking money. But without a further thought, Doyle handed over the money, only wanting to get inside and see people at this party. The man moved aside and opened the door inviting Doyle in.

The music became more audible; it was soft and peaceful, played by a small orchestra no doubt. Doyle felt himself immediately drying and noticed that even the air had a scent of perfume to it. He followed the music like a carrot on a string down the hall until he saw a giant room opening up before him. Then he saw people living. Oh, were they living, he thought.

The room could have fit a hundred cars and hundreds more if they were stacked high; the windows stretched like in a cathedral and a chandelier hung in the center that was bigger and thousands of dollars more expensive than Doyle’s apartment. The wood floor shined like the sun was hanging in the corner of the room just for these privileged people, and to Doyle’s instant delight, then instant depression because of the realization he was broke, he saw the room was lined with bars.

The people in the room perplexed Doyle and intrigued him more than in any place he had ever been. The men and woman on the floor, dancing, drinking, and mingling, were all dressed in tuxedos and gowns; they were of varying ages, from 20 to 80, with jewelry that could outweigh a baby. They were all happy and laughing, exactly what Doyle was hoping to see, and they moved so perfectly to the music that it could all have been rehearsed.

Then there were the other women. The naked ones. Walking along the perimeter of the dancers, not wearing a stitch of clothing, were women who could only be models. Each body was perfectly chiseled with large, perky breasts, long, thick hair that a hand could get lost in, a tiny nose and a pouty mouth, green or blue eyes, a hairless body and a flat stomach. The women’s asses were neither flat nor rotund, their thighs were muscular and dirt wouldn’t even dare to make their feet filthy. The naked women traipsed around the room, always like it was absolutely normal, flirting with the guests, men and women. Some of the naked women would give massages on beds on the far side of the room next to the orchestra, rubbing their breasts on the guests’ faces, then standing with their beautiful feet on each guest’s back.

Doyle needed a drink. He needed to better take in this scene and only a drink would help his situation. He dug through his pockets like a mugger would, searching every crevice, every pocket and hole, never once feeling underdressed or out of place, he felt almost as if he wasn’t even there. As he continued to look through his pockets in the middle of the room the men and women continued to dance right by him, almost through him. Astoundingly it seemed as if the guests would never acknowledge Doyle, never treat him like he didn’t belong, and that was the way he liked it, the way he would dream it up. And just like that, he found some change and approached one of the bars.

The bartenders, all men, were also naked and also perfect specimens of the human figure. They were all slim, but muscular, perfectly toned with large penises and chiseled man/boy faces. Their smiles could cause eyes to water and their laughs could do the same. Doyle got the attention of one, a blond hair, blue eyed boy of about 21 and asked him for a rum and Coke. The bartender didn’t even pause, didn’t even stare at Doyle’s haggard appearance; he just made the drink and returned it to its new owner. Doyle asked how much it would be and that was the only time the bartender looked puzzled. He told Doyle that it was an open bar and Doyle could have passed out right then.

He didn’t pass out though, he took his drink, turned around and leaned against the bar taking in this wonderful environment. It was already quite late but the party did not seem to be on the decline, in fact, the party seemed to be on an upswing. The music swelled and picked up as did the dancing and more and more people were grabbing drinks and downing them with a speed that could usually be attributed to college boys.

Doyle was in his glory. He was in a place where he could get lost and watch people live out the best parts of their lives. He looked to his right and a couple just came off the dance floor to freshen up their drinks and themselves. The couple was of middle age, a handful of years older than Doyle; they were attractive and sweating from the dancing. They ordered two martinis and proceeded to kiss each other with the eagerness of youth. The woman laughed and without hushing her voice, proceeded to tell the man how she was going to suck him off later that night and in a small way, Doyle found the remark romantic.

The couple received their drinks and dropped a large tip in the process. The man wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and the woman took a small mirror from her small purse to glance herself over. With the mirror open and while fixing her mascara the woman went on for a while about a new car she wanted her husband to buy. She went over every detail, from color to motor and it depressed Doyle enough to move away from them. He felt it made the couple seem ordinary and ordinary was the last thing he wanted on this night.

Drink in hand, Doyle wandered over to the massage mattresses. He stumbled a bit, spilling some of his drink, but still no one noticed him, or, if they did, didn’t care. The music carried Doyle and he felt a bit giddy, even allowing himself to perform a small jig while crossing the floor. He blushed to himself as he felt the rise of unadulterated joy throughout his body, amazed that he allowed himself to do that. When he reached the mattresses, he almost wanted to turn around and ask someone to dance, but, not wanting to ruin a good thing, he thought better of it.

There were four mattresses in all and they were all currently occupied by three men and one woman. The men were moaning with their arms and legs sprawled as the naked women caressed their sagging skin like well kneaded dough. The naked women’s breasts twirled in circular motions as they really got into it, their bodies vibrating, and their mouths panting as they picked up speed. The men began to moan even louder and the naked women slapped the men’s backs or dug their elbows into the men’s shoulders. The last bed, occupied by a middle aged woman receiving a massage from a gorgeous woman with straight black hair, suddenly caught Doyle’s attention. The naked woman who, a moment ago, was standing on the woman’s back, slowly grinding her heel into the woman’s shoulder, suddenly dropped onto the woman, turned her over and kissed her vigorously. The woman didn’t miss a beat and grabbed the naked woman’s black hair and tugged. The naked woman gasped, pulled her head up and the woman’s mouth pounced at the breasts before her, sucking the nipples until they were hard. The naked woman humped the woman’s leg, rubbing herself up and down on the gown, moaning louder than the three men next to her combined. The man on the bed next to the two women jumped up and pulled down his pants. He began to pleasure himself as he watched the women, one of whom may or may not have been his wife.

The naked woman on the empty bed spotted Doyle and waved for him to come over. Doyle felt a pang of panic and took a sip of his drink before he slowly approached her. The naked woman giggled and patted the bed. Doyle turned around, making sure she was gesturing to him; making sure no one was astounded or shocked, angry or laughing. He turned back and stared at her hand touching the bed, and then stared at the woman’s body, her perfect body, then he stared into her eyes, took another drink and walked away.

Noticing his drink was low Doyle went back to the bar but this time grabbed a different bartender, a different blond. He asked for another rum and Coke, and, feeling confident, didn’t ask for the price. Just then a group screamed in the corner of the room, not a startled scream, but a scream of enjoyment, followed by laughs that instantly drew Doyle closer. He walked away from the bar but stopped dead in his tracks half way across the dance floor. Back, near the mattresses, the music swelled to such a strong point that Doyle could feel the notes come alive and tug at his back, turning him around and making him head towards orchestra. Without needed any further convincing, he followed the music.

As the crowd danced behind him, Doyle stood in front of the orchestra like a conductor and watched them play. They were all men and all completely focused, dressed in tuxedos like the other guests and confident in what they produced. It made Doyle wish he didn’t give up playing the trumpet when he was twelve. He stood where the conductor would have and at one point he closed his eyes and did see himself throwing his arms in sync with the music, his hands dancing so elegantly, the way he always wanted his body to move, and he saw everyone in the orchestra followed him. Doyle led them spiraling down decrescendos and lunging past largos and floating into adagios while his followers never took their eyes off him. Doyle’s chest swelled as did the music and everyone danced, every single person, the naked women and the bartenders joined in, the man came in from outside and danced, the man jerking off and the screaming group danced, all following Doyle’s lead.

The cymbals crashed and Doyle opened his eyes, saw his arms were still moving and, embarrassed, ran to find the bathroom. He turned the corner into another hallway with doors evenly spread on each side. Frantically, he tried one and it was locked. He moved on to the next. This time the door opened and he saw three people having sex, two men and one woman; they must have been over seventy years old. The men were moaning so loud Doyle could feel his eardrums vibrate and the woman saw Doyle and started screaming. Not because she saw him - she wasn’t scared - it was a scream of immense pleasure. The old woman said she was coming to the one in her and the one she was pleasuring with her hand said the same thing before he came onto her face. Their raggedy skin shook like they were having seizures. Then the man in the woman turned to look at Doyle. They locked eyes and the man kept going, kept pumping away at the old woman while looking at Doyle the entire time with an odd look on his face, a twisted half-grin that sloped in opposite directions on each side of his mouth. Doyle back peddled, mentioned the bathroom and the woman, still panting like she just came up from a long swim, pointed over her head, down the hall. Doyle shut the door behind him.

Further down the hall he found the bathroom. The room was covered in black and white tile and there was an attendant standing by the sink. No one else appeared to be in the bathroom. Doyle nodded to the man and jumped inside a stall to calm himself. His hands were still shaking and his legs felt weak; he went to sit down, stopped, put the lid down, noticed it was clean, then happily sat down. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes thinking that maybe the night of drinking was finally getting to him. He couldn’t understand his environment, what he had seen, where he was. He retraced the night in his head, he saw everything from the previous bars, to the girls on the street, to the party he was currently at, and decided that somehow, it was all tied together, that they were all somehow similar, he just had to find out how. Sitting on the toilet, head in hands, he was determined to discover the answer. He almost nodded off when he heard footsteps in the bathroom. Doyle peered through the stall and saw the attendant pacing back and forth. The man went to the door, looked out, came back and went through a bag he kept on a shelf. He took something out of it and placed it on the counter. Doyle looked closer and saw what he believed to be cocaine, and his suspicion was confirmed when the man snorted it. The man, maybe just remembering Doyle was in the bathroom, offered some of his supply. Doyle graciously turned the man down, and then thought twice. He asked for a little bit. The man laughed, told him to wait a minute, and then started writing something down. Sure enough, a minute passed and the cocaine slid under the stall on a piece of cardboard, with a rolled up dollar bill on it. Doyle picked them up and quickly did the line. When he was finished he looked back at the cardboard. On it the man wrote - You don’t belong here.

Doyle dropped the cardboard to the floor and the man started laughing. Doyle ran out of the stall and the man was leaning against the counter, head back, mouth wide, laughing. The man repeated what the cardboard said and Doyle left the bathroom in a hurry. When he got back to the dance hall he felt vulnerable, he felt like everyone could see him more clearly now. He needed another drink.

At the bar he had trouble getting the bartender’s attention. When he finally did the bartender made the rum and Coke but asked for two dollars. Doyle reminded him about the open bar and the bartender said he didn’t know what he was talking about and took back the drink. Doyle turned around and made for another bar across the room. The couples that were dancing looked at him with disgust, one woman coughing almost to the point of vomiting. Doyle reached the other bar and repeated his request only to get a similar response. He felt woozy, he stumbled into a naked woman and she shrieked, repulsed to have been touch by such a disgusting specimen. The music sped up as if accompanying Doyle’s disillusionment, its pace grew and grew as if a mad conductor raced them through a ten minute song in two minutes. Doyle ran down the hallway, past the room of sex, past the bathroom, and into the hallway he first came in through.

People behind Doyle laughed. They laughed at everything about him and Doyle wanted to weep, he wanted to so bad, but he wouldn’t allow it. Not there, not in front of those people. Doyle rushed for the door, his heart trying to rip through his chest. He slammed the door open and the cold New York City air slapped him in the face and he began to cry. He let it all out onto his coat, mixing into the still falling rain. The streets were still deserted and the man was still outside the party. Doyle looked at the man through blurry eyes and the man scowled at him, telling him to get lost, that this party wasn’t for him.

Doyle went back onto the city streets, continuing his random path home. It was another weekend night filled with people he didn’t know, wouldn’t ever know. It was just like every other weekend, every other night, every other day. Doyle pulled at his weathered coat, bringing it close to his chest when he remembered what the bathroom attendant said - You don’t belong here. He looked up, allowing the wind and rain to beat his face once more, and through it all, his tears, the rain, the fog and wind, Doyle thought he saw the moon.