My dad avoided me so as not to explode at me with something about my cigarette addiction. My mom listened to Mr. Liefer drone on about his wine-cellar for the entire 3 hours. My sister escaped and made off like a bandit with the Minkstein's bottle of potato vodka. I re-established my social ineptitude, standing in a corner with the one non-stranger, drinking a solo cup of Jameson straight and fending off drunken neighbors who remembered when I was "this tall." Of course, I didn't remember them at any height.
I finally understood, 4 drinks in, after hearing some story from a bald man about his nephew, or his cousin, or some little shit-head, performing nude Macbeth off-broadway -- the point of which, by some stretch, was to let go of my squandering pipe-dreams and get a real job -- that the extra friendly adults at the parties when you were a kid weren't just pal-ing around...they were hammered stupid drunk.
I must've answered the same questions a hundred times to every dingbat on the block. "Hey, how ya doin'?" "Good." "How's school?" "Not bad." "Where you goin' again?" "Emerson College." "What're you doin' there?" "Film." "Oh, that's cool. What's your favorite movie/director?" (What ensues here is the beginning of a lengthy response I've prepared which is cut short by more small-talk) "Cool stuff. So you glad to be home?" "...eh."At a certain point I figured it would be more efficient chase Marissa around the house, trying to look involved in her conversation, so-as to avoid engaging in one of my own. Things got interesting when my mother discovered that the Minkstein boys had dumped a full handle of Canadian schwag whiskey into the pot of cider.
But, at the end of the night, after watching all the neighbors get strutting drunk, slap backs, and generally make themselves obvious, I staggered through the searing cold, stomach full of whiskey, and soul soaked with beer, and wondered if my colon felt crowded by my encroaching testicles. Then I thought I don't belong here.
I've gotta get outta here.
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