Life of the Party by Michael Dell "Thompson, good man!" "Hello, Aleck," said Thompson, flexing life back into his hand. "I got hung up at the paper. He didn't leave yet, did he?" "No, no, of course not," bellowed the host. "The festivities are far from being complete. Here." Alek produced a party hat from his coat pocket and planted it upon Thompson's head. "Help yourself to all the wine, women, and song. Our honoree is currently holding court in the kitchen." Thompson removed the cheap paper favor. "Thanks. Hey, one of your neighbors stopped me on the way in and asked if we could keep the noise down." "Oh, he did, did he?" Alek drunkenly pushed his way past Thompson into the hall, allowing the unchecked revelry to spill with him. "Well, I think my neighbor should hold his decrepit little tongue!" Alek staggered forward, focusing his verbal assault on one door in particular. "Doesn't he realize that tonight we are bidding farewell to one of the all-time greats of American letters and canvas! A man who has opened the eyes of the blind with his brush and skewered the convictions of the elite with his pen! He is a genius! A giant among men! And we must trumpet his brilliance before he flies away to greener lands! So be still, peasant! Or so help me!" Alek noticed the now empty glass in his left hand. "Bah! Scotch! I need more Scotch!" As Alek turned his heavy, three-piece-suit-wearing frame on heel for a return trip down the hall, a door opened. "You got any gin?" Alek turned to the voice. "Say again?" "You got any gin or don't ya?" "Do I take this to mean you would like to join in the merriment?" The old man didn't say a word. A smile softened Alek's fleshy red cheeks. "But of course, my good man! Come! Join in the celebration! Perhaps your little peasant mind will be enriched for the experience." The old man hobbled into the hall, pulling his door shut behind him. He walked with a slight giddy-up in his step. There was gin to be had. Alek extended an arm as if to bestow a welcoming embrace, but it was met with a scornful stare as the man limped by. "And the horse knows the way." Alek's intoxicated arm fell forward in a whipping motion. "H-yah! H-yah!"
2 The apartment, crowded under the best of circumstances, was positively cramped with well-wishers and faces from the past. Streamers cascaded from the ceiling, confetti traced the floor, and a large "Bon Voyage, Charlie" sign, made with red paint on a white bed sheet, hung against the far wall. Thompson forced his way through the mass attempting to exchange pleasantries above the intrusive music and laughter. He eventually emerged at the doorway to the kitchen and saw the man of the hour sitting at the table along with several other friends. They were attempting to hold a conversation amidst the chaos. "Charlie!" "Thompson! Glad you could make it!" "I wouldn't miss this for the world." "Neither would I," smiled Charlie. He stood up and shook Thompson's hand and offered him the chair he had been occupying. "Have a seat." Thompson placed his hand on Charlie's shoulder and guided him back. "No, that's okay. I'm cool. So how've you been?" "You know. The usual." "I can't believe you're leaving us." "It had to happen some time." "No sense trying to talk him out of it," joined one of the many others around the table. "I only wish I could go with him. But it's so hectic at work right now." "Tell me about it," moaned Thompson. "They're driving me crazy at the paper. I have to go back in early tomorrow. I don't know how much longer I can take it." "I hear ya," agreed the fellow complainer. "I'm just counting the years till retirement." "It must be so nice to be able to leave everything behind," voiced a young woman sitting on a man's lap. "Yeah, but only our Charlie here has the freedom to do it," smiled Thompson. "He was always the free one." "We barely have a moment's peace anymore," continued the woman. "This is one of the few nights we've been able to enjoy ourselves since the baby." "How is the little guy?" asked Thompson. "I haven't seen him in ages." "He's wonderful," boasted the father and lap provider. "He's growing up so fast. You should see him walk now. He's practically running." "They're going to have another one," grinned Charlie. "So soon?" questioned Thompson in disbelief. "It's almost been a year," said the woman. "I'm already three months along." "Congratulations!" called Thompson, reaching forward to shake the husband's hand. "This really is a cause for celebration. Speaking of which..." "There's beer in the fridge but most of the hard stuff is out in the other room," informed Charlie. "Thanks," said Thompson, patting Charlie on the shoulder. "I'll be right back."
3 Thompson's second crusade through the living room was made all the more arduous now that Alek's substantial girth was added to the mix. Thompson forged onward with the liquor bottles in sight only halting momentarily when his hand accidentally found its way onto the shapely form of a young woman. Before he could apologize for the unintended grope, the girl made some muffled sound of approval and kissed him on the cheek. She immediately returned to dancing and Thompson continued on his way, albeit somewhat more happily. It wasn't until he reached the liquor cart in the opposite corner of the room that he recognized the elderly man standing next to it. "I see you decided to join us," smiled Thompson. "What?" creaked the old man, a shot glass in his left hand and a bottle of gin in his right. "You decided to join us," repeated Thompson, smiling and nodding his head in approval as he mixed himself a vodka tonic. "I figured there was no sense complaining," grumbled the old man. "I reckon if you're going to make a racket the only thing I can do is get a few belts out of it." He punctuated the declaration with a shot of gin. "So where is this great artist?" "Charlie? He's in the kitchen. You want to meet him?" "No." He filled his shot glass. Thompson took a sip of his drink and offered his hand in friendship. "My name's Thompson." The old man did a double take at Thompson and then looked at his own hands still holding the bottle and shot glass, as if to condemn the greeting as an act of stupidity. "I'm sure it is." He did another shot. "This great artist guy isn't another one of 'them' is he?" "Them?" "You know." The man dangled his empty glass in his fingers and let his wrist fall limp. "Like your fat friend." "Oh," caught Thompson. "No, Charlie isn't one of 'them.'" "Good," said the old man, filling his glass. "There's been a parade of queers up and down this hall ever since he moved in. At least you seem all right." Thompson noticed the man was staring at his face. He rubbed his left cheek and felt lipstick. "Forgot about that." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in his drink, and set about trying to cleanse the stain from his skin. "I'll say this for the chubby bastard," the old man threw down another shot, "he buys good gin. So what's this artist's name again?" "Charlie. Charles Bennett" "If he's so great, how come I've never heard of him?" "Maybe you never listened." "So he paints?" "Yeah." "What?" barked the man in request for repetition. "Yes, he paints." Thompson pointed to a far wall. "That's one of his over there." The old man squinted and wrinkled his nose. "What the hell's that supposed to be?" "Whatever you want it to be." "It's ugly." "Maybe it's meant to be ugly." "Then he's one hell of an artist. But that's not art. Art's supposed to be beautiful." "Art's supposed to be true." "Aw, you punks wouldn't know art if it bit you on the ass." "He painted his reality." "His reality's ugly." "It probably is." The old man took another drink. "Art's supposed to be beautiful." He hesitated a moment to steady himself. The effects of the alcohol were starting to show. "How come I've never heard of him if he's so great? Does he write books?" "He's written a couple." "They couldn't have been very good. I never heard of him." "You never heard of him?" mocked Thompson. "Never." "He's quite popular in certain underground literary circles." "Yeah, I bet. How far underground? China? Gotta dig to China to hear of this guy. I think you're all loony. Having a big party for some guy no one's ever heard of. Where the hell's he goin' anyway?" He motioned the bottle to the banner. "It's a bon voyage party, right?" "He's leaving." "But where's he goin', bright boy? I know he's leaving. Aw, forget it. Who cares? I'd leave too to get away from the rest of you birds. Look at that fat one now, prancing and hollering like a stuck pig." "There's Charlie," pointed Thompson. "That scrawny little guy with the shaved head?" "Yes." "Looks queer to me." The old man returned his glass and bottle to the liquor cart. "I've had enough. Tell the fairy princess I said thanks for the gin." Thompson reached out and grabbed the man by the sleeve of his gray cardigan sweater. "Hey..." The man tugged his arm free but before he could spout any obscenities Thompson handed him the bottle of gin. The old man waited a moment for clarification before grabbing the bottle with both hands. He stuffed it inside his sweater, pinning it against the side of his body closest to the wall, and nodded to Thompson in silent appreciation. 4 The old man was about to reach the door when it was flung open by a young woman with short black hair. Fearing she was going to try and seize his gin, the man twisted a shoulder in protection. He was relieved when she passed without so much as a look. He eased his way into the hall and was gone. The girl barged her way through the crowd, pushing and pulling at the ebbing wave of revelers. "Ah, dear Kaitlin!" rejoiced Alek upon seeing the cause of the disturbance. "Always the proverbial bad penny." The young woman shoved him in the stomach as she passed. Her march didn't end until she was face to face with Charlie. "What happened to your hair?" was her surprised greeting. "Kaitlin?" "It doesn't matter." She seized him by the wrist and began to lead him away. "We have to talk." She once again plowed her way through the humanity, pulling Charlie in tow. Thompson fired a quick salute as they passed. She barreled down the apartment's hall towards the bedroom in search of quiet. The bedroom door opened to reveal a couple already enjoying the promised solitude. "Oh, hi, Charlie," said the man, raising his mouth from the young woman. "Did you guys want in here?" Kaitlin slammed the door and started back down the hall. The entrance to the living room was completely blocked by bodies. Kaitlin let out a cry of frustration. She spun around and tried the bathroom door. It was locked. "Okay, okay, hold on!" answered a voice in response to the frantic pounding. "Geez, can't a guy even take a... oh, hi, Charlie. You guys back together? Hey!" Kaitlin grabbed the man by the shirt and pulled him out into the hall. She shoved Charlie into the bathroom and locked the door behind them. "Don't do this," commanded Kaitlin. "I have to." "No, you don't. Not like this. What about us?" "I haven't talked to you in over two months. And the last time I tried to call you, all you did was yell at me for five minutes straight and then hang up." "I was mad at you." "So you're not mad at me anymore?" Kaitlin considered the question. "No, I'm still mad at you. But that doesn't mean I always will be. Don't go." "I have to." "Do you have to do it now?" "If it doesn't happen now it will happen eventually." "What if I love you?" "You don't love me for me. You love the fact that I love you and you love all the things I did for you, but you didn't love me. You may love the man you think I could be, but you don't love me for who I am. You're just scared to be alone." "Charlie..." "Kaitlin," he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We've been over all this a million times. It's no use. I have to go." She lowered her face and caressed his hand with her cheek. Kissing his fingers, she clasped his hand in hers and placed it over her heart. Tears were beginning to well in the lashes of her eyes. "I love you, Charlie." "Then be happy for me."
5 Alek was just recovering from the first blow to the gut when Kaitlin delivered another on her way out of the apartment. She never looked back. She was nothing more than a rumor by the time Charlie made his way to the living room. "She certainly didn't stay long," griped Alek, rubbing his bruised belly. "Long enough," said Charlie. "It was nice seeing her." "She was always the fiery one. So fair of skin and foul of temper. One can only imagine the warmth her supple little body must have provided on those cold, lonely nights." "One can only imagine." "Alas, she's gone for better or better. But look around you, dear boy! There's flesh as far as the hand can feel. The night is yours. Take it!" "Actually, I think it's time." "Are you sure?" "Yeah, I'm ready." "Gather round, boys and girls!" shouted Alek. "It's time! It's time! Someone turn off that damn music! Charles, go stand over there in front of the banner. Everyone else move to this side of the room. Places, people! Places!" Everyone did as instructed, their movements appearing almost choreographed. "Gift Wench! Where's the Gift Wench? Oh, there you are, my sweet. Wait here a moment." Charlie was soon facing a solid sea of admirers. Their bright beaming smiles were enough to cast a shadow along the wall behind him. When the crowd seemed to settle in, and the final jostling for prime position had ended, Alek once again took charge. "Is everyone ready? Then we shall proceed. Charles, we all chipped in and got you a little something." Upon Alek's signal, a luscious young blonde in a short black cocktail dress and pearls stepped from the crowd. She was carrying a small blue box with beautifully ornate gold ribbon. "The gift's the box, Charlie, not the girl!" cracked Thompson. The girl presented Charlie the gift with a slight curtsy and returned to her place alongside the others. "Thank you all very much. Although I think I would like to thank some more than others," smiled Charlie in the direction of the girl. He gave a delicate tug to the ribbon and it fell loose to the floor. He carefully raised the top of the box and peered inside. He replaced the lid and paused. "Just what I always wanted." An enormous cheer burst forth from the crowd. Laughter and calls of "Charlie" echoed off the walls. Charlie raised a shy hand in gratitude. "You're probably all counting on me to say something witty or memorable..." "Or at least profane," called Alek. "What can a man say at a time like this?" began Charlie. "I'd like to say that you've all meant a lot to me. I'd like to say that, but I can't." There was laughter. "I'd like to say that you've all had a profound influence on me, but I can't." More laughter. "It would be easy to say those things, but the words would be empty. The empty words of an empty gesture." Charlie deliberated on what to say next. All in attendance waited breathlessly in fear of missing even the slightest hint of his wisdom. "For every man is an island. Don't listen if they try and tell you otherwise. We're born alone. We die alone. And truth be told, we live... alone. It's never going to change. It makes no difference how hard you live or how much you love; it's never going to change. But it's the experience... it's the experience that matters. Thank you all for being witness to my experience." Charlie reached inside the box and lifted a small black handgun to his head. They watched in delight as the body fell. The music returned. Whiskey was poured. And they all laughed and danced until the sun signaled a new day.