Joan’s face goes blank, but not fast enough to conceal a sour, fleeting look of… scorn? Boredom? Disappointment? All of the above? I sip my lemonade. It’s sour too, and different from the concentrated frozen sugar water I grew up drinking. The menu listed the ingredients: soda water, lemon syrup, dash of violet syrup, sprig of fresh thyme. Purple swirls at the bottom of the glass. So that’s what violets taste like. Most nuances are new to me. Joan’s a blasé New Yorker in her late forties, twice my age. We met through work. Her husband’s a banker; she’s semi-retired and volunteers two days a week at a local nonprofit to get out of the house. You don’t know anyone here, do you, she asked the first day we met. Not really, I said. Couple of friends from high school. On hearing this, Joan arranged a phone call with one of her gay friends, Chet. I didn’t know men were still named that. We did not hit it off. He told me all about his workout routine. It’s been years since I last set foot in a gym and I own no athletic gear. He told me all about his wardrobe, purchased at a discount from the department store where he sells shoes. I wear button-down shirts and my glasses slide down my nose every ten seconds. I asked which authors he liked. You read? he asked. That’s… so interesting. With that, the Chet chat was over. Joan has already heard this, of course, and been told that I’m weird. She keeps her face blank but a sourness lingers. My mouth tastes like violets. I switch to plain water. There will be no more introductions.
*
I’m climbing the stairs, visiting my new friend Alexandra’s apartment for the first time. It’s in a nicer part of town than where I live. The houses here date from the early 1900s and exude a dusty genteel Southern charm. There are smiles on the painted exteriors; the savagery stays in the basement. About half of these old beauties have been divided into flats. Alexandra’s place is at the top of this outdoor staircase. It’s sunset now, humid. Cicadas drone. Winston-Salem is big enough for there to be a dim rumble of traffic in the distance, but the nearest main road is far enough away that noise doesn’t intrude. A votive candle flickers on every step. It’s been rainy lately, so the wood is damp but still creaks underfoot. For a second, I’m thinking of fires because of course I am. I set my high school dorm room on fire and got kicked out for it. It was an accident. They kicked me out anyway. Five years have passed since then but the memory smolders. I am troublesome, unwelcome. Somehow I am here now; I was invited. I continue my ascent.
*
From inside comes a shriek: Mark or Matthew. It’s like being back in high school again but with less arson and more screaming. A few months ago, I bumped into those two and my friend Lucy at a laundromat. Lucy is a goth lesbian who favors pale pancake foundation, crushed velvet dresses, and chunky silver rings on every finger. What are you doing here, she asked. What are you doing here? I replied. She works for a bank now. She does things with loans. Matthew and Mark were with her that evening. We’ve hung out a couple of times. Matthew has the cheekbones of a Hollywood leading man and the acne scars and self-esteem deficit of a drama-school dropout. When he’s drunk, which is often, his hands go roaming. Truth be told, I don’t mind, provided Mark doesn’t see. Mark tends to look as if he didn’t quite understand what you just said. He doesn’t talk much. I wonder how tonight will go. It’s Alexandra’s birthday. We’re starting the evening with drinks. She’s booked a limo to take us to a club later. This feels adult, sophisticated, alien. I sort of drone when I talk, and I’m clumsy. I forget most people’s names as soon as I hear them. I’m often told I’m an acquired taste. Is this an acquisition? An audition?
*
I’m in the big Kroger supermarket now, the newer one across town from where I live. On payday, I shop here instead of the Food Lion closer to home. It’s vast and the linoleum is still white. There’s a loneliness in being mostly broke. Tonight I’ve got an extra fifty dollars. Joan’s friend Cherie wants to throw a party. Joan suggested I help with the decor—a second chance of sorts. Fifty bucks is nothing to them but it’s about the same as my food budget for the last ten days of each month, which means I have to spend two bags of groceries on unspecified festive things for Cherie’s party. I’ve never been to her house, though. I searched the Yellow Pages for a craft store. The one in Winston went bust several months ago. There’s another an hour away, on the west side of Greensboro, too far. Like most grocery stores, Kroger’s sells party supplies. I look for streamers and bunting and find them—in primary colors. I also find birthday candles and cupcake tins. Coloring books and greeting cards. Tubs and tubes of icing and sprinkles in the baking section. They sell art supplies too: I find markers and crayons, packs of construction paper. I pick up a ruler, and it tells me my measure: you don’t know what you’re doing. Nothing goes into my cart that I don’t plan to eat.
*
Alexandra’s apartment overflows with dark antiques. Bookcases totter—her library’s even bigger than mine. The burgundy walls and crystal stemware give the place the feel of a bordello or a boudoir. I wonder how she affords this on a cashier’s salary. But it’s time to leave for the club. Ahead of me, Mark limps down the stairs to the limo. At first, I think he’s drunk. He acted a little subdued tonight, mostly staying on the sofa nursing his beer. They got in a fight earlier, Lucy tells me later in the club. Matthew threw Mark against the bathroom sink and knocked it clean off the wall. Water went everywhere. Then he fell against the commode, which was backed up and full of turds. His arm went in up to the elbow. Can you imagine? Now I’m watching them dance: Matthew limber and sloshing, Mark stiff and trying to keep his face blank and wincing anyway. Music hammers at us; cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. I’m going outside, Lucy says. Alexandra and her girlfriend are off in a quiet corner arguing about something. They’re the only people here that I know. Can I join you? I ask. She says yes, and we stand outside in the late-summer damp talking about the mortgage applications she declined this week. It makes her happy, stomping on dreams with her Doc Martens.
*
Every night at a club has that moment when the lights lose their sparkle, your ears can no longer withstand the pounding music, you notice how sweaty and smelly you are, and you feel dehydrated and just want a shower and a big glass of water. We troop out to the waiting limousine andthe driver opens the door for us. Not wanting the night to be over yet, Alexandra directs him to take the long way home. I can’t tell if Alexandra’s outfit tonight—vintage 1920s flapper dress, shellacked platinum Marilyn Monroe hair—is a costume or whether she always dresses like this. Matthew, ruinously drunk, buzzes open the moonroof, stands up, and screams WE’RE RICH AND YOU SUCK! at pedestrians. Why anyone is on the street at half past one, I have no idea. Mark sucks in his breath through his teeth, stands up, and does it too. So does Alexandra’s tomboy girlfriend whose name I keep forgetting. WE’RE RICH AND YOU SUCK! Except for Lucy and me, everyone else in the car works retail. With the last of the champagne, we raise a toast to being broke.
*
The chauffeur pulls into a McDonald’s parking lot. Winston isn’t a large city but we’re still about 45 minutes from Alexandra’s place and everyone is drunk and has to pee. I walk in carrying my glass of champagne in its plastic flute. Mark follows me into the men’s room, positions himself at the next urinal, unzips, and makes sure I can see. I’m surprised. Not all of him is average. A second later, Matthew stumbles in, mumbles something about the smell, pulls his shirt up to cover his face, and announces he’s going to use the ladies’. While I’m washing my hands, I hear screams. At the counter, an argument seems to be brewing. The McDonald’s employee doesn’t want to serve Alexandra’s girlfriend because, as he puts it, except for the titties she looks like a boy. Alexandra snaps, she was a woman last night when her legs were wrapped around my face. Matthew tumbles out of the women’s room, joins us at the counter, and helps himself to a sip of my champagne. You can’t drink that in here! the McDonald’s guy exclaims. I tell him it’s ginger ale and he can tell I’m lying. You should all get out of here, he warns. Just get out of here before I call the manager. Or the cops. Or the manager and the cops. Go. And we do. I’m the only one who notices the flashing blue lights in the distance as the chauffeur speeds away from the restaurant, no doubt keen to be done with work, with us, with this whole night.
*
Chocolate cupcakes are festive, aren’t they? I’ve cashed the check and the extra bills are painful in my wallet, even more so when I stop off at the bakery in the nearby mall. I’m running low on coffee and breakfast cereal, two items I’ve vowed I must never run out of (toilet paper is the other). I’ll survive—I’ve got pasta and sauce, cans of soup, ramen, and a package of chicken breasts—but it’s the grim end of the month. It’s getting dark. I’m taken aback when I pull up the driveway at Cherie’s house in the suburbs. It’s bigger than I was expecting, if not as mansion-like as Joan’s. The azaleas are a tumbling riot of purple and pink but everything else about the place is tidy, suburban, and white. Cherie has just gotten divorced. She thinks a party will reset her social life. She hasn’t turned the porch light on yet. Shadows surround the front door. For a second, I wonder if I’m in the right place. Often I’m not. I knock anyway. A moment later, she lets me in. Sees the flat box of cupcakes. Asks where the decorations are. Almost masks her disappointment when I tell her this was all I could think of, all I could find, but not quite.
*
Cherie is tipsy, maudlin, and struggling with buyer’s remorse. There’s nothing at all wrong with her decor—tasteful objets d’art and furniture I doubt she bought locally, a couple of tall white candles burning on the mantel, no dust on the blinds or the parquet—but she had her heart set on glitter and confetti. Not just the literal sparkly stuff but also the human kind: a pack of young gay boys to liven things up. Dance music, cocaine, and merry shrieking. We could paint each other’s nails and die of the giggles. Joan glowers. She asks, have you met him? Guests begin to arrive. That was my other job, curating guests. Matthew and Mark, both hammered, rode with Lucy, who tells us not to expect Alexandra. She’s fighting with her girlfriend again. They break up every couple of months. Is that the Marilyn Monroe one? Cherie asks. I was hoping to meet her. She sounded… effervescent. I’m sorry, is all I can think of to say. I’m so sorry. Would you like a cupcake? Would you like a refund?
*
Months ago, over a different lunch with Joan and Cherie, I told them about our night with the limousine. I left a lot out, made it more madcap. Oops. Now two more guests—the last ones I’ve invited—have arrived: my other high school friend, and a mutual friend I dated briefly and still have a crush on. The high school friend is a straight woman, fun and vibrant and smart. Joan and Cherie take one look at her and are civil. For all her charm, she isn’t going to sneeze glitter, fart sparks, or pull a disco ball out of her purse. The guy I dated comes the closest to the gay-boy fantasy I’m only now realizing was the intended but unmentioned theme of the evening: he’s borrowed a little black dress from my high school friend and is drunk. Before long, Mark and Matthew are arguing. Lucy and Joan are glaring at each other, a case of instant mutual loathing. Matthew goes into the bathroom and can be heard throwing up. Aren’t any more of your gay friends coming? Cherie asks. Hope dies behind her eyes. I don’t know anyone else, though. I thought she knew that. I ask, you didn’t invite anyone? Neither of you did? They did not. My high school friend is the first to bail, sensibly reading the room and closing the book. The toilet flushes. Matthew emerges and says chocolate cupcakes and vodka don’t mix, but don’t worry, it’s not diarrhea. But this isn’t festive at all! Cherie wails. I look at her, then at Joan: one in tears now, the other glowering. I don’t know whether it’s more polite to leave or offer to stay and help clean up their mess. This is the last time I will see either of them outside of work. Being gay incorrectly: this isn’t a problem I thought you could have. There will be no more introductions.