When The Party's Over

After the encore is finished and the standing ovation has been seated again; once the traffic jam has cleared from the parking lot, and the dancers are but a distant memory, once the chattering ceases, and the cameras stop flashing, a red solo cup and a stray piece of confetti sit on the floor below the seats of Row 4, between seat 15 and 16, and continue a conversation that got interrupted by the singer on stage and the roar of the crowd. Why these two picked each other to talk to, and not one of the other various pieces of human detritus lying discarded on the floor, remains unknown.

“Did you see me!?”

“I did! You looked amazing up there”

“I flew! I almost got caught in her hair, but I narrowly missed her and ended up here, right by the stage!”

“I thought you did great” says the Plastic Cup to the Confetti.

The Confetti beams, as much as a piece of blue confetti with no mouth can beam. The dimming venue lights glint off the red Plastic Cup, still wet with drops of beer or some other alcoholic beverage. A small puddle of sticky spilled drink pools by the lip of the Plastic Cup, though if asked, he will swear that it didn’t come from him.

“Watch out!” The Confetti says, as a pair of feet in bright yellow Air Jordans crunch down the aisle belonging to a lone rouge crowd member, hoping for a glimpse of stardom, stepping indiscriminately on cups, napkins and lost hair ties. The best thing the Confetti has ever seen lying lost on the ground of the venue was a wedding ring. Thrown or slipped off or simply lost, it had rolled from the top of the stairs unnoticed down to where the Confetti had landed, that time by seat 27, Row 20. They had had a good conversation before the Ring got scooped up by a helpful human headed to the lost and found box.

The Plastic Cup rolls a quarter turn to the left, bumping up against an empty seat and just avoiding getting cracked by the feet now heading towards the exit.

“Thanks” The Plastic Cup says with a grimace. “I can’t believe they don’t watch where they are going”

“People, am I right?” The Confetti gives the impression of rolling their eyes. “What next for you, my man?”

The Plastic Cup hums in thought. “Not much on the docket now that the show is over. I did my job well, only spilled once, and got my drinker pretty wasted, so I’d say that’s success for someone like me”

The Confetti nods approvingly. “I’m just waiting for the clean up. I wonder if it’s a garbage day, or a sweep-and-reuse day? I’m on my second show, but I’m only a little crumpled, so I feel it could go either way. I’m hoping to hang around and catch the Taylor Swift concert next week - oh my god, could you imagine, me- coming down from the ceiling during Anti-Hero - my favorite song - and falling so beautifully through the air to land on her guitar?” The Confetti has veritable stars glinting off them as the lights flicker and dim again.

“I dunno, three times seems like a bit of a stretch to me” The Plastic Cup says doubtfully.

“I can hope!”

“The Earth belongs to the hopeful”

“Aren’t you scared of the garbage?” The Confetti asks The Plastic Cup.

The Plastic Cup gives a full-cup shrug. “Not much I can do about it, now is there? I lived, I sang along to Beyonce, I held my liquor, and I did my job. Not much of a better life than that.” The Plastic Cup frowns. “Though I do sometimes wish I were recyclable.”

The Confetti nods in agreement. “Don’t we all.”

The Plastic Cup sighs. “It’s a bit of a bummer, going through life knowing that even if you do your very best, you might still end up in the stomach of a whale, or floating down to the Caribbean, forever a reminder of the fun a person had one night. Living forever, never breaking down, you know? Sometimes I would just like to know that the option of being remade into something else exists.”

The Confetti nods sagely. “Sometimes I wish I were pink” They say in low tones, like they are revealing a deep dark secret. Which they just might be. “Only occasionally. Like when Beyonce came out in that blue dress, the song before I was released. I would have blended right in if they let us out then! Thank god they waited until she changed into that red pantsuit! I really stood out then!”

“Pink. That’s a nice color” The Plastic Cup muses.

Another pair of feet stomp down the aisle, the ones behind having already been swept and cleared of trash and friends.

“Well, here we go,” The Plastic Cup says, as a hand reaches down from above and scoops him up between two disgusted fingers. “Best of luck with Taylor Swift, my friend.”

The Confetti gives a little hop, then winks at The Plastic Cup and lets the breeze lift them up and under a seat the next row down.

The Confetti’s parting farewell, “Until next time” is lost in the crumple and cracking of the red plastic, the crinking of the garbage bag, and the sigh of the man above them, the lone person in row 4.

Hours later, after all the cleaners leave, the venue is finally fully dark, the doors are locked and the early morning hours are almost over, The Confetti sits under the seat, humming Anti-Hero and dreaming about what Taylor Swift looks like close up, already feeling the roar of the crowd and the smell of the canteen and the sounds of thousands of voices raised in song, and missing The Plastic Cup. Oh well. They always leave eventually. New concert, new Cups. Maybe soon they will all be recyclable. And pink. One can always hope.