The Lives of the Party

Surveying the carnage and panic unfolding around me, I remembered why the butterflies took flight in my stomach before parties.

It’s been two years since the last one I went to. A drunk college student snapped his neck and died diving off of the roof into a pool. Well, not exactly into the pool. More like next to it.

I hadn’t expected that. I should have, but I failed, and it’s now my burden to bear. It set me back significantly. Recovery has been a difficult road, but one that must be travelled patiently and slowly.

The house was very close to the pool, and the roof was incredibly easy to access. Too many people for the host to control. The pandemic put a sizable dent into those situations. Most parties these days have been fairly tame, and the resulting deaths from disease comparatively unspectacular, slow, protracted, and quiet.

The silence of millions of people dying from something they couldn’t see, something many didn’t even believe existed, is deafening.

I pull up my favourite pants, staring at the waistband that apparently keeps shrinking over time. My job has been too stationary lately. Maybe I should cut back on the bagels. I lie to myself that I’ll burn them off by moving more.

Do I still have my edge? Being alone for so long dulls your senses the way being sedentary atrophies your muscles. Social cues become more difficult to pick up on, situations harder to read. I have no choice. If I want to move on, I have to go.

My shirt feels tight at the shoulders as I wrap it around myself. The buttons are doing a bit more work now than they’re used to, but I have faith in them. I slip on my wing-tips and give myself one last look before I leave. I pat my stomach. Black is supposed to be slimming, isn’t it? I take a deep breath, exhale sharply, double-check my pockets, and leave.

Here we go.

Twenty minutes later, I park my car. My hands shake so much as I get out that I nearly drop my keys. The building screams upward, a dark jagged column surrounded by flattened grey grids of parking. The faces of revellers alight as they file into the venue like ants to a hill, all blissfully unaware of what’s waiting for them.

I squeeze into the corner of the elevator, feeling the sweat bead on my forehead as it travels up. I note the weight and occupancy limit, as well as its long-overdue maintenance.

How quickly things revert. Only a few months ago, this elevator would have had one person in it at most. It reaches the top, the thirty-eighth floor, with a soft ding. The ants file out, elevator doors flanked by security with slightly-too-big jackets. I scan the crowd as I make my way around the room. A balcony wraps around the perimeter, metal netting separating party-goers from the emptiness of the fresh May air. 

Nobody sticks out just yet, but I’ve learned through the years you can’t rely on the obvious ones. I take my place, unnoticed by all but the ticket-takers and waiter presently fetching my beer. It steadies my hand a bit. Social lubricant, indeed. I should probably cut down on that too, shouldn’t I? One thing at a time.

The first one stumbles in front of me like a newly-born calf. The party had hardly started, and Stumbly was fighting to stand. A good warmup, I guess. I make a mental note to keep an eye on him.

I walk around the quickly-filling room. A group of middle-aged women huddle by a window, whispering and giggling between sips of champagne. Not them.

Four hoggy gentlemen light up cigars and bellow laughter into the ceiling between gulps from their giant glasses. That’s a bit more creative, but a little on-the-nose. Still, I make note of them. The Four Hoggies will have their part to play.

My shirt is already wet at the armpits, and I can feel it starting to cling to my back. I didn’t realize this would be so hard. As I splash some cold water on my face in the washroom, a thin man in an oversized black suit walks in. Skinny’s wide eyes dart to mine and away in an instant as he passes, closing the stall door.

Gentle tapping. A snort barely hidden by the flushing of a toilet. 

This is it. Deep breath. I leave the bathroom, the telltale clicks echoing against the floor and walls. I’ve marked a few, now I just need to see if I’m right. I step to the side and wait.

A kick of the door goes unnoticed by most as the music and the hum of conversation overpowers it. Skinny comes flying out, rifle in hand, stumbling over himself as every cell in his body pumps with adrenaline. One of the security guards notices and reaches into his jacket as he sprints over. 

Unfortunately for Skinny, it wasn’t meant to be. As he trips and falls, his rifle slips and discharges a bullet straight into his head. Fragments of his skull and brain decorate the ceiling and his body tenses and hits the wooden floor lifelessly.

The bang sets off panic in the crowd. Screams fill the room as security desperately tries and fails to control the masses.

It’s Stumbly’s turn. He’s hanging out by the railing outside. As the crowd around him begins to shift, his lack of motor control betrays him. The overpowering force of the mass of humanity pushes him toward and over the railing, where he is almost caught by the metal mesh intended for just this scenario. This particular section, unfortunately for him, is held by a loose screw. It gives way the instant his 190-pound frame creates enough pull, and Stumbly plummets until he paints this little corner of the city red.

Finally, the Four Hoggies are up. They are near the elevator and rush through the open doors, swatting several smaller ladies and some smaller gentlemen out of their way with complete disregard for the well-being of others. As they pile into the elevator and jump impatiently for it to descend, a pulley system sorely in need of maintenance creaks, groans, and fails. The Hoggies squeal in terror as they begin a trip that will get them to their destination much faster than anticipated. 

I was secretly hoping for an explosion of some sort, but this isn’t the movies. Sometimes I have to remind myself that.

I wait for the crowd to thin out, and am the last to descend the many flights of stairs. 

As I sit in my car and turn the ignition, a smile crosses my face. I marked all the right souls tonight. It’s not full redemption, but it’s proof I can still do the job. I might still be able to get that promotion after all. One day at a time. There are sharks out there looking to trip me up, and I can’t give them the opportunity.

Being a Death is a real dog-eat-dog line of business these days.