Tom's Party

   Tom sat on the couch watching a reality show. His attention was scattered but he suddenly laughed out loud. The show’s main character was ranting a torrent of bleeped expletives that Tom found contrived. “How can people believe this crap?” He said aloud and reached for a fresh cigarette. The lunge forward to the coffee table caused him to see the time on his phone. He was late for the party.

   He didn’t want to get there while people were still eating, or sober. He imagined arriving to salad bowls crusted with decaying cucumber slices, crumb-covered desert trays and the loud, clacking din of coke talk. Randall and Jenna would be there, holding court, playing king and queen, interrupting themselves and everyone else. Willa would probably be gacked out of her mind, running around the small apartment picking up glasses and beer bottles. Amy would be in the kitchen pretending to clean up, but she would spend most of her time smoking and scrolling through her phone feeds. Dave and Phil would be there, bloviating, looking cool. The longer he waited the less likely he would subjected to Covid talk.

   Tom hadn’t seen any of them since before the big pandemic, but now they were all immunized, unmasked and ready to resume their usual habits. He picked up his phone and saw that Amy had already posted a couple selfies and “ussies” — her word for group photos she took with her selfie stick. There they were, the whole gang, eyes bright and saucy, their teeth stained with red wine and smoke. Their expressions were forced, but they looked like they were having a genuinely good time. Tom looked down at his pale legs. They were still bare and he wondered if he should change his underwear.

   Since the pandemic he often wore the same clothes for days. Underwear didn’t get as gross as it used to because he spent so much time bathing. When the e-vite had come through last week he conjured a vision of himself in Willa’s apartment wearing a cool green sweater, corduroy pants and cool retro basketball sneakers. His hair would be tousled, a faint scruff lining his face. In reality he didn’t own a green sweater, or corduroys and his cool basketball sneakers were dingy. Despite this, his vision of himself cut an impressive figure. Women were giving him second looks as he made funny jokes about sneezing in his mask and dropping his nasal test swab on the floor of his car before handing it in.

   The reality show ended and he got up, went to the bathroom, considered a shower, but didn’t want to bother with getting wet. He had already spent half an hour in the bathtub that day reading an old issue of the New Yorker and the towel was still wet. There was a dry one on the floor, but it didn’t look inviting. He glanced in the mirror, decided he looked fine, pissed and walked towards his room to rummage for clothes.

   In the hallway he knew he was going to go directly to his sock drawer, not to find new underwear or socks, but to see how many bags of coke there were. He knew the answer before he opened the drawer. A bag and a half sat in his party box along with a couple lighters, rolling papers and an empty pack of cigarettes. A couple minutes later there was only one bag and he texted his guy. Tom couldn’t show up to the party without at least three bags, one for mass consumption, one for whatever woman he wanted to woo, and one reserve bag for discretionary use. He texted his guy who showed up while Tom was watching a sitcom he had seen three or four times before. Sit coms were so much more interesting on coke. He felt so in tune with what the writers were trying to accomplish and the canned laughter seemed more real.

   His phone buzzed and Willa’s name and photo popped on to the screen. The text said simply, “Sup? Where U At?” One the one hand the invite made Tom feel wanted, but he knew she wouldn’t be texting unless the party’s powder supply was in danger of dwindling. He held the phone in his hand and considered a few clever retorts. “Chllin’ with grandma!” and “Sup wit U Sexy?” came to mind but he didn’t send either. While staring at the phone a photo came in from Willa. She and two women Tom had never seen before were mugging for the camera in an “ussie,” trying to look sexy, and succeeding. One of them had her tongue out. Tom’s loins stirred and he lit another cigarette.

   Tom started calculating what the party was going to cost him. He had enough cigarettes to get through the night if he stayed home, but would need to buy another pack if he went to the party. At the convenience store he would probably buy a bottle of vodka and a twelve pack of beer. He should probably buy rubbers there too. He needed gas, but knew he shouldn’t drive, so he would have to get an Uber, but he knew he knew he wouldn’t get an Uber. The party was only a couple miles away and he always drove drunk. It was always easier for him to get laid when he had his own car.

   He had found some relatively clean underwear, socks and jeans, but was perplexed about what t-shirt to wear. Black Sabbath, Wu Tang Clan, and Thomas Hardy were all standbys, but he thought something new was needed to make a splash. He found a brand new purple Polo shirt his mom had given him for Christmas that had never been worn. He felt it would be amusing choice and thought it would provide some good backstory and imagined himself saying, “My mom gave me this last Christmas.” Once dressed he felt stupid. Tom couldn’t take any girls back to his filthy place and sat back down on the couch, clicked through the cable menu and saw that a movie he had seen when he was a kid was coming on.