Susan Steinberg - Hydroplane - Fictions

Thinking of approaching him, this last guest, of saying, Okay, it's you and me now, or, Come with me, or, Let's split this scene, as there is something that needs to be said about how he resembles this kid, It's uncanny, What, You look just like this kid from seventh grade, So, And could easily be him, the older version of this kid who now, like me, of course, is older, and thinking of what could happen if he, the last guest, would just play with me a bit, If you would just humor me and pretend to be this kid from seventh grade, And why would I do that, So that I can work a few things through.

The two friends of the hostess locking themselves in the bedroom to fuck, and everyone knowing that this is why they have locked up in the bedroom, first, as they're drunk, the two friends, all evening stumbling about the place from room to room, and, second, as they've been groping each other all evening, as well, provoking more than one guest to utter the predictable, Get a motel room, provoking the friends to take the bedroom and not come out despite an occasional hard knock on the door, despite leaving the hostess stumbling about drunk on her own, despite the fact that other guests' coats are piled high and drying on the bed, a selfish move, perhaps, on the part of the two friends who are only, obviously, thinking of themselves and of fucking, but a favor, somewhat, to the hostess, as no one can get his or her coat when it's time to leave and it's raining, so that no one leaves unless willing to leave with no coat, so that everyone stays somewhat late.

Thinking of approaching this guest, now that he stands alone, now that the hostess is looking at the cops' wet black boots, now that the cops are stooped and drying the floor with their own handkerchiefs, it looks like, boys being boys, even the ones in blue too flirtatious to let her use her clean dishcloth on the wet and muddied vestibule floor, one cop flirtatious enough to pick up the pressed out cigarette of the last guest and present it to the hostess as if it were a rose, and the hostess unsure of what to do, unsure, one can tell, if this is a flirtatious move on the part of the cop and so she accepts the crushed cigarette with two fingers, and the last guest not watching this, not watching the hostess, but lighting a cigarette and standing by a wall, alone, watching what seems to be nothing but is really the window, behind which seems to be nothing.

Calling the new kid on the telephone and the new kid saying, Leave me alone, and us saying, Let me touch you, and him saying, Who is this, and us saying, It's your mother, and him saying, I'll kill you girls, and us saying, Fuck you then, and him saying, Fuck you then, and us saying, Okay, fuck us.

Holding the door to the vestibule open for the hostess in the daytime as she lugs her bags of paper plates and paper napkins and bottles and candles up the sidewalk and to the door and says to me with no perceptible emotion, Come tonight if you like, and both of us knowing I am invited as what seems a courtesy but is really a selfish move on the part of the hostess, knowing that one must invite all of one's neighbors, dull or not, who live in the house or in surrounding houses to lessen the risk of calls to the cops from one's always-home neighbors always complaining of noise.

The hostess unaware of how thin her ceiling is, unaware of how much can be heard though my floor, her ceiling, like her crying in the evenings on the telephone to friends, crying, I hate my life, before she decides an evening with friends will fix things.

The hostess squeezing back through the crowd, still clutching her dishcloth, saying, Turn it down, to whomever can turn it down, and, when it's turned down so that those close enough can make out the sounds of the friends in the bedroom, and I don't have to go into the details of these sounds, the sounds of the bedsprings and so on, and when the cops seem to have left for good after one last, Don't make us come back, said in a possibly flirtatious way as if daring the hostess to make them come back, the hostess saying, Turn it back up, and, when the music is up and loud enough to feel it in one's bones, the hostess dancing for us, for the crowd, pulling her dress over her knees so that one can see she wears nothing under her dress, and all the guests watching, clapping, as she shakes herself out, fanning herself with the dishcloth, everyone laughing, except for the last guest who stands against a wall watching what seems to be nothing but is really the window where two headlights shine inside and light his hair, and the hostess seeing the light on his hair as she has been looking at him and hoping, it seems, that he will look back, but he never does, and the hostess looking outside and pulling down her dress, though not all the way, and saying, Turn it down, to whomever can, and opening the door to the vestibule where the cops stand dripping rainwater to the floor, Hiya fellas, Turn down the music, I did already, We've had complaints, Well, who's complaining, Look miss, Are you complaining, We'll arrest you miss.

Knowing that to show one must pretend to like the hostess and her preparations for evenings such as these, her incessant pounding of nails which gives one a headache and the incessant paint fumes which drift though the cracks in the ceiling and rise through one's floor and worsen the headache, not to mention the awful dust floating up when she shakes her rugs, the dust floating through one's window which makes one want to march downstairs to the hostess and say, Stop that fucking shaking already, Stop that fucking pounding.

Knowing that to show one must pretend to have never been bothered by the sounds of drunken guests from prior evenings at the home of the hostess fucking in the bedroom below one's bedroom, therefore, provoking one to get oneself off, yes, imagining a three-some with the drunken friends, as other over-drunk guests stumble up the staircase to pound on doors in the most drunken minutes of their evening, interrupting, calling, Wake up everyone, before the hostess lures them back downstairs with a flash of her legs, as seen through the peephole.

Knowing that to be there when cops arrive, for cops will always arrive despite who has been invited, is to say to the hostess, I am not the neighbor who complains, I can be trusted, I deserve the invitation.

Calling this new kid until he leaves his telephone off the hook and all we get is the busy signal, and we are stuck, the two of us, sitting in her dismal bedroom on the dusty shag rug, looking at each other and bored with nothing to do but science now that we have smoked all the cigarettes.

Thinking of saying to the last guest, Come with me, to pull him somewhere, though not to my place as his knowing where I live is his knowing I am a neighbor and that I was invited only as a selfish move on the part of the hostess, his knowing quite well, as do all the guests, as do I, that her neighbors are of the pathetic and dull sort, the always-home sort, everyone knowing, too, that to invite one's neighbors is to reduce the risk of calls to the cops, and thinking of getting the last guest, therefore, into the bedroom of the hostess, after, and if, the two friends come out, and doing something in there with him, something risky, something involving some kind of role-play in which his role is that of the new kid from seventh grade who, when I go to return my tray in the cafeteria, grabs my tits from behind and squeezes hard, pressing his cock against my ass, saying, Stop calling me, and, You're ugly, leaving me crying and curled on the cafeteria floor with a crowd of kids around my body.

A fire starting and spreading in the kitchen sink from candles lighted around the sink as a decorative move on the part of the hostess and her two friends who helped to decorate all week for this evening, and too many drunken guests throwing their paper plates and napkins to the sink to catch fire, and the flames seeming quite capable of growing, of reaching a good height, a height that could scorch the cabinets above the sink or the ceiling above the cabinets, that is, my floor, the ceiling.