A Series of Peculiar Events

            by Sophie Meryash

 

Whether we like to believe it or not, human beings are a neurotic species. We stroll through our days oblivious to our tendencies, our patterns, and our mundane recurrences. And sometimes it takes a hard pinch to wake us up, a “Hey, excuse me, but have you ever thought of sliding this thin roof from your mental box, and maybe just taking a look around?” I am by no means exempting myself from this behavior. In fact sometimes I need a hard kick of reality right in the ass, because generally a pinch doesn’t do the trick. This brings me to my story or, less of a story I guess and more of a series of peculiar events. I’m self-proclaiming this piece not as a humorous slant, but as an eye-opening experience, a kick in the ass which sent me hurling into an out of the ordinary realization.

            I used to envision myself as an existentialist; making decisions on the spot, always on a new adventure, a living in the moment type of person. This theory is of course bullshit. Mental baggage is an essential ingredient to human life, and I had patterns woven within all my actions. My Saturday nights could generally be summed up by a few lines of dialogue.

Saturday, 12:30 (location may vary)

Bro: “Hey babe, how’s it going?”

Me: “I’m okay, just looking for my friend. Last time I heard he was running down piedmont in his underwear. Played a few too many beer bong games I guess.”

Bro: “oh, huh, yea, okay, cooool…Hey are you wearing a Hollister shirt. It’s totally funny because when I got my pre-frayed hat today I totally saw that shirt there. It fits your bod like perfectly. Hey want another beer?”

Me: “No, actually my cup is still full.”

(The Bro chugs his beer, yells ‘Delta Phiiiiiii’, and fills it up again)

Bro: So, babe, I’ve defiantly seen you around here. You in one of my classes or a sorority or something? Hey want another beer?

Me: You just asked me that less than a minute ago, so no, it’s still full. We’ve definitely never met before.

(Bro drinks the beer and fills it up again)

Bro: Heyyyyyy, so you look like a passionate girl. I love music, like Jack Johnson and stuff like that. Film too, like Family Guy season one, great shit, man. Great shit.”

            At this point I am desperately searching for a way out of the conversation, and generally by now the bro will have realized, though his beer goggles might have prolonged the thought, that I am not interested ‘slash’ not drunk enough to indulge in his stimulating conversation.

            So, that recreation may have been a bit of a stretch but I’m sure you get the point; I tend to fall into monotonous patters, usually without even noticing. But last Friday was different.

                        It’s eleven-o-clock on a Friday night and similar to most nights in Berkeley there isn’t much to do. If you go out looking you may be able to find something but by no means do parties in Berkeley come to you. My boyfriend calls me and tells me his neighbors are having a little get together. He’s just moved in and hasn’t met them yet, so he concludes that showing up at their party uninvited is a suitable introduction. I agree and decide to meet him at his apartment in a half an hour.

            It’s twelve-thirty when I show up, because my time is structured to run a little later than the regular time. We share a bottle of cheap wine and roll a few cigarettes in preparation for the party. As we approach the door the once muffled music becomes clear and blaring. The song playing is “Gonna Get thru this” by Daniel Beninield, which would be classified under the “is only good when I’m shit drunk genre”, my favorite. I quicken my pace and hurry up the steps to the front door. Just before I lean forward to reach the giant door handle it swings wide open.

“Haaaay!” someone yells as they pull me into the music filled room, “Ssssweety, you look sssso fabuloussss tonight!” I look up to see who’s speaking. A large African American man, with bulging muscles, shiny skin, and a tight grip, who happens to be wearing a miniskirt and a tube top, is staring back at me. “Whatsss your name hun?” the large man asks.

 “Um, it’s Sophie,” I reply as I frantically scan the room for my boyfriend.

 “I’m Larry, but you can call me Diamond.”

As I stare up at Larry or Diamond, I notice that his clear skin is actually covered in powder, and his eyelids have dark blue eye shadow around the brims. I decide he’s defiantly a Diamond, not a Larry, and attempt to release my hand from his. “I love thisss song. Come dance with me sssandra!”

I begin to explain that my name is not Sandra, it’s Sophie, but as the words tumble out of my mouth I catch a whiff of Diamonds scent. He reeks of Jack Daniels, and I reevaluate his speech. I initially thought his slurs were intentional but now I can’t discern the accidental from the deliberate. Diamond’s hand begins to sweat from his excessive dancing, and as he bats his eyelashes and purses his lips I unhook my hand from his and slowly slink away across the large living room, which has now  taken the form of a crowded dance floor. I look over my shoulder a few times to make sure Diamond has not realized that I’ve escaped, and once I feel safe I begin the search for my boyfriend.

My favorite types of parties are those which involve dancing. I’m not a good dancer by any means, but through the condensation on the walls, the damp clusters of bodies, and the lingering smell of hard liquor, I find a tranquility and contentment on the dance floor. I am safe so I begin to dance. I’m looking for my date but I’ve decided that though I had just been virtually tackled by a cross dresser, I’m going to enjoy myself. I bob my head up and down and make my way through the crowd. Limbs swing every which way, and in an attempt to avoid them I accidentally bump into a stout figure. I say “excuse me”, and right before I continue my search the large figure, whirls around. I look up at the shadow and identify his characteristics: Overall slacks, black leather shoes, bifocals, and a giant cigar hanging from his mouth. This attire would be considered normal if it included a shirt, but unfortunately his chest is exposed, showing the thick red hair that covered it. I gag a little but try to muscle a smile.

“Yyelhoo,” the man mumbles.

“What?” I say loudly and point at the speakers in an attempt not to appear rude.

“Whhhhants a bbeyer?” the man says as he motions towards his beer.

            “I really can’t understand what you’re saying,” I say apologetically. I conclude that this man has obviously had a little too much to drink and in an effort to lessen his future hangover I say, “You might want to cool it on the beer, I just can’t understand anything you’re saying.” He doesn’t seem to have heard me so I say it again except this time louder. He must have heard me this time I reason, because I definitely spoke loud enough that the six people dancing around me heard. The man slightly turns his head to the left and I notice an orange box behind his ear. I think little of it, and as the man chugs his drink I restate my concern. Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn and see a stick thin woman with tiny purple glasses that share an odd resemblance to Elton John’s. She bends down and whispers in my ear that this man I am advising is def. I am embarrassed and shocked, and in pure stupidity I blurt, “I really hope he didn’t hear me then.” I cover my mouth to prevent any other extremely offensive comments from tumbling out. I have successfully made myself out as a total douche bag, and since I’m far from any type of social recovery I walk away in defeat. I leave the dance floor and catch sight of my boyfriend.

            This event may not seem in the least bit significant. Maybe it’s not, maybe I just wrote it because I find large muscular cross dressers and very non P.C. comments funny. But I did learn one thing from this experience, and that is that sometimes it takes very odd moments in our lives to arrive at the realization that succumbing to the same old patterns takes away emotional excitement. And although the emotions that I experienced were fear, shock, and embarrassment, it definitely beats nothing. After that night it was clear to me that uniform frat parties are not a valuable way to spend my time and peculiar cross dressing/hearing impediment dance parties are.