Conversation Four: Dead Man's Party

“Thought I might find you here,” Stephanie says. She’s dressed like a ballerina. Dance leotard, white stockings. Tutu.  And because she is Stephanie and not really a ballerina, combat boots and her huge purse.

“I wasn’t trying to hide—much,” I say. “What made you look here?”

“Well, the party’s in the other room, for one thing. People are laughing and having fun. I assumed you’d be nowhere near that.”

I move over and make room for her to sit down. The servants' stairway is dark and cool, and we sit just out of the light spilling from the living room. “Some house,” I say.

“It’s quite big,” she agrees.  “So, you couldn’t be bothered to wear a costume?”

“I’m in a kilt.”

“Which, on anyone else, might be considered a costume. On you it’s a depressing lack of effort.”

“I’m a bagpiper. Besides, who has a Halloween party in March?”

She gives me a sour look. “Way to get into the spirit of things.”

“It’s the beer here. They have really shitty beer.”

“I knew you’d say that, which is why I brought you this.” She reaches into her purse and removes two cold bottles of Harp. She hands me one and winks.

I smile. “Where did you get these?”

“I have resources.”

“Purloined from the one poor bastard who thought to bring good beer to the party, no doubt.”

“His loss is your gain. Besides, if he wanted them all to himself, he shouldn’t have left them in the cooler.” We clink bottles and drink. From the living room come the sounds of laughter and the incomprehensible babble of many conversations going on at once. Above it all can be heard the horns and electric guitars of Oingo Boingo’s Dead Man’s Party.

“The party may suck, but at least the music’s good,” Stephanie says.

I nod and drain half my Harp. “Danny Elfman is a fucking genius.”

“Who’s Danny Elfman?”

I sigh. “Leave my sight.”

Stephanie ignores me and looks up the stairs into the darkness. “Come on—let’s see what’s upstairs.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to wander around this guy’s house.”

“Come on,” she says, standing up. “Let’s go.” I follow her up the stairs, finding a new appreciation of her costume on the way up. Stephanie doesn’t have a dancer’s body.

The second floor landing is maybe as big as my living room and contains slightly less furniture. Stephanie produces a joint and lights up.

“Hey,” I say, “what the hell are you doing?”

“Smoking a joint. It’ll calm my nerves before we explore the great unknown.” She sits on a leather bench and pats the space next to her. “Want a hit?”

“No, thanks, but I wouldn’t say no to another of these.” I raise the bottle of Harp, now empty.

She hands me another from her purse, takes a hit off the joint and gives me the up-and-down. “So...did you ever have sex in that kilt?”

“Sure.”

“Of course. How was it?”

“Not as easy as you’d think. For one thing, the sporran weighs the front down so that it gets in the way of everything. And then there’s the fact that it’s four hundred plus bucks worth of hand-woven wool, not exactly machine-washable, so it’s not something you would want to get—you know—in the way of everything.”

Stephanie smiles. “I have a gift for you.” She reaches again into the purse, this time coming up with a rolled tube of paper secured with a piece of Scotch tape. She hands it over.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask. She shrugs and takes another hit. I unroll it. “It seems to be a map.”

“It is a map,” she confirms.

“Of the United States.”

“Yep.”

 “What public library atlas did you deface to get this?”

“That’s not important.”

“Thanks.”  I start to roll it up. “Why, exactly, do I need a map of the United States?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to map out where it is you’re going,” she says.

“Am I supposed to be going somewhere?”

“Of course. We both are.”

I look at the map again. “Mishawaka, Indiana looks hospitable.”

“I see now that symbolism is lost on you. It doesn’t matter that it’s a map of the United States. It could be a map of your backyard, for all that matters. It’s to remind you to think about where you’re going. You know, in life.”

“If you’re trying to be cool, you’re failing miserably.”

“I see that now.” She looks around in vain for an ashtray. Finally she stubs it out on her boot sole and returns the unused spleaf to her pocket. “Let’s explore.”

She stands and leads the way up the stairs, tutu rustling. The second floor is a long corridor filled with doors to either side. I start laughing, picturing something out of Scooby-Doo or The Monkees, Stephanie and I running madly from door to door, frantically exiting and re-entering the hall from opposite sides, pursued by a guy in a gorilla suit or something equally ridiculous, while frantic calliope music plays over the sound of slamming doors.

We look behind a few doors, poke our heads into a few rooms. How anyone can have so much stuff is a mystery to me. Stephanie stops me in the doorway of the master bedroom, stares deep into my eyes. “Tell me something about you that I don’t know.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because,” she says,” if I’m supposed to be your Muse, you need to start being more forthcoming with information about you.”

“If we’re going to start revealing dirty little secrets, then I’ll need another beer.” I put the empty one on a nearby bureau.

She hands me hers. “This is the only one I have left. Better make it last.”

I sip her beer. I stare right back at her. “Ketchup,” I say, “is the single most popular condiment in the world. Yet despite this, I rarely—if ever—use it.”

“Don’t you put it on hot dogs?” Stephanie asks, deadly serious. “Hamburgers? French fries?”

“No, no and no.”

“Why do you hate ketchup?”

“I don’t hate it. I just don’t like it. If I order a burger and there’s ketchup on it, I’ll still eat the burger. If I’m stealing fries from a friend who puts ketchup on them, I’ll still eat the fries. But I don’t use it myself.”

“I see.” She ponders this revelation for a moment. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“That—and I’m a werewolf. Your turn.”

“I know all the words to R.E.M.’s It’s the End of the World.”

“No way.”

“I can prove it,” she says, and after taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, she does just that.

“Holy shit,” I say when she's done.

“Told ya.”

Seven bedrooms and nine bathrooms later, we arrive on the third floor.  “This house is huge,” Stephanie says. “What does this guy do again?”

“I think he’s a judge.”

“So maybe we shouldn’t be snooping around his house. Maybe I shouldn't have smoked that joint.”

“You think?”

We open a room that is empty but for a large iron bathtub and a hardwood chair. And on the chair, a rusty machete.

We stare at it for a long, long time. “This guy must have known someone would go snooping around his house,” Stephanie says. “Right? I mean, this is a joke.”

“Right,” I agree. “It has to be. Want to go back downstairs now?”

“I would like to go back downstairs now.”

We head down to the first floor by the same way we came up. Ministry’s Every Day is Hallowe’en is playing in the living room.

“Do I smell like pot?” Stephanie asks.

I lean close and take an exaggerated whiff. “Nah.”

“Ok, I’m going back in. And you’re going home.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“Hey,” Stephanie says. “It’s a party.”