Petra was taping the whole thing. She was not having a fun time. She wasn't smiling. Her expression was that of a serious person documenting a serious event in literary history.
John Walters said to Hu Chin loudly, “I like summer, Hu. I like when I've been sweating all fucking day. Then I go in the bathroom and put my middle finger between my two balls and rub my finger around on my sweaty genitals.”
Petra said from behind the digital camera, “I like when my vagina is sweaty.”
Walters said, “I like when your vagina is sweaty too.”
Petra zoomed in on Jason and Jason noticed and said, “This is really terrific chicken.”
Hu Chin said to me, “How is your bowl?”
“It verges on disgusting, but at the same time, it is still kind of good.”
Hu Chin nodded that life was good.
A young Indian couple walked by and John Walters said, “I have an Indian proctologist. One of your people has stuck their finger in my ass.”
They didn't look happy about that. But it was New York and things like that were bound to happen so they walked to the counter and ordered like nothing had happened.
John Walters said to Hu Chin and I, “I'm taking meaninglessness to new levels. You two don't know meaninglessness. I'm going to get enlightened in the art of meaningless behavior. I will be the Buddha of meaninglessness.” Then he screamed, “I WILL FUCK THE GODS OF TIMES SQUARE WHILE I WALK THEIR DOGS!”
Everyone ate meat and loved it. Everyone looked bad in the lighting. Why they would choose such a bad lighting scheme was beyond me. It accentuated everyone's pock marks and scars and made everyone's skin look horrible.
We finished eating and walked down the street. Hu Chin came up to me and said he felt sick. I said, “That's why I ate that little bowl. I eat meat every day but that shit makes me feel sick.”
“I ate a chicken sandwich from McDonald's the other day.”
“How did you feel then?”
“Okay.”
Before Hu Chin spoke, his brain ran a series of sentences through his head. He always picked the shortest sentence possible. He did not engage in monologues or soliloquies. I only spoke in questions or in long monologues, like I was writing an impromptu blog post.
I said, “Between the alcohol and that shit we just ate we are all going to have rancid farts in about an hour. We are going to be semi-famous writers about to appear in a major magazine farting all over New York City.”
Hu Chin laughed.
I asked him, “Are you still doing push-ups?”
“A little.”
“I tried to exercise. I stopped smoking for six months this year and ran laps around my block. I did like 50 push-ups a day. Did like 50 crunches. Nothing happened. I did it to impress some girl.”
“Was she impressed?”
“I never told her. I felt embarrassed. She went to a gym and had a sweet cell phone. She wants a man who goes to the gym and has a sweet cell phone too with unlimited text messaging.”
“It would be funny to be in a gym.”
“I can't imagine being in a gym. Everyone in there sweating, wearing funny outfits. I couldn't handle the absurdity of it. I would get an attack of nausea and have to run out.”
“The other day I was walking down the street and saw somebody from my college and ran.”
“Did they notice you running?”
“No.”
“Remember several years ago when we kept writing to each other, 'what are we supposed to do?'”
“Yeah.”
“We kept doing things. Nothing happened. Every year I keep getting more and more adjusted to how boring life is.”
“The other day I peeled a banana, then ate the banana and felt fine.”
“Did you really?”
“Ten minutes later I sat in bed and did nothing for two hours.”
Twenty One
The party at the bar was for an Internet literary journal that prints a hard copy version that was famous in the world of Internet literary journals that print hard copy versions. I had never been published at the site. I was rejected once and the editor said my grammar was fucked up. The editor was supposed to be there. His name was Randal Simms. Randal Simms was famous for hosting readings with semi-famous writers and having people like Moby show up. The writers at his readings were all well-trained at MFA schools and had sensibilities. They were the kind of writers that appeared in McSweeney's and collections edited by Dave Eggers. They weren't my kind of writers. They were sitting in their nice apartments or dorm rooms reading the latest Haruki Murakami story while I was sitting in a shitty little ramshackle house reading a used copy of Erskine Caldwell's God's Little Acre. They weren't bad people. They all did volunteer work, voted Democrat and believed in the goodness of humanity. I voted Democrat, needed Habitat for Humanity to come to my house and knew from personal experience the shittiness of humanity because I was shitty myself.
We entered the bar. It was full of people wearing nice clothes and drinking peacefully. It was the kind of bar where no one ever got into a fight. I walked through the bar looking for Desmond but he wasn't there. Petra came over with a Captain and Coke and handed it to me. I gulped and felt a little better.
We all sat in the back. There were people everywhere. Horrible techno music was playing. It was awful. Jason sat next to me. Petra walked around talking to everyone, being friendly. She was a good woman. She didn't bother her man or nag or bitch at him to pay attention to her. I could walk around freely and make conversation to people. And she could walk around freely and talk to people. I didn't care if she flirted with men and she didn't care if I flirted with women.
Randal Simms was wearing a white suit and had long emo hair. He looked like a 13 year old boy. He was a very pretty man. In a dress and wig and some estrogen pills he could have pulled off being female. He was very excited to be the host of the party. He ran around talking to everyone making sure everyone knew who he was and that he was the host. Everyone was very impressed. Randal Simms seemed really happy that everyone was impressed. While sitting there a cute woman in her late 20s told me she worked for a magazine. I told her I had several books published. She was impressed. I was impressed with her working for a magazine. Everyone was happy to be impressed.
Jason Bassini was sitting next to me. We spoke to each other yelling because the music was so fucking loud. Jason said, “Everything is hierarchy here. Everyone instantly announces their job, which implies their status and how much money they make. No one does that in Seattle. Everyone just sits around and asks if you want to get stoned.”
“This is New York City; this is where you come if you want to achieve status. People go to Seattle to become like musicians or something.”
“I don't know why people live in Seattle.”
“People in Youngstown sit around all day bitching about their problems.”
“People don't do that in Seattle. People are always like, 'Life is awesome. Let’s go do something. Let’s get a haircut.'”
“People are very concerned with their hair in Seattle?”
Jason said, “Yeah, people love their hair. Everyone is very concerned with how their hair looks. Everyone spends hours deliberating with their friends about what style of haircut and hair color they should have. It is like a command room in a World War 2 movie. Everyone is sitting around staring at maps, discussing strategy, what the enemy is doing and then after long conference with friends they decide on a haircut.”
“In Youngstown nobody cares about their hair except for black women. Black women enjoy wearing a variety of strange weaves. Men still spike their hair and get it tinted with blond highlights.”
“Are you serious?”