Okay… so… guest list… Eve. Sifiso and his wife. Uhhh. Frank From Football. Do the hired help count?
Me. Do I count?
Oh, I can invite Francina. She’s always up for a bit of a jive. She’ll bring a few mates. It will also make me look a bit more PC, having a few friends ‘of colour’. They will probably also be the only ones who, strictly speaking, can dance. Note to self: remember to put chicken on the menu. I can invite the neighbours to stop them from calling the police at three in the morning when there’s a naked drunk bloke singing on their front lawn, setting off the sprinklers. It’s happened before. I developed a nasty chest cough afterwards.
But clearly that won’t be enough if I want this party to be of gargantuan proportions. This is probably when liking people comes in handy.
I toy with a few different party concepts before deciding on ‘Moonshine’. I had ‘Poirot’ (murder mystery party: cheesy), ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ (with attending Geishas and naked Japanese nymphs wrapped in cling film and sashimi: done, done, done), ‘Naked Lunch’ (fig leaves for alclass="underline" but reckoned Francina had been through enough without subjecting her to Mugwumps and the Interzone), and ‘Monty Python’s Flying Circus’ (cheerful midgets, tightrope-walkers and fire-eaters would be fun, but it’s just not literary enough), and in the end I settled for something a bit more conservative, for the simple reason that I realised in a flash of wonder and light (yes, I was in the shower) that I am actually Jay Gatsby. A few decades late and the wrong nationality, as am decidedly un-American, but I am the man who made Fitzgerald famous. Not quite as gay (I don’t wear white suits and panama hats but I do admit to having episodes where I throw silk shirts around the room like a psychotic ballerina). And of course there’s Daisy.
I sigh at the evidence: I have an unreachable star.
It’s tempting to go as far as to say that I’ve modelled myself on Gatsby, but I know it’s not true. I was unhinging my life years before I even picked up a battered copy. Mostly it’s about being a figment of my own imagination. Meet Slade Harris, the tragic protagonist of his own life.
I have no friends and yet I am throwing an extravagant party. I have ordered 200 oranges (why 200? what am I going to do with the left over 196?) and have all but forsaken my family. As I write I create my life and the reverse is also true.
Like Gatsby, I’m a fraud. My whole life has been engineered, contrived. So much so that I don’t really know who I am or who I was or who I’m meant to be. In moments of melancholy I see visions of myself floating upside down in my pool, an island to ruby water. There are worse ways to go, I assure myself, there are worse ways to go.
7
CONDEMNED TO BEING A SILHOUETTE
The band is testing their equipment and the bar is overstocked. I had someone scrub the graffiti off the front wall but there is still a faint scar. Hopefully no one will be able to make out what it says in the evening light. I cleaned up the broken glass and taped clear plastic sheeting to where the window used to be. I make last minute checks, smiling woodenly at the caterers, feeling ridiculous in a tux, wishing someone would arrive. Looking at the sky, hoping the weather will hold out. Winding my watch. I’ve always been insecure about parties. No matter how many people RSVP I still end up with pre-party jitters, thinking no one will come. Or worse, two people will come and see through the wormhole what a sham my life is, then leave without bothering to finish their pink gin and tonics, tripping out of the front door because their eyes have rolled so far back into their heads. My cell rings and I’m sure it’s the first of many, calling to say that something better has come up and they won’t be able to make it anymore. I should just tell the caterers to leave and take their beef satays with them. The bartender can leave but I’ll keep the bar, for tonight. Maybe longer.
It turns out to be Dad.
“Slade,” he says. He sounds strange. Skew.
“Hi Dad. How are you?”
“I’m… I’m having a bad time today, son.”
I look at my watch. The party was supposed to start ten minutes ago and there’s a not guest in sight. The DJ is going to despise me when I tell him to pack up his kit.
“Really?”
Silence. Is it a bad line? I don’t have time for this.
“Dad? Really? Why?”
Oh God, I think he’s crying. I really can’t deal with this now. I smash my glass of bubbly and wonder if I should drop the call.
“Dad?”
Clearing of throat and a near-silent sniff. I can’t deal with a breakdown from Dad, not on top of mine. A bloodline of broken-down men. It makes me think of road kill on a highway.
“I know I’m an old fool…”
Jesus Christ! I motion impatiently to the bartender to top me up.
“… but I’ve been thinking today…”
I cut him off. “Look, Dad, this really isn’t a good time.”
“Oh,” he says, confused: I have stated the obvious.
The doorbell rings. The rent-a-butler will see the guest in. Hopefully it will be a guest, and not the feather-duster man. Although a feather-duster man would count, wouldn’t he?
“I mean, I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now. Sorry. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Of course. I understand.” He tries to resolve the wobble in his voice.
“Chat to you tomorrow, then. Take care.”
Frank From Football is here in a zoot suit, with a grin as wide as an oasis.
I hit the red button and throw my cell phone into the nearest bush.
Bless you Jesus.
A couple of hours later I inhale my fifth line of coke off the dressing room table’s mirror in one of the spare rooms. I bought enough for whoever is interested and have had the waiters spread the code word. A giggling couple stumble in, kissing, then realising their mistake, stagger out again. The sixth line is smooth. I wipe my nose, check for residue. I hate the crassness of people who powder their noses in public.
The kick is cool, high, and instant.
I walk through my house and down into the garden, passing about a hundred people without recognising one. Everyone seems to be having a good time. Plumes and sequins seem to be scattered in every room of the house, and there are already people swimming in the bright turquoise nightlight of the pool.
“HARRIS,” booms Sifiso, “great PARTY!”
He slaps me on the back the way a man after five whiskies does, as if I have done something impressive. Little does he know. His wife stands next to him, matching his height. Her name slips through my fingers. I over-smile in compensation. I went to their wedding, for God’s sake.
“Having a good time?” I ask with a manic grimace. She nods and looks into my eyes as if trying to find something. A secret, or a shred of sanity.
“Where did you find the GO-GO GIRLS?” Sifiso demands, gesturing in the general direction of the attractive waitresses serving body shots.
“They’re ex-girlfriends,” I joke.
Sifiso’s wife smiles politely. I feel like an arse. I am an arse.
“I’m off to get a refill,” I say, “can I get you two anything?”