Intermission (16 page)

No regrets,

Nat

PS- Chloe has this thing with records. And if there is some sort of investigation to its whereabouts, Chloe is the one that shanked it.

I can’t believe Jack spilled all the info, but Nat is extremely tenacious and almost always gets her way. I take the square package and flip it over in my hands. My finger traces over the return address, thinking about the events of the past few months.

I rip open the package and pull out the record I know so well. The cover is worn and faded and there is a large rip near the opening – but it tells a story. I find a large Post-it note stuck to the backside with Nat’s horrible handwriting and a pencil drawing of us completely naked.

From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:

“After it’s all over we’ll go out and have a drink together.”

XO

Nat

I look up at the dark sky filled with giant, laughing stars and immediately know what I have to do.

I flip over the Post-it and scribble down the date, but then I quickly scratch through it. This isn’t a dated love letter, I’ll write that later – this Post-it is my last letter . . . my safety net. I tap my pen against the Edith Piaf record, thinking of how to express future sentiments when my journey comes to an end. Either in the arms of the girl I love, or buried in a box of memories, this note will be the
last
.

Ma femme,

Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.

I love you.

July 4, 1996
8:58 p.m.

“Do you even know where you’re going, dipshit?” Tango shouts from the backseat. As if being the designated driver for the night wasn’t enough, I’ve listened to Tango and Jeff fight like twelve-year-old girls over the radio for the past two hours. A normal drive from Buffalo to Toronto can be quick and painless, but these two drunk fuckers have made it unbearable.

“Yep, ’cause I’ve been to your cousin’s cousin’s friend’s house a dozen times. How about you put away the 40 and give me directions? Jesus, Tango – you’re not fucking Ice Cube,” I taunt.

Jeff lights a cigarette and switches the radio to a scratchy country station. “Yeah Tango, you piece of shit – tell our driver where to take us.
Amarillo by mornin’
.” Jeff rolls down the window and tosses his beer can at one of the street signs.

“What the hell, Jeff? You can’t just litter in another country – we’ll be exported or exploited or whatever,” Tango barks.

“T, you’re a fucking idiot. Do I turn here – Dwyer Street?” I ask, signaling left before he answers.

Tango leans forward and perches his head on my seat, quickly changing the radio and slapping the back of Jeff’s head. “Country music is for hicks that litter. Turn left.”

Back at the lake, it was a pretty normal Fourth of July. We were having a great time barbecuing and enjoying the cool weather. My entire senior class was piled around a bonfire, celebrating our last hoorah together before going our separate ways. The entire day had been spent flirting with girls and drinking beers on the dock – I was content. But then Tango opened his mouth.

“Let’s go to a house party in Canada,” he said.

“Canadian chicks are hot,” he said.

“It’s a rite of passage,” he lied.

I’ve known Tango since kindergarten and he’s only been right about two things:
Mr. Belvedere
was better than
Benson
and girls with tongue rings give amazing head.

“Listen you asshole, there better be some smokin’ girls at this party or I’m gonna—”

“What, Jeff? Whatcha goin’ to do, Big Perm?” Tango asks as he flicks Jeff’s ear. They start a slapping match and I pull over to stop the car.

“I swear to God, I will physically yank you assholes from my car and leave you in Toronto. I could be nailing Samantha on a paddle boat right now, but instead, I’m in a car with two butt fuckers that need to grow up.”

“Yeah, Tango – grow up,” Jeff whines.

I reach across the car and punch Jeff in the shoulder.

“Man that fool just playin’ man, I ain’t trippin’,” Tango laughs.

I let out an amused sigh and start the car. “Can we just get to this party?”

“Hell yeah, motherfuckers! But I’m gonna get you high today,” Tango starts.

Jeff snorts and we continue in unison. “’Cause it’s Friday; you ain’t got no job . . . and you ain’t got shit to do.”

“For reals, playas! There it is – that house on the right with all the fly honeys.”

I park three houses down from the party and shove my beeper into my shorts pocket. The spare key comes in handy for times like this, so I carefully hide my keys under the visor and place my spare in my pocket.

“Yo, wait up.” Tango puts his arms around me as we walk toward the house. “Don’t go to the bathroom – I mean, don’t go
with
someone to the bathroom. That’s an invitation to snort coke. Now, let’s get us some Canadian beaver?”

Outside the suburban house, a group of guys linger by the front door. I slow my gait, taking my time to accurately assess their purpose. The largest of the guys is wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts. He’s not drinking and judging by his nervous body language – this is his house.

I pull Jeff and Tango back with me and stop at the curb. “T, do you have a name of anyone here?”

“My cousin’s name is Margie, she should be here. Oh wait, no, she’s in Florida.”

“Goddamn it Tango! Okay, let me do the talking.”

“Of course. Smooth-talking Adam, saves the day,” he quips.

We walk casually to the door and the guys immediately cross their arms and stare us down. I stare back, evaluating each member of the bouncer committee. They’re just dudes like us, trying to have a good time while keeping things under control. What would I want if three guys I didn’t know came to my house party?

I would want them to be harmless and helpful.

“Hey, my friend’s cousin invited us. And dude, thanks, because in our small town of Stouffville, we can’t do shit,” I smirk.

“Oh yeah, why’s that?” The red-head to the left asks.

“Ah man, it sucks! My dad is the police chief and his dad is an attorney,” I nod back to Jeff, “and my other friend’s mom is the mayor.” I hear Tango snicker behind me so I move in front of him. “Great people to have on your side, but a shitty way to grow up, am I right?”

I lock eyes with the owner of the house and there’s a brief pause of uncertainty, but then he smirks and elbows the guy next to him.

“Shit! You fellas need to live a little. Come on in.” The guy opens the door and leads us in, announcing in sonic boom-range of our arrival. “Look what we found! Some virgins – get these guys some drinks.” He turns back around and faces me. “I’m Dylan – don’t fuck my girl and don’t fuck with my mom’s dishes. Are we cool?”

“We’re cool,” I say firmly.

“Alright then, put your keys in the bowl and get out of my face.” He turns back around to a group of girls dancing in the foyer. “Ladies, be careful with these three! They’re farm boys,” Dylan laughs.

At least I got us in.

And I better find out who the girlfriend is or Tango will naturally flock to her. I scan the room and study the party guests – it’s a typical house party with the movie-style cliques and shenanigans, but my process of surveying the people is entirely necessary and always accurate.

Jeff bumps past me and staggers toward the kitchen, probably in search of the liquor, but everyone knows the good stuff is always in the backyard. I hold Tango back, hoping to remind him of the boundaries.

Alright, here I go . . .

The group of girls dancing in the foyer: wine coolers, similar hairstyles and clothing, and they practically drooled over Dylan. Incoming senior girls – single and willing to please.

Two girls sitting on the couch with a photo album: not into the party scene. Not socializing with other people. They’re sitting comfortably on the sofa like they’ve been here before – possible girlfriends of Dylan’s thugs. I’ll come back to them.

Three girls coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine: their speech is slurred and they’re stumbling through the crowd with wine glasses. The lushes. Perfect.

“Tango, check out those girls.” I nudge him in his side and discreetly point to the three girls with the booze. “Don’t be a dick and have some fun.”

“Ah yeah, you know it – my dick will be havin’ some fun.” Tango does his stupid white boy bounce and slides his hat backwards. One of these days he’s going to get his ass kicked and I kinda hope I’m there to watch.

He talks a big game and he flirts with every girl he meets, but I know that he is 100% faithful to his girlfriend. And I know this because she’s 100% pregnant with his baby. Tango turned down his acceptance to Syracuse so he could stay in Buffalo and take care of things. He’s been such a fuckup most of his life that he’s finally trying to do the right thing . . . although he should’ve done the right thing on Prom Night.

The music changes from that electronic dance shit to the drowning screams of Guns ’n Roses – I immediately search for a stereo with great taste. I walk toward the back of the house where a pool table is being used for anything but pool. Large doors open to a deck with a hot tub occupied by topless girls and horny spectators. I spot Jeff near a keg, smoking a cigarette and talking to a group of girls. Jeff is from a blue-collar family of six boys. He’s admittedly still a virgin, but he can charm the panties off any girl with his good boy personality. He looks in my direction and raises his cup and then continues chatting – my boys can take care of themselves.

“Hey there! I’m Julie and this is Robin. Do you go to Northern?” Two pocket-sized girls bounce in front of me, nearly spilling their beer down my shorts. They’re both giggling as the blonde grabs onto my forearm. “So sorry, we’re a bit tipsy.”

“That’s cool,” I smile. “I’m Adam and I don’t go to Northern.”

“Oh? So you’re a Mustang?” The dark-haired one asks.

“Sure,” I lie.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom with us?” The blonde licks her lips and slides her hand under my shirt.

“What happens in the bathroom?” I smirk.

They both laugh as the brunette stretches on her toes to whisper in my ear. “We have blow.”

“Ah, awesome,” I say. “Can I meet you there after I grab a beer?”

The brunette takes my hand and places it on her hip. “Adam, bring whatever you want! We’re going to show you a real party,” she winks.

I smile eagerly just to tease them. “I like real parties – meet ya in five?”

The blonde cups my balls and I definitely like it, but these girls are all the same and there’s no fucking way I’m snorting coke off a bathroom counter. They eventually loosen their grasp and blow me kisses. I glance out the back door and Jeff is shaking his head with laughter. I shrug my shoulders and continue to look for the stereo.

Appetite for Destruction
flawlessly transitions into the Beastie Boys – now I’m on a
quest
to find the house DJ. I look past the pool table, and in a corner by the television, there’s a girl with a long braid flipping through pages of a CD book. She’s wearing a short denim skirt with a black t-shirt and no shoes – I can only see her backside but there’s no doubt that she’s hot and wants to be left alone. She drops to her knees, reaching into the bottom drawer of the television unit, and holding the attention of every guy in the room. Her skirt is inching higher with each movement until she finally plops on her ass and crosses her legs. I watch as all the guys in the room disappear. Interesting.

“Hey country-fucker, you play pool?” Dylan bumps into me and puts his arm tightly around my neck. I could kick his preppy ass right here and now, but I’d rather do what I do best.

“Nah, man.”

“Figures. There’s a hot tub out back, a keg on the deck, pot in the garage and unfortunately, coke in the bathroom. But country-boy, there’s nothing for you in
this
room.” Dylan’s voice is curt and strong, but perception is never truth.

I place my arm around his shoulder and nod once. “Right,” I say arrogantly. I twist my body to break free and walk straight out the front door.

After a quick trip to my car to get what I need, I stroll confidently to the back room and casually glance at the stereo. She’s still sitting on the floor, flipping through books and shaking her bare foot against her leg. A game of beer pong has taken over the pool table and partiers flock from every room in the house to participate. I squeeze by two of Dylan’s boys, but they don’t seem to care who I am or what I’m about to do.