her able hands

He had to have his mother drop him off at Billy’s house in the newest development built on the old Ames farm, a few hours early before everybody else showed up. Billy met him at the door wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a neon-blue, plastic lei, carrying a jug of vodka by the plastic handle. Henry pushed him inside and turned to wave goodbye to his mother. He slammed the door behind him and said, “Dude, you asshole. You trying to get me killed?” He pulled the velvet drape over the window next to the door to make sure she had backed out, then turned back to Billy. “I swear. Sometimes you are such an idiot.”

“Whatever, dude. Let’s go mix up this punch.” He waved the jug of vodka in the air and pointed to the living room. Billy had a bunch of bottles set up on the coffee table next to a giant glass bowl, and put the vodka down and said, “Start pouring, man. We’re making kryptonite tonight,” and he screwed off caps and began to mix vodka, rum, gin, and tequila with ginger ale and fruit juice. “Everybody’s supposed to start to land around seven. I have enough X to get us through the weekend, dude. You’re staying right? My parents won’t be back ‘till Sunday night.”

“Yeah, totally.” Henry laughed, pouring out a jug of orange juice into the bowl, the fumes of alcohol shooting up into his face and giving him a surge of nerves. “So?” He started, trying to be casual, “You tried it before?”

“What? X? Sure. A bunch of times. Shit makes you fucking love everything.” Billy picked up a bag of ice that was sitting on the carpet, making a puddle, and dumped it into the bowl, splashing the punch all over the table. “Shit. Go grab a dishtowel man, hanging on the stove.”

The two of them spent the next hour loading the giant cd changer with discs in the order they wanted them played, over a hundred cd’s. They drank some of the punch out of giant red plastic party cups, danced around the living room filling other bowls with bags of chips and popcorn and cheese puffs. Billy asked him, “So dude, is Lisa coming or what?”

Henry really didn’t want to talk about it. He had finally shaken off the bad vibes he had all day, and didn’t want any reminders of the fact that she had basically called him a druggie loser. “Nah. She had plans.” He mumbled flopping into a giant overstuffed chair, and propping his faded black Converses on the footstool that was like an island, the ottoman. His buzz building, he said the word over and over in his head, wondering what it meant.

“Sure she did. Man, she’s hot, but she’s so uptight.” Billy dipped his cup into the punch again and took a long swallow. “You need a refill?”

“I’m cool.” Henry watched his friend thinking if he kept up drinking like that he’d be passed out on the floor before the party even started. “Hey man, so tell me about the X some more. What else is it like?”

“Nothing. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tried in your life. Dude, they used to use it for like marriage counseling and shit. They’d give it to people who were on the verge of divorce and then make them talk to each other, and before they knew it they’d be doing the nasty and making plans to renew their vows.”

Henry liked that image, but wondered if it was wise for a bunch of guys to take it together. “But these were couples? What happens if like, only one part of the couple takes it?”

“How the fuck do I know?” Billy rolled his eyes at him. “Man, you think too much. What are you worried you’re gonna fall in love with me?” He threw his head back and let out a huge laugh that echoed in the great hall of a room and fell flat in silence. Then he snickered and shook his head. “Just try it. There’ll be plenty of ass here tonight, trust me. You won’t be chasing my tail. And man, it’s Lisa’s loss.”

They sat in silence for a long while, taking slurps of their drinks, letting the boozy buzz wash over them. Henry got sick of listening to the swallowing noises and grabbed the stereo remote off the table next to him, and hit play causing an explosion of sound as the dozen speakers mounted on the walls around the room came to life at once with the grinding guitar and thumping bass of The White Stripes. For the rest of the hour waiting for the sound of the doorbell, they kicked back on the chairs and bounced their heads to the beat and continued to get drunk until the doorbell finally rang.

A group of girls huddled together on the front steps like a team going over their plays one last time before the big game. They all straightened up and stuck their chests out, flipping their hair back when Billy and Henry threw the door open wide to let them in. They all knew and liked Billy, but cast Henry wary glances as they said hello. Billy herded them all into the living room and showed them where to dig into the punch. Once they got started, the doorbell rang steady for another hour and close to a hundred other kids from the high school, all grades, poured into the house and got busy pouring drinks.

Keith Overlook had a big Ziploc baggie full of fat green buds of weed covered with wiry red hairs. He sat at the dining room table offering people hits off of his giant red bong and rolling joints in Bamboo paper like a pro. Henry took a long toke from the bong, trying not to laugh at the sound of the gurgling water, then sat back and held his breath for as long as he could, feeling the smoke penetrate and singe his lungs, loosen the knots in his brain. Billy sat down next to him and held his hand out to him under the table. “Here you go, asshole. Take it now and drink lots of water tonight. The bathtub is full of bottles on ice.” Henry held out his hand and Billy dropped a tiny white pill onto his sweating palm.

“Why water?” he asked after he tossed the pill into his mouth and rinsed it down with the last of his fruit punch. Anticipation flooded his body and he felt dizzy and nervous. What if it didn’t work for him?

“Because you don’t want your fucking brain to fry. Because this shit can dry up the fluid in your spine, that’s why. People die from taking this shit and not—what do they call it? Hydrating. You gotta stay hydrated. And drunk, of course.”

“Did you already take yours? Are you feeling it? What does it feel like? How long before I feel anything?” He asked, knowing he sounded like a goddamned idiot, but still hoping it was sooner than later.

“Jesus, you ‘tard. Do you hear yourself? You sound like Baby Fucking Huey. Duh, which way did he go, George? It’ll take a half hour tops, but less if you eat something. So go get some pussy, you pussy.” Billy punched Henry’s arm and got up from the table to continue delivering his happiness. Henry stayed with Keith, helping him roll joints which they stood up in a bone china gravy boat they lifted out of the engraved cabinet. The music thumped through the whole house and through Henry’s body, especially in his ass on the chair. He rolled, licked and stacked, broke up another bud into tiny pieces, picked out the seeds, rolled, licked, and stacked a few more, all while riding the waves of the music and the constant chatter around him of people stopping by the table for a hit or to buy a joint for three bucks. A fat stack of singles grew up in the middle of the table and the bag of weed shrank until there were just a few fat buds remaining. Keith sealed the bag and stuffed it into his back pocket. He stood up and watched Henry bouncing and swaying lightly in his chair. “You cool, man? You look totally fucked up.”

Bookmark It