The next several days would be comprised of a series of snapshots strung together and completing a slide show. Yes, the highlight reel. The pointer finger of God having punched the play button. And away, and away, and away.
Thursday:
That first night, after everyone found their way back to 61 Standen, after everyone arrived full-bellied from suppers consumed separately, after everyone was seated in a semi-circle around the television sipping wine, we somehow came collectively to the conclusion that the only way to kick off the weekend would be to watch "The Golden Compass."
"The Golden Compass" a children's film full of CGI special effects. Full of witches and talking soul-animals and magic wands, et cetera. This, the movie we choose after Caroline (earlier in the day) singled out the fans of the Fantasy genre as a group of people with whom she chooses not to associate. This, the film that we choose. And--once again--a children's film.
And a film that, in the end, not a single one of us can comprehend. There are too many characters, the plot is all over the place, and we just don't know what's happening. No. We can't follow the children's film on the screen. So we file out of the room one by one until we are all downstairs. All of us downstairs and the DVD still rolling on the television screen upstairs, still blasting through the stereo speakers on the second floor. The last view before shutting the door to Eva's bedroom is this: Eva and Robin side by side in Eva's bed, their faces aglow in the digital light from their computers, and apparently the both of them gaming away.
Dorks in the nighttime. Travellers sharing beds so as not to sleep on the floor. The internet a necessity until you don't have it. And then an amazing commodity when you have it again. The two of them looking like gamers in the gloom. Goodnight.
Friday:
The day evaporates quickly. Separate trips to the supermarket and the liquor store. Another walk through the graveyard with the dog. The late afternoon sun-soak on the deck. Beers tabs popped in the sunshine.
And then it is roasted veggies tossed in oil and lemon-pepper and rosemary, the rosemary plucked from the grass between gravestones. All of us grouped around the kitchen island and sipping wine and pretending to be characters from "Waiting to Exhale," what with the girl-talk gossip and the girlfriend shimmy and the limp-wristed laugh. And why am I a part of this?
Slow jams on the stereo and we're dancing after dinner. Switch back to beers. Beers from the fridge and get ready to go out.
To Southern Cross below the southern cross. And beers. Pitchers of beers slopped on the too-long tables. And pictures--snapshots--that look posed in the aftermath. Bottoms up and cigarettes shared. The dance floor closed by the time we make our way to the hardwood. So on to another bar.
And on. Like sneak thieves in the street. We darting between the shadows of buildings. Behind square columns square in the asphalt. Like fat totem poles rising to greet the city gods. And we the demon spirits, the incarnations, below the downtown totem poles. Dancing through the liquid night to avoid Caroline's past. Through the shadows to avoid the eyes of certain persons at bar-entrance openings. Through the night.
Bar-hopping. And I loose myself twice in conversations with strangers. The first, a man whose attention I was attempting to divert from the girls. This after he asked them where they were from, and, when they answered "America," he mouthed the word "yes" and fist-pounded a friend at another table. Classy. The second stranger a loner who bummed me a cigarette and explained why I should move from my native land on the South Island (I don't know why he assumed this) to the always exciting Wellington. Best Friends Forever in the alcohol haze. And "what was your name again, mate?"
In both instances the girls come to the rescue. And eventually we taxi away to Karori in the early morning. Back to 61 Standen Street. Where apparently it is time for left over corn on the cob. And the inevitable fashion shoot that ensues.
So. The girls vogue, striking pose after pose. Seductive. All while mowing down the un-eaten dinner veggies. And I snap photos of them from different angles while they smile at me with corn kernels between their teeth. And we're just getting drunk as we head to bed.
It is Diddy Dirty Money with the lullaby on the laptop. I'm coming home. And over and over we ask "who would have thought?" "P-Diddy back on track?" "who would have thought?" And over and over Robin answers, "I would have," "I did," "I knew."
And we're just getting drunk as we head to bed.
Saturday:
To wake up drunk and cook a mid-afternoon brunch. Veggie-egg scramble, hash browns, and chocolate chip pancakes. Complete only with a slew of mimosas. Let the highlight reel roll. Outside in the pic-a-nic table sun with the fist-sized speakers blasting (Diddy Dirty) and the eating gold and gone. Who eats brunch at 3:30 pm?
Soon drunk. Still drunk in the late afternoon and watching Dawson's Creek on the television. It is Wilmington landscapes within the digital cage. It is a teenage melodrama articulated by B-level actors using grad-school grammar. But we're not really listening. All of us taking turns talking over the story on the screen.
And after Caroline directs a diatribe at the character Joey Potter (I seem to remember the phrase "straighten your fucking hair you stupid bitch"). And after Robin takes an airplane ride on the soles of my feet--she lifted up by laughter--this prone plank flying through the room. And after the last champagne bottle clinks into the recycling bin along with the rest of them--the orange juice jug empty and the house bereft of alcohol. After all of this we look at each other one by one by one by one and wonder aloud why we are drunk and inappropriate in the middle of the afternoon on a random Saturday thousands of miles from North Carolina.
Let the reel roll.
And we roll into town to run errands and collect more booze for the nighttime falling. And while I sit and wait on the girls--while I wait in the illegally parked car--while I wait on the city street called Lambton Quay, I browse through Robin's ipod until I find a playlist entitled "fun jamz," and am immediately transported back to West Cary Middle School.
I wonder to myself who could think of the west without the prefixes "wild" and "wild." Who could think of the west without conjuring a mental image of the bleach-headed, bare-chested Sisquo and the gun-slinging, line-dancing Will Smith? It's the Wild Wild West on repeat, and the car is a carriage through the avenues of time.
Back up the hill to sit and sip. While watching Whale Rider--a New Zealnd film about the native Maori population, women's lib, and the use of cetaceans as horses. And when it ends we flip through the channels looking for The Patriot. Knowing that the Mel Gibson epic is supposed to be playing. But alas: we have 30 minutes to kill before it begins.
And suddenly we're all frantic. What are we going to do? We have a whole half-hour. What are we supposed to do? I don't know. Do you know? No. I don't know. What can we do? Frantic.
But the movie comes on before we can make a decision. Thank God. And we settle into our seats for the duration. And it is late before we know it.
Wine tonight to go along with Laura's five-star Lasagna dinner served in the middle of the movie. And we're still eating as the Casio digital calculator turns today into tomorrow.
Sleep deep on distended bellies. And the only alarm clock in the house is the pale figure of Robin running into the room in the much-too-early morning. Jumping onto the bed in this: the last violent charge before her retreat.
Goodbye. And the highlight reel rolls to black. Goodbye.
This was a good one... although not my fav
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