The Excess Road by Joshua Jones
Chapter Five: Altar of altered
The shrubs surrounding the Shed, a rustic white colonial house, were perfect rectangles. The manicured lawn smiled with diagonal lines from a recent mow. I couldn’t believe college kids lived there and then we entered through the back door that led to the kitchen. Pots and pans in the sink, garbage bags scattered throughout the house and the floors were sticky like cold honey. The furniture was whisked off to the corners.
There were three people to each square foot and the temperature of the room exceeded the outside September heat by fifteen degrees and the windows were open. My shoulders tensed up and I put on a stone face. Beer spilled without anyone freaking out about how their parents were going to kill them.
The smell of sex sweat, testosterone and what I thought was burning bread wafted through the clutter of kids. The walls were a lemon fog. The herd went to the slaughter in the basement. We descended a staircase patched with rotten ply-wood. The uneven steps were slick with mud, spilled beer and puke. The basement doorway was corked by three large necked red-faced seniors. They demanded three dollars; we each paid with crumpled up bills and with sour contempt on their faces told us the direction of the numerous kegs.
We entered the musty cave.
It was a cement armpit echoing English Electronica from a dug out chamber next to the hot water tank. Rings of intoxicated sophomore and freshman girls giggled as junior guys watched over them like they were protecting their property from looters. We crept by until the wall of people standing chest to chest blocked us.
Two low hanging light bulbs at opposite ends of the room illuminated the cavern while Christmas lights strung like vines wound around unfinished wooden beams. Four by eight wood columns stood as a square forest in front of me shingled with flattened beer cans. Tinsel glittered from the open floor joists above.
Couldn’t see so I lifted up on my tip toes and saw jocks shot-gunning their cheap Milwaukee brewed swill in the corner. They raised the beer cans in the air and crushed them on their foreheads. In victory, they grabbed each other’s shoulders and butted heads like rams. Next to them were a group of seniors holding German beer steins.
In the dark, corner, the prize crouched below the bulging crowd. The scuffed aluminum kegs packed like mules with bundles of ice stood motionless in pools of rank water against the gritty wall. The scent of mold was inescapable and spewed out of the black spots crawling across the darkest corners.
George and Tim stood on the edge of the crowd surrounding the keg and waved to the guy manning the tap. They were passed two beers and stepped away.
I pushed and squeezed through the tightening noose of a crowd to get a half-filled cup.
George and Tim took up residence in front of makeshift bar, an altar from a student horror film, at the opposite end of the basement. The plywood top was covered in old cheap whiskey bottles and hundreds of used red keg cups in leaning stacks. After joining them, I stood around hoping to encounter girls as they skit by to go back upstairs.
Not one looked at me.
The two sophomores from my hall who left before came over to talk to George and Tim and formed a circle. Each one of them pulled out a tiny zip lock plastic bags with white powder. In unison, they pulled keys out from their pockets and dipped the tips in and snorted.
Heads went back.
Eyes widened.
The circle was broken and George and Tim spread out.
Then, I was introduced to Roger, but people called him Curly because he resembled the famous Stooge, and Cliff the Stiff. They were practically standing on my feet. They were inseparable fraternity brothers and drug friends. George stepped up to me and pulled out his key. He rattled it in front of my face as if I were a toddler. I nodded, he gave me his baggie and I sniffed more than a tip. The coke was over cut crap and a medicine-menthol taste dripped down the back of my throat.
A realization came to me that a part of the earlier conversation in my room was a test to see if I used or not. Roger then said we should follow them upstairs to the reserved keg in the living room on the other side of the house. This was a better deal than staying in that collapsed box of a basement, I was happy to leave the grungy cave as I could now taste the mold and dust on my teeth.
The upstairs scene was pleasant compared to the bowels of the house. The girls were prettier and less loaded. One side of the house had cleared out and fresh air was coming through an open window. I started to talk to Roger and Cliff. They were two mirrors reflecting into each other. Cliff rubbed his beer gut and kept sniffing around as if someone farted. I overheard him say something about soccer so I jumped in.
“I played when I was young too, but I quit because of a broken ankle,” I said.
He pretended not to hear me.
“Do you still play?” I asked. Cliff shook his head.
“I played until junior year in high school and was recruited. But, I didn’t like playing anymore. I was thinking about trying out for the team here but they suck and it’d be too much work. Fuck it. I’d have to wake up at six to go run,” he said.
“Right on man,” was all I could say.
George and Tim shuffled off with Roger to do a couple blasts of the powder and I found myself alone with Cliff. He panned around the room like a hawk scanning for prey until he found some familiar girls. He told me to go up stairs to the third door and find the guys. When I took my first step, he went in the other direction.
The next room overflowed with strangers looking at me as if I was dyed green. I held my beer aloft and squeezed my way to the narrow banister. People hung out on each step and some were trying to dance to the rumble of house music.
The party was a lot of work.
I reached the third floor landing and nudged my way through another pack of intoxicated strangers. Spinning in a circle, I searched for the closest door and approached it with scant steps. The white door was tilted on its hinges and a slanted chalk board read “FUCKEN
The shrubs surrounding the Shed, a rustic white colonial house, were perfect rectangles. The manicured lawn smiled with diagonal lines from a recent mow. I couldn’t believe college kids lived there and then we entered through the back door that led to the kitchen. Pots and pans in the sink, garbage bags scattered throughout the house and the floors were sticky like cold honey. The furniture was whisked off to the corners.
There were three people to each square foot and the temperature of the room exceeded the outside September heat by fifteen degrees and the windows were open. My shoulders tensed up and I put on a stone face. Beer spilled without anyone freaking out about how their parents were going to kill them.
The smell of sex sweat, testosterone and what I thought was burning bread wafted through the clutter of kids. The walls were a lemon fog. The herd went to the slaughter in the basement. We descended a staircase patched with rotten ply-wood. The uneven steps were slick with mud, spilled beer and puke. The basement doorway was corked by three large necked red-faced seniors. They demanded three dollars; we each paid with crumpled up bills and with sour contempt on their faces told us the direction of the numerous kegs.
We entered the musty cave.
It was a cement armpit echoing English Electronica from a dug out chamber next to the hot water tank. Rings of intoxicated sophomore and freshman girls giggled as junior guys watched over them like they were protecting their property from looters. We crept by until the wall of people standing chest to chest blocked us.
Two low hanging light bulbs at opposite ends of the room illuminated the cavern while Christmas lights strung like vines wound around unfinished wooden beams. Four by eight wood columns stood as a square forest in front of me shingled with flattened beer cans. Tinsel glittered from the open floor joists above.
Couldn’t see so I lifted up on my tip toes and saw jocks shot-gunning their cheap Milwaukee brewed swill in the corner. They raised the beer cans in the air and crushed them on their foreheads. In victory, they grabbed each other’s shoulders and butted heads like rams. Next to them were a group of seniors holding German beer steins.
In the dark, corner, the prize crouched below the bulging crowd. The scuffed aluminum kegs packed like mules with bundles of ice stood motionless in pools of rank water against the gritty wall. The scent of mold was inescapable and spewed out of the black spots crawling across the darkest corners.
George and Tim stood on the edge of the crowd surrounding the keg and waved to the guy manning the tap. They were passed two beers and stepped away.
I pushed and squeezed through the tightening noose of a crowd to get a half-filled cup.
George and Tim took up residence in front of makeshift bar, an altar from a student horror film, at the opposite end of the basement. The plywood top was covered in old cheap whiskey bottles and hundreds of used red keg cups in leaning stacks. After joining them, I stood around hoping to encounter girls as they skit by to go back upstairs.
Not one looked at me.
The two sophomores from my hall who left before came over to talk to George and Tim and formed a circle. Each one of them pulled out a tiny zip lock plastic bags with white powder. In unison, they pulled keys out from their pockets and dipped the tips in and snorted.
Heads went back.
Eyes widened.
The circle was broken and George and Tim spread out.
Then, I was introduced to Roger, but people called him Curly because he resembled the famous Stooge, and Cliff the Stiff. They were practically standing on my feet. They were inseparable fraternity brothers and drug friends. George stepped up to me and pulled out his key. He rattled it in front of my face as if I were a toddler. I nodded, he gave me his baggie and I sniffed more than a tip. The coke was over cut crap and a medicine-menthol taste dripped down the back of my throat.
A realization came to me that a part of the earlier conversation in my room was a test to see if I used or not. Roger then said we should follow them upstairs to the reserved keg in the living room on the other side of the house. This was a better deal than staying in that collapsed box of a basement, I was happy to leave the grungy cave as I could now taste the mold and dust on my teeth.
The upstairs scene was pleasant compared to the bowels of the house. The girls were prettier and less loaded. One side of the house had cleared out and fresh air was coming through an open window. I started to talk to Roger and Cliff. They were two mirrors reflecting into each other. Cliff rubbed his beer gut and kept sniffing around as if someone farted. I overheard him say something about soccer so I jumped in.
“I played when I was young too, but I quit because of a broken ankle,” I said.
He pretended not to hear me.
“Do you still play?” I asked. Cliff shook his head.
“I played until junior year in high school and was recruited. But, I didn’t like playing anymore. I was thinking about trying out for the team here but they suck and it’d be too much work. Fuck it. I’d have to wake up at six to go run,” he said.
“Right on man,” was all I could say.
George and Tim shuffled off with Roger to do a couple blasts of the powder and I found myself alone with Cliff. He panned around the room like a hawk scanning for prey until he found some familiar girls. He told me to go up stairs to the third door and find the guys. When I took my first step, he went in the other direction.
The next room overflowed with strangers looking at me as if I was dyed green. I held my beer aloft and squeezed my way to the narrow banister. People hung out on each step and some were trying to dance to the rumble of house music.
The party was a lot of work.
I reached the third floor landing and nudged my way through another pack of intoxicated strangers. Spinning in a circle, I searched for the closest door and approached it with scant steps. The white door was tilted on its hinges and a slanted chalk board read “FUCKEN