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An Experiment in Madness
By Calcifersgrl
Summary: Madness (n): 1) a masquerade 2) befriending a Sartre-quoting loner on a whim 3) accepting a ride from Mr. Pompous Ass 4) New Year’s Eve 5) 100 mph … 6) chaos
Contrary to your belief, this was how we met: it was at the masquerade last year; I’m positive, because I remember wishing I was anywhere but there. There weren’t enough chairs to sit in, and the ballroom was teaming with classmates, their friends, families, friends of families, families of friends – oh! I had a headache and I just wanted to go home! I’ve never had much resolve, as you know, so I just stood there, wearing a diaphanous silk gown that my mother had spent hours putting together, my back against one of the intricately carved pillars that supported the gothic arch of the great doorway. Before me was an array of Babylonian prophets, knights, Cupids, golfers, Brad Pitt aspirants, and Grace Kelly doppelgangers, all twirling elegantly in a flurry of silk sleeves and gauze and spangle and shrieks of laughter. I remember staring at the myriad golden cords above my head that twined in a geometrical net, forming a canopy over the ballroom that glinted in the light of a thousand candles. Ha, a night to remember. I was drenched in resentment, my head swimming in the thick atmosphere. Or maybe it was that my temples were throbbing. Yes, that was it; I recall taking off the 99¢ sequined mask with the ostrich plume and turning it in my cold hands, wishing I had hit myself with a rock rather than attend the masquerade.
You saw me first, I think, soon afterwards, and when I met your stare, you immediately averted your gaze and jostled a Minotaur who was trying to ladle some punch into a Dixie cup. The Minotaur spilled the beverage; a labyrinth of red traveled down the length of the plastic tablecloth, diverging in awkward angles, and finally splattered onto the marble floor. Both of you paused to look at the handiwork.
“Watch where you’re going, jackass!” the Minotaur grunted beneath his huge papier-mâché head before he turned to leave. The black glass eyes glistened angrily, and then he stalked away, bull tail swishing in time to the waltz, where he met up with a smiling Aphrodite, decked in silver sequins and little else.
You glanced in my direction, gave a sheepish grin and a loose shrug. Suddenly, my head didn’t ache so much.
The sea of people was shifting again, and this time, I let it cast me from my unobtrusive post by the pillar. Black gloved hands tried to pull me into a waltz, but I flung up one hand to protest and a quick smile to apologize. Laughter greeted my ears as Pan and one of the many Grace Kelly’s sailed past me, purposely bumping into other odd couples. “Put on your mask!” Pan cried. “It’s a masquerade!” Others took up the cry, “It’s a masquerade!” and suddenly, the mask was fastened to the back of my head, and I was being twirled by Bond…James Bond who, despite his debonair namesake, stepped on my foot twice. The tune changed, now, quick and heavily rhythmic, driving the almost frenzied madness of the ballroom. Someone stepped on the hem of my gown, but the masked figures moved too fast for me to discern the perpetrator’s identity. Hands were grabbing, I was twirling, the room spinning – and then, a fairy princess, arm in arm with a Navy captain, upset my mask with one turn of her enormous wire and gauze wings. It fell to the ground in one incomprehensible sweep.
Dazed and almost bewildered, I bent to pick it up, and upon straightening I caught a glimpse of two rather long legs, haphazardly splayed out from beneath the long row of tables laden with an assortment of cakes, cookies, and fudge. Memory jostled, I made a beeline to the dessert table.“Hi,” I said and kicked your sneakers. I studied the grass-stained tennis sneakers; the left heel was flapping back and forth like that of the yes man’s head on the Channel 5 evening news. “Why are you hiding under the table?”
Even now I can see your head popping out from under the stained-red tablecloth as you muttered crossly: “I am not hiding,” and then you blanched – I saw it in your face – recognition and irritation and a slight hint of shame.
“Camping then?” I asked amiably, lifting the tablecloth just enough to let me join you in refuge from the mad menagerie of dancers.
“You must be mad,” you replied, with half-raised eyebrows that teetered between dispassion and disbelief. I always suspected that you were a little happy to see me then, despite your long-suffering tone.
It’s funny how a face looks when every contour is hidden by shadows and even the parts of the face where light hits are dark, dark blue. I couldn’t do anything but smile; you were all awkward angles: knees nearly propping up the table, head leaned against the table leg, and your arms wrapped completely around your left shin. While looking at you, only a single word materialized into my head: pretzel. “What are you supposed to be?”
“Who am I supposed to be?” you corrected me. “Cicero,” you said after a pause. “A Roman philosopher, but I suppose you’ve never heard of him.”
“Of course I have,” I retorted, involuntarily incensed. “Ever hear of Sartre?”
“Of course I have,” you mimicked, and gave a smile so sweet I am sure that if I’d taken the bait, all my teeth would have rotted. “‘Hell is other people.’” And with those ominous, borrowed words, you gathered your long limbs and gracefully exited from under the tablecloth, much to the surprise – judging by the sound of spilled coffee and theatrical gasps – of the idly gossiping parent chaperones.
I can only wonder how many minutes I spent sitting foolishly under the tablecloth, utterly cowed, awed – well, just plain stunned by the rejection, and trying to process what had just taken place. The more I thought about it, the more I wished I had been the one to push aside the tablecloth fold and saunter away. Unfortunately, it was the other way around, and I was reduced to fuming and indignantly critiquing your choice of dress: that billowing black robe did not agree with the awkwardness of your limbs. Cicero? I don’t think so. And really, pairing such a color with that mop of black hair gave off the impression that you were dressed for a funeral. Pettiness aside, I have to admit, I didn’t like you after the first meeting.
I squirmed out from the other side of the table – true, my exit was less magnificent with no one to haughtily walk away from – but I did sail away with one outraged parent’s comment ringing in my ears: “Well I never –! Rendezvous under the tables now? Kids, these days!”
The next time I saw you, it was three months later, school had been over for twenty minutes, and I had missed the bus. It was snowing that day, November 15, and I had stupidly worn a frayed denim mini and “hideously pink” – as you described them – sheepskin boots. Snow dotted my hair, my eyelids, and I think I might have frozen to death if you hadn’t pulled up in your black Toyota. You rolled down the window and curled your lip in a deprecating smile: “Well,” you drawled, “if it isn’t Psyche from the masquerade.”
“Cicero,” I said and acknowledged you with a nod. A sheath of snow fell from my hair and plopped over my boots.
We stared at each other for a moment – me, shivering quite deservedly for wearing such an idiotically short skirt, and you, biting your lip, one hand resting on the steering wheel. Who spoke first? I think you would argue that you had revved up the engine, mercilessly prepared to leave me to endure a freezing not to mention long and impossible walk home across several freeways and two cities, when I stumbled to the passenger window and blurted out, “C-can you give me a ride home?” But I like to think that perhaps you weren’t as antagonistic as you had seemed at the masquerade, or even as cock-sure as you would like to have seemed that November 15, and had finally called out: “So – are you just going to stand there and freeze, or do you want me to give you a ride?” Beginning experiment.
The car ride, of course, was far from being the bonding experience I had imagined it to be. You slammed on the gas pedal and sped off at 45 mph in the 25 mph zone, and when the freeway exit came up, you shot down the road at 80 mph. You laughed at the anxiety in my face and quite deliberately hit 100 mph. Apparently I looked “constipated with discomfort,” as you matter-of-factly informed me later, darting my eyes back and forth from my window to the speedometer to your face and back to the speedometer like minnows in the deep blue.
“Scared?” you asked, eyes holding a tint of mockery.
“‘It disturbs me no more to find men base, unjust, or selfish than to see apes mischievous, wolves savage, or the vulture ravenous,’” I quoted in an even tone, and primly clasped my frozen hands in my lap, inwardly holding my breath for your response.
And you… laughed. It was a singular laugh, one that transformed the scowling features of your face, lit your eyes, and instantly reformed your previously irredeemable character. “So,” you intoned, “Psyche turns out to be an intellectual.”
“Yeah,” I agreed nonchalantly. “Go figure.” Experiment so far successful; have communicated with subject.
“You’re going to die in a car crash one day,” I said, eyeing the 90 mph in askance, but you merely smiled. Stimulus…
“‘One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one's death, one dies one's life.’” Response?
“Sartre again,” I exclaimed in mock horror, then leaned forward and turned on the heat.
“Can I apologize?” you asked suddenly and expertly changed lanes. And without waiting for me to say, “For what?” – which I wasn’t going to say anyways – you plunged ahead: “For being such an ass at the masquerade.” Unpredicted response. Modify stimulus?
“A pompous ass, you mean?” I asked, but I was grinning, and you didn’t seem to mind the jibe. Instead, you rolled your eyes, but I saw the smile hidden in them, and the way that the right side of your mouth snaked up into a half-grin. Interesting…
Giving a slightly skittish laugh, I confided, “Just to put the record straight, I don’t usually crawl under tables and hold assignations with people I’ve never met before.”
“That’s definitely not what the parents think!”
I reddened, but I wasn’t mortified. This time, I laughed confidently and said in an arch tone, “I do believe that your reputation is now just as bad as mine, thank you very much!”
And so it went. I remember that we squabbled and bantered the thirty minutes it took to drive to my house on Newmarket – mostly arguing over anything that popped into my head – Rachel or Monica on Friends, colors, skirts or pants, punk pop or alternative rock, Bush or Kerry, etc…
As easily as that, we became friends – though you were still Operation: Lab Rat until later. Much later. But for that November 15, though I had thoroughly enjoyed the car ride, your clothes were sloppy, your hair uncombed, your pretensions too high, and you slouched like a hunchback. Therefore, I concluded with a shockingly invalid use of inductive logic that would have put my old geometry teacher to shame, you were still in desperate need of refinement. Phase one completed.
Head up, chin up, back straight, look people in the eye, be nice to someone today, please.
It amazes me – and I’ll bet it would have amazed you too – how hypocritical I was; I asked you to drop your pretensions without ever acknowledging my own.
I was perfectly alright, perfectly fine, as I assured you when you nonchalantly greeted me and asked how I was. You knew me better though; immediately concerned, you asked me what was wrong. Why did you have to say that? I was perfectly fine until you asked me what the matter was. There were a thousand things I could have said: Wow, that sky today; talk about blue! Or, aren’t dinoflagellates just fascinating? Or even just, No really, I’m perfectly fine. What could possibly be wrong? But I didn’t. I bit my lip, the world blurring at the edges. Perhaps to any passerby my eyes were shining and radiant – but they weren’t because the despair I had felt earlier in the morning came rushing back like the Red Sea after it had finished parting for Moses, and suddenly, I was swept under, trapped. I burst into tears. I hated you then because I couldn’t even lie to myself, let alone to you.
“Shh, it’s okay,” you said and took my hand as if I were four years old again, and let me cry on your shoulder. I hated you even more because I couldn’t stop sobbing; a dam had erupted and I neither had the bricks nor the strength to stopper it.
In the Square, I grabbed your hand and led you to the front of the throng, pushing elbows and crawling under legs, so that we were ahead of everyone. The colossal blue-tinged ice palace was slowly melting away, disappearing in the uncharacteristically warm December weather. Although, now that I think about it, the faces on the surrounding figures were still distinguishable. I remember watching as the jester’s grin slowly dripped from the sides of his face so that he was frowning – and wondering how illogical it was to frown when everyone was cheering and gossiping and throwing golden confetti into the night sky. I can’t remember whether I grabbed your hand first, or you grabbed mine, but I do remember that I had to bite my lip to stop the absurd little smile from spreading over my face.
That was the first time I got drunk, really drunk. But I was happy drunk, like I had just had strawberry laughing gas from the dentist; my face was numb from the cold and my eyes were unusually bright, and I hadn’t drunken anything but water.
“You’re mad,” you said, but I just laughed and laughed until you had to clamp your hand over my mouth while everyone around us counted down: : “… 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Year!” and then you led me through the cries of cheap tin horns and the crackling of firecrackers as they exploded in greens, reds, blues, golds, and purples, and loud smacks of kisses to the faint lights of the parking lot.
You tugged me to a stop and pointed high above my head. “Look,” you said. A streak of white shot through the sky. “Make a wish.”
A little past midnight on New Year’s Day, I stood there with my eyes closed and my fingers tightly crossed. And then I made my wish: I wish that we will stay best friends forever.
I have never been good at saying hello, but I am even worse at saying goodbye. Sayonara. Adíos. Au revoir. Dasvydana. But none of these words, in any of these languages, are sufficient because dream, wish, cry, scream, rage, plead as I may . . . you’re not coming back.
Sometimes, at two or three in the morning, I wake up, delirious and frantic, because I can’t remember your smile, the way you laughed, or the way your frown began in the crinkles at your eyes, and instead, all I see is this looming shape on the road that will neither fly nor budge, and then the world is dark. The worst thing about this dream is that it is no dream, but a memory.
October 28, the windows are rolled all the way down. We hurtle down the windy road at 60 mph on a 35 mph road and the path is blurring, but all that matters is that we are both drunk with laughter and brimming with smiles. My hair fans out like the snake-like tresses of sad-eyed Medusa, and in the madness of the moment, I wonder what would happen if you simply let go of the wheel and we flew. A darkness grows on an already dark road. Suddenly, the headlights catch. From the left side of the windshield appears a long, slender neck, dotted with white, graceful, attentive ears, and large black eyes that gaze in astonishment – and belatedly I realize that the flickering yellow orbs within the eyes aren’t pupils but the reflection of the approaching headlights. I shriek. You swerve, but there is this sickening thud, and blood is all over the windshield – I think that is the deer – but the car spins from the collision, and then we are falling … falling down the hillside, snapping trees, and then … all is black.
I remember the red flashing lights, the white hallways of the hospital, and the throb on the right side of my chest, the ache in my head. But I fainted after I saw the dark pool of blood spilling across the dashboard from the driver’s seat when they lifted me out of the wrecked car, and I didn’t remember you until I woke up out of my delirium, three days later. My mom, my dad, your mom, your dad, my sister, and your brother all gathered around my bedside, their eyes raw from tears, noses swollen, cheeks feverishly red, and voices hoarse. I tried to look for you then, but the world was blurring again, and my brain wouldn’t process the sound of the doctor’s calm and stoical voice saying to the group: “I’m sorry, but . . . .”
“It’s a shame,” a tall spindle-like woman says to her friend, their heads bowed together as if they are conspiring or sharing the deepest confidences. “From what I’ve heard, he had a bright future. Only seventeen, you know.” I think I must have fidgeted or choked because she glances up at me, only to dismiss me as “one of those kids,” with a dark look and meaningfully expressive eyebrows, and then leisurely strolls into the solemn room.
The last set of guests has finished walking up the concrete steps, and I am left by myself, standing with my back against the stone column, indifferent to the sheen of white dust that has smugly attached itself to my cashmere sweater. I am perfectly alright, I tell myself. I can do this.
But the first notes of “Pachelbel’s Canon” float through the open windows, callously clear and maudlin, and suddenly all my composure vanishes and I can’t breathe. It’s as if my lungs have decided to mourn by rejecting air. The world is blurring again, but this time you won’t be there to take my hand and let me cry on your shoulder. This time, I’m alone.