I immediately followed.
He led us toward the nearest picnic table. A family that was close by quickly gathered up their things and moved on. Mitchell took out the rum and Coke and three plastic red cups, pouring us all a drink. And that’s how we spent the afternoon. Pretty soon I thought I was going to be sick, and Mitchell finally quit pouring me any more. But he and Barzee kept on drinking, finishing the bottle off.
When the rum was gone, it was time to move on. We walked into the Hard Rock Café to use the lavatory. Because it was a public bathroom and people were all around, Mitchell couldn’t follow me into the women’s room. But Barzee could and she always stayed very close. Slipping into a stall, I had an idea. Part of my veil had been attached with a safety pin. Quickly, I unsnapped it and started scratching the word “help” into the paint on the door of my stall. My foolish hope was that someone would use the stall immediately after me, see the cry for help, realize it was me, and call the police.
It didn’t work out.
Mitchell decided it was time to head back to our camp. We started making our way east, toward the trails. Getting closer to the university, he remembered that Daniel, the generous grocery clerk, had told him about a party that was going on that night. Realizing we were close to the location of the party, he decided we would go. By now I was exhausted. It was late and already growing dark. I hadn’t eaten much of anything all day, and the rum was making me feel very drowsy and run-down. I could tell that Barzee didn’t want to go to the party either, but she didn’t object. She knew she was standing on thin ice and she was careful not to mess up Mitchell’s fun.
We found the party house. It was a small brick and stucco structure in an old part of the city, surrounded by huge trees and other small homes set back from the road. By then it was dark, but the house was well lit. And there were lots of people. I mean lots of people. Lots of music. Lots of red plastic Solo cups. Lots of beer.
We walked into the house. It was literally body-to-body. There were people everywhere. It was heat and smoke and sweat. Laughter and shouting. Drinking. Smoking. Kissing. And lots of other things I had never imagined before. Things I couldn’t have imagined. They were beyond my universe. It terrified me to see the underbelly of such a world. Then I had the most horrifying thought of all. Mitchell loved to be the big man, the man with all the answers and the power. What if he started passing me around? What if he shared me with the other men in the room? Maybe even the other women? I pressed against the wall, trying to make myself invisible. And for the first time, I was grateful to have my face covered with the veil.
Ever anxious to be the center of attention, Mitchell moved to the middle of the room and started preaching. Yes, he was a prophet, he told the people who were close enough to hear, but even God ate and drank among the sinners and he was happy to be among the lesser people of the world.
While Mitchell preached, I looked over to see the young man from the grocery store standing next to me. I reached up to lift my veil a little higher on my face. The young man studied me, then moved a little closer. “You have beautiful eyes,” he said.
I wanted to faint. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I realized that he was—I couldn’t think of the phrase—coming on to me. I was shocked. For a moment, I wondered if he would have said what he did if he knew that I was only fourteen years old. Judging from some of the things that were going on around me, I don’t think he would have cared. I backed away from him, or at least I tried, but I was already pushed against the wall. He leaned in to me again and started to say something when Mitchell suddenly appeared at my side, anxious to keep me under his control.
A glass jar full of a thick, yellowish-white fluid was being passed around the room. Mitchell turned, his eyes fixed upon the glass container. “Absinthe!” he said in glee. The word didn’t mean anything to me, but it sure did to Mitchell. He pushed people aside to get in line for the drink. Grabbing the jar, he brought it to me.
“You’ve got to drink some of this,” he demanded.
It looked horrible. Like rotten … I didn’t know … like a mix of spoiled milk and orange juice.
“It’s crushed from a special root,” he explained, pointing toward the kitchen, where they were apparently crushing more. “You’ve got to taste it. It causes hallucinations.”
I didn’t even want to smell it, let alone put it to my lips.