Isaiah and Morris are hanging out by the cooler, and I just kind of stick around, listening to their conversation, simultaneously trying to figure out how to break into it like a normal human being and trying not to completely hone in on Emma. She’s at the far end of the backyard, near a couple of strung-up hammocks. I text her that she looks great, but she must not be looking at her phone, because she doesn’t respond. My beer is gone already, its label peeled to shreds. I go get another one.
I look around, thrilled by the fact that this is where I live now. All these people are, technically, at my house. Most are out in the backyard, though I can see a few people through the kitchen window and hanging out on the couches. Food, of course, lingers in the air, as if it’s a cloud that’s followed us here, cartoon-like. A charcoal bite to the backyard, the heat of the oven emanating from inside. Back home, my friends approved of my cooking, insofar as it got them fed. Dad approves of hobbies, to an extent. Felix was into cuisine as a representation of culture, as a fuck-you to Dad, as a symbol for me.
But these are my people.
I walk around aimlessly for a while, grab another beer. It doesn’t take too long before I start feeling these quick drinks, and suddenly I know exactly the frame of mind Felix was talking about. I’m curious about everyone. Instead of getting lost in my own head, with the knee-deep muck that exists there, I come out into this surreal but present world. Isaiah and Morris are having a conversation about what Jackie Chan’s post-acting career might have been, which suddenly feels like the funniest thing in the world.
“After your body breaks down, how do you put those skills to use, you know?” Isaiah says, excitedly. “He wasn’t a phenomenal actor or anything. Just had his karate moves and some charm. He hasn’t been in movies in a while, so what’s he been up to? You think he’s working at an insurance company or something? Just kind of scampering around the cubicles delivering memos?” He makes a frantic motion with his hands; I have no idea what he’s going for.
I laugh along, until I realize I don’t really know who they’re talking about. I text Emma, I’m in the middle of a conversation about Jackie Chan, and it’s hilarious, but I don’t, exactly, know who Jackie Chan is. Was he an actor?
I see her check her phone and smile, shaking her head. Her response comes through a few moments later, a little buzz of joy. Prime Minister of Japan in the ’90s.
Wow. I am completely lost.
Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.
After a while, feeling like I can’t help but look at Emma if she’s nearby and I’m gonna get myself in trouble, I go into the kitchen. Vee’s there, and I realize I’ve never really had a conversation with her. I feel the urge to remedy that immediately. I want to know how she got into cooking, how she made her way to Provecho, what she likes most about working in kitchens. If she feels weird being interviewed by a semi-drunk kid like me, she doesn’t show it. She tells me about how she grew up in North Dakota, bored as hell. How she applied to be a line cook at a diner just for kicks and eventually saved up enough money to go cook somewhere else. She met Chef Elise in New York, at some catering gig ten years ago.
I notice Matt on the couch, passing a joint to Emma’s friend Reggie as they play video games. Emboldened, remembering Elias’s words about Matt not being all bad, I grab a six-pack from the fridge and bring it over to the living room. “Anyone need a beer?”
Matt mumbles a thanks and cracks one open, eyes me with the suspicion usually reserved for murderers. I plop down on the couch, watching the gameplay for a while. After a few moments, Reggie gets up to go use the bathroom and passes the controller to me.
“Uh, I kinda suck at video games.”
Matt groans and hits pause. “I’ll just wait for Reggie.” He offers the joint to me somewhat begrudgingly, and when I refuse he sets it down on an ashtray in front of him with a heavy eye roll.
I try to think of something to say, fail. I open another beer, realize I’m staring, find myself wishing he would just simmer away. Back to my phone it is, as the awkwardness builds in the living room. Sitting next to Matt. Trying to break the ice, and be friendlier, but for some reason can only think of him as a sauce.
That makes absolutely no sense, Emma responds, from some unseen corner of the party.
Only to the sober mind. Trust me, it’s not weird. I don’t mean that he’s, like, a delicious sauce or anything. Just...you know. He evaporates.
Carlos. Drink some water.
Matt looks like he’s about to explode with discomfort, maybe because I keep giggling to myself. Before he does, he looks at me and says, “So, what’s that all about, man? Talking to yourself.”
I think about bolting, laughing it off, lying. But the booze and my good mood swirl together and turn confessional. After all this time, I’m curious about how someone will respond to the truth. Especially someone I’m not close to, someone who doesn’t care about me in the slightest. “My dead brother,” I say. “I talk to him.”
Matt stares at me, unblinking. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t crack a joke. “Are you fucking with me?” he asks, taking a drink from his beer.
I shrug, tell him I wish I were. Tell him how Felix died six months ago but that I still see him. Matt doesn’t say anything, just looks down at the controller he’s holding. For a second I think he’s going to say something nice for a change. That he’ll offer a condolence, for Felix or for himself. But then he turns back to his video game, mashing buttons, his gaze focused intently on the screen.
In the kitchen I pour myself a glass of water from the tap, drinking it down quickly. Then I’m back outside, wanting to talk to everyone all at once, not knowing which conversation to choose. Emma’s sitting around the fire, and it wouldn’t be the most terribly obvious thing in the world to go sit next to her. Except Chef is sitting on the back porch steps with Sue, a full glass of wine in her hands, the fire pit directly in front of her.
So I just look up at the stars, smile stupidly, have another beer.
I make eye contact with Emma and smile goofily at her. I wave and then remember we’re trying to be incognito and very conspicuously sit on my hand. Emma grins at me and shakes her head, mouthing the words you are so drunk at me.
You are so great, I mouth back. The carelessness feels like love, and maybe that thought is prompted by the booze but maybe not. Emma blushes and turns away. Chef hasn’t noticed a thing, thank god.
“That’s why,” Elias says, nudging me, though he’s looking at Memo. “He’d be hanging out with us every day, pero el güey anda clavado.”
Memo cranes his neck toward Emma. His eyes are bloodshot, droopy-happy. “I’d noticed.”
“Shit, really? I’m trying to be secretive. Chef kinda told me to stay away from her.” I get the sense I shouldn’t be saying this so openly. But if alcohol is good for anything it’s for saying fuck it and confessing.