Between Here and the Sky- Chapter 6: Bright Young Things

As was customary, the show was merely the start of the night. It was well established amongst members of the cultural fringe that the house Alby shared with his co-conspirator Zach was the lens that focussed the light. All the bright young things- the actors, the dancers, the directors, the comedians and the visual artists- were drawn like moths to the flame. Parties would become events and events would become legends and the most important and vital thing one could ever be doing at the time was to be there. Mythologies would be shared and recounted on the street. The minutiae would flourish for years until they were firmly embedded within the cultural grain.

You couldn’t pause to capture a moment, nor merely let it all flow over you. Every moment had to be experienced in all its intensity. If you were dancing you had to commit every ounce of energy and sweat into each movement. If you were in conversation you had to focus on every syllable breathed, examine it, turn it over to catch every possible meaning no matter how unintentional, and return in kind. As though if you missed a second you would never gain the insights into life offered to you; forever keening forward to inhale the faintest wisps and glimpses of truth and immortality. Follow tangents right to their end, take the cue and run with another. Perfection could be glimpsed at such times, and hearts would find their meter in the dry chill of the night.

The band returned to stage to unplug and pack their instruments and the scientists headed backstage at Alby’s insistence to lay claim to the remainder of the rider. Realising their laziness they helped the band lug their gear and load it into the back of the van.

“You guys are all coming to the party right? Piers, would you mind driving the van to mine?”

“Absolutely. But I am a bit drunk…”

“So are we,” Zach pumped the air triumphantly.

“I’m OK. I can drive,” Yoshi offered and Alby threw him the keys. “Righto, who wants a lift?”

Karl called shotgun, leaving other two to clamber over the instruments and nestle awkwardly amongst the haphazardly packed equipment. Alby, Zach and a couple other band members hailed a taxi as Karl slid the door of the van shut behind the squished silhouettes of Marshall and Piers. As the van lurched out of its bay a synth dislodged itself and slipped across the top of a snare box, angling down and narrowly missing Piers’ groin.

“Fucking Asian drivers!”

“Piss off, whitey.”

He wrestled the unfamiliar vehicle into the drive-through to pick up a carton of beer. Money was exchanged between the front and back of the van via contorted arms and fingers; boxes dug into ribs. They stopped at a servo and Karl ran inside to grab an assortment of pies and sausage rolls from the bain-marie, which he distributed judiciously around the van. The recorded sounds of the songs they had just seen burst from the stereo as they ate and drove across the flat back of the city to the next suburb.

They crept between the lines of cars, inching past the great colonial veranda of the house sagging into a smile under the weight of time. Humanity overflowed through the front door to congregate on the veranda, in the yard, against the side of the house, or in the fig tree amongst the wild oats and sedge of the front yard. A jumble of cars sprawling out across the verge and lawn blocked the driveway. They gave up on the idea of unloading that night, instead turning into a side street and parking beneath the comparative safety of a streetlight. The sheer number of cars encircling the block was a clear indicator that the party was already in full swing. Piers inverted then cracked the lids off four Coopers Green and passed them around the van.

They locked up and walked up the street to the beat of the reverberating bass drum and walked self-consciously up the path bisecting the weeds and up the faded red concrete steps to the weathered timber porch. They felt as though the eyes of those amongst the weeds, in the tree and on the veranda were all turned upon them. One or two recognised Piers as Alby’s brother and payed no more attention, but the rest remained in a state of aloof permafrost until Alby emerged from the hallway.

In the mere minutes since he’d arrived home he had managed to deck himself out in reflective silver pants, a tasselled brown leather vest and a sequined racoon hat atop his head, a renewed glow on his face. He clapped his hands and beamed a bright toothy smile at the newcomers, rushing up and hugging each in turn as they rose to the veranda and introducing them to anyone within range; an ADHD kid on red cordial.

“This is my big brother Piers. Man, I haven’t seen you in ages! How’s work going? You joined the circus yet? We’ll get you doing flips and shit later. The flaming hoops are all set up waiting to be lit.” He barely paused for breath. “Everyone, this guy, Yoshi, is great! Shoosh, everyone, I’m introducing. They’re cool. Yoshi’s cool. The cool geeks. I mean that in the most sincere kind of way, man. And this here is Marshall.”

“And this… sorry man, I’ve seen you around before. What’s your name again?”

“Karl. I was at Piers’ party a couple of months ago.” Karl extended his hand, but found himself being encased in a bear hug instead.

“Ah, great man. Karl. Put your beer in the washing machine out the back. Yeah!” And he bounded off down the stairs with his goofy giant grin to find the next thing that sparkled and burst and clawed at his attention. Someone said something to him and he bent forward from the waist like a pair of scissors until his nose almost hit his knees, and clapped his hands together to the rhythm of his own laughter at what you would swear was the funniest thing he had ever heard- a manic angel amongst mortals.

Marshall, Yoshi, Piers and Karl ventured through the throng of loose-limbed dancing youths to deposit their drinks in the laundry. The fraying wooden boards creaked and vibrated from the sensation of movement, and reverberated to the thunder emanating from the sub-woofers bolted firmly through the floor. The unholy menagerie flailed and swayed to the incessant beat, screaming out the choruses, inventing dance-moves, punching the air and grabbed at each other, moving in patterns and shapes against the strobing lights and beneath the glittering mirror ball as god’s shining people.

The boys leaned against a wall and watched, spiriting snacks from the laminated kitchen table and steeling themselves for the onslaught of things to come. Piers started talking to Zach, who was adorned in a shining silver vest and leather chaps as though he and Alby had swapped components of each others outfit, except Zach’s featured the inexplicable addition of a multicolour sequined codpiece. Zach bummed a cigarette from Yoshi and they exchanged pleasantries and laughter over his choice of attire.

Marshall scanned the room picking out occasional familiar faces from the incestuous local nightlife, however most remained foreign. The vast majority of the revellers shared that slightly skewed sensibility and demeanour favoured by artisans the world over who exude that indescribable joie de vivre that comes from creative instinct and having the freedom to explore the more obscure avenues and alleyways of life. They flailed unabashed on the dance floor, uncaring of watching eyes. Debauchery perfumed the air.

            Marshall leaned his back against the wall trying to appear nonchalant and relaxed. The nervous grin imprinted upon his face giving him away. He half involved himself in conversation while the other half watched the girls spinning and jumping in the next room. There was a different atmosphere to any other party he’d ever attended- the music louder, the people more delirious and the electricity of the room crackling and threatening to ignite the shreds of wallpaper hanging curled off the walls and incinerate them all.

He was wooed by the willingness of these beautifully imperfect people to let go of their inhibitions and behave like overexcited children. He was equally nervous and ecstatic at the direction the night had taken, unsure of whether he should run away in fear or join the flailing masses. He wanted to obtain even just a trace of their spirit, but instead remained rooted to the spot, an imprint against the wall, a gawking compromise.

            A nuggetty guy sporting a beret and a waxed moustache marched in from the back yard brandishing a broken off table leg and holding a toy megaphone to his mouth shouting what he figured to be a rousing speech at his cabal of friends on the dancefloor, who punched the air and joined his chants proclaiming the need to revolt against the bourgeois aristocracy of the front lawn. Judging the frenzy, the megaphone man pointed down the hallway with the table leg and barked his orders for attack. The onlookers watched and laughed as the revolutionary forces ran off down the corridor towards their fated foe, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game.

            Those not involved followed closely to watch the pitched battle unfold outside. Combatants fought in slow motion, puffing their cheeks and swinging exaggeratedly at one another. The targets of the attack- a circle of their friends that had been quietly chatting a moment earlier- were all too eager to play along, exaggerating their facial expressions and reactions to coincide with the slow moving fists directed at their faces and bellies. Those holding back on the veranda laughed and pointed at the highlights.

Megaphone man reached out slowly to grab at a young woman’s breast, only to have her counter with a slow knee to the groin. As he fell she prised the megaphone from his hand and held it aloft in triumph, only to have someone else- a traitor within her own army- tackle her around the midriff, hoist her over his shoulder and bodyslam her into the grass in glorious slow motion.

Taking his lede, all the combatants started fighting with whoever was closest, whether friend or foe, with the aim of claiming the symbolic megaphone as their own. The bodies of the defeated formed a pile in the centre of the yard, until only two remained standing, both with one hand clutching the prize. His fist arced slowly towards her cheek as her fore- and middle fingers extended towards his eyes. They timed their movements to connect at precisely the same time, and both tumbled theatrically on top of the groaning pile of corpses. The megaphone spilled out onto the grass out of reach.

The onlookers cheered and applauded as the participants unpicked themselves from the tangle of limbs and staggered to their feet to take their bows. They jostled and bumped each other with spirit and a couple of friends started to wrestle, legs, arms and bodies clashing and thrashing as they tried to pin each other to the ground. Others stood around laughing and cheering their champion.

Occasionally Marshall would escape on drink-finding missions through the ranks of the crazed young things, the back of his mind willing them to engage him in their world. He would cast furtive glances across the floor, trying to catch the flicker of an eye and an opening into their world- the manic, idyllic world of fervent youth. Smiles would flash across the room, but Marshall couldn’t determine whether these were directed at him, at others, or just thrown into the general milieu of delirium sparked by a cocktail of alcohol, drugs and adrenaline. In the end he would always err on the side of fear. He put his head down and shuffled through to the laundry room.

As he fished a couple of bottles out of the ice in the washing machine a pair of pretty young things accosted him as an object for their own entertainment while they waited for the toilet. Visually, they were the antithesis of each other. One tall with long wavy red hair, her figure accentuated by a black and white bodice over the top of her shirt; the other short, brown and square, an Andean peasant in a floral vintage dress.

“Guys have to pee out the back. Don’t be thinking you can just push in,” said the brunette.

“Oh sorry, I’m just getting drinks. It’s all yours.” He was flustered at the accusation at first, holding up three bottles as evidence, before he realised from their smiles that they were just messing with him. He felt his cheeks start to glow.

“I should think so. A gentleman should know his place.”

“Oh…” Marshall scuffed his right heel against the concrete in mock shame. “Can’t I go in with you? I’ll just pee between your legs. It’ll be both fun and efficient.”

Both girls laughed, delighted by the boldness of this new face before them, and his willingness, without much persuasion, to play along and build upon their own little games of imagination.

“Oh, we were already going to do that anyway,” said the redhead. “She has incredible aim.”

“Yeah, just open them up and away I go. I could piss through the eye of a needle.”

They all laughed, but as the moment arrived for Marshall to introduce himself the toilet door suddenly opened. Zach appeared in the doorway, his lips and cheeks smeared with a particularly vibrant shade of red. He stopped abruptly and widened his eyes at the small group around the door. His eyes darted about as he tried to close the door behind him, but the girls protested with squeals as they chocked the door open with their feet and shoulders. He tried desperately to assure them that nothing untoward was happening, that he had naturally just used the toilet, but the truth wasn’t obscured for long, as the brunette bob of his girlfriend Donna peeked through the gap. The girls shrieked and fell laughing against the wall as Zach stood sheepish, sprung, and Donna tried as demurely and naturally as possible to readjust her cream shirt, and tried to rub lipstick from her boyfriends face. Realising that he was sprung Zach tacked right. He clasped Donna’s hand firmly and drew her towards him, catching her with his free arm, dipping her low, and planting his lips passionately to hers as though drawing the last of the air from her lungs. He declared loudly and clearly “Cheers, love” before exaggeratedly wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

A cheer swelled from the onlookers. Donna’s face deepened to the colour of her lipstick. She punched Zach’s arm playfully, yet still with enough force to be taken seriously, and dragged him away from the throng. Buoyed by his success Zach offered up his free hand for a high-five, declaring unabashed, and with a sense of drama and finality “We so totally just had sex!”

Marshall accepted the raised palm with a newly opened beer as the girls stumbled past him into the bathroom. “Sorry, there’s not enough room in here for you as well,” said the brunette as she paused while closing the door.

“Awwww, no fair”, he whined, “I guess I’ll have to go outside, then.” He grabbed another beer to replace the one donated to Zach, twisting the lid off and tossing it in the sink as the door clicked shut. He negotiated the step into the living area. To the right Zach was already in the kitchen laughing with a couple of comedians and pouring undefinable mixers into two large plastic tumblers, one for himself and one for Donna, who by now had returned to her clan on the dance floor.

A circle had formed, and members were taking it in turns to see who could spin the greatest number of times in one movement. Each attempt brought machine gun bursts of laughter from the other participants as they staggered and fell from the inadvisable union of alcohol and inertia. One particularly tall and gangly guy, upon completing two-and-a-half turns, set off at a perilous angle through a gap in the circle, between a couple of singing girls and, despite caterwauling franticly to remain upright, lost his battle with gravity and plunged headlong towards the doorframe. Inexplicably, a stray beach ball lodged between his head and the lintel, saving his skull from being split down the middle. A mixture of gasps and roars of delight erupted from all onlookers.

Marshall grinned and bent down to help the bewildered fool back to his feet. The other twirlers, by now howling maniacally and with tears welling in their eyes, flocked over to rub his head for luck. He kicked abstractly at the beachball and flushed with embarrassment, restoring his cheeks from their pallor. Marshall raised his beer towards the receding back and negotiated his own way back down the hall, past the bedrooms and outside to the veranda.

Marshall returned to the circle into which his friends had merged, which was now engaged in the serious political discourse of reaffirmation of ideology. They were glad to be in the company of other, like-minded individuals, but each privately knew they lacked the tangible conviction to back up their words. It would serve as all inebriated political discussions do, as a means of saying, “Look here. I share your beliefs. Please like me. I want to belong.” Karl looked across at Marshall and rolled his eyes. While they both agreed with much of what was being said, they couldn’t find it within themselves to take it seriously. They had talked at length about these themes before and come to the conclusion that no ideology holds all the keys to nirvana. Each has its merits, but the vast cacophony of mankind rendered each individual ideology redundant. There was no accounting for personal beliefs.

Marshall smiled distractedly at Karl’s sardonic contribution to the false debate. His mind was elsewhere, enchanted by its brief foray into the inner sanctum of the artists; relieved that he hadn’t been shunned, that his presence hadn’t given brought about muted whispers from the local hierarchy. He caught himself wondering what it must be like to be one of them; to be a creative force, a contributor to this tight-nit little community. He imagined their lives different, more exciting, more complete. He desired to possess what they possessed.