After stumbling and scraping my way across the void separating me from my house (which now was as accessible to me as the eleventh dimension), I arrived at my destination.
That wedge of light that had beckoned to me was, in fact, a slightly open door. When I stretched myself tall and prepared to knock, it opened wide. There, with a cocktail glass in her hand, was the impeccable and glowing Montana Wildhack. Resplendent in chains, she stood naked in the doorway.
“It’s about time,” she purred.
She stepped aside and I walked in. My eyes burned in the bright lights. All about this house (I assumed it was a house. It was laid out like a house) there were people gabbing and seeming to have a great time.
I have never been comfortable around more than three or four people and I wanted desperately to linger with Montana (with her starry eyes).
She wouldn’t have it.
“Go mingle, for god’s sake,” she said, and she sped away from me. Her happy little bubble butt and her graceful silken shoulders were lost in the crowd. I felt abandoned and lost. The thought never entered my mind that it was peculiar that this golden goddess from my past was the only naked person in this wild cacophony of revelers. It seemed normal.
The crowd was a mix of young and old, all colors, bubbling and laughing at a ridiculous level, all trying to be heard. I bumped my way through the throng, hoping to find a bar or a refrigerator.
Just then, Humphrey Bogart came up to me and handed me a bottle of beer.
“I don’t trust any son-of-a-bitch that won’t get drunk with me,” he said.
“You can trust me,” I told him.
We sat down together on a blood-red sofa. The crowd noise was beginning to get to me and I had to cup my ear to hear what Bogie was saying.
As I just started to grasp the truth of his immortal mind, he disappeared from the couch. I was sitting vulnerable and alone, surrounded by mindless chatter. I took a nervous sip of the bottle of beer in my hand. The cold brown nectar was bitter and loving.
Dammit. The bottle of beer turned into a ventriloquist dummy-doll and it rested, face towards me, on my lap.
“Say something, dummy,” it ordered me.
“I haven’t anything to say,” I responded. “I am woefully out of my element, here. I wish I was home, in bed.”
“Deal with it, fuckwad,” said Charlie McCarthy. He turned his head to the crowd in a challenging way.
It was no time at all before a local lout barged over to me.
“Whaddaya think about Obama?” he asked.
“Oh, Christ, has my world turned into another stupid Facebook string?” queried my dummy. Charlie’s head spun towards me and his jaws snapped shut.
“I think it has,” I thought.