My friends and I arrived at the party in various states of intoxication and in acceptable Halloween regalia, ranging from "road kill" to "goth for dummies". Inside, the wide, red velvet staircase, crowded with clusters of fanciful humanity, offered just enough room for us to make our way up to the second floor, separate, and eventually wander off into our individual misadventures. My own began at the top of the stairs, to the left, through a door which opened into a room whose furniture was covered in white sheets. I could tell that I could not handle partying with the Saints of Halloween tonight, and in this room I sought respite and, hopefully, a change of heart.
I slipped into the room, hoping to find some brief sanctuary. Inside, a giant south facing window looked out onto the pinkish, starless, night sky. Chrissy, the blond, blue-eyed fiddler from Great Falls, stood next to the window. Looking serene in a toga, she chatted easily with red haired punk, Nancy, from Minneapolis. Both women were holding fresh beers and when Nancy saw me enter in my raw state, she walked over to me and said, "Don't let it bug you. Don't think about him. Just have a good time." Her words, though kind, made me feel impotent. I could not have a good time. Then she handed me her beer and left with Chrissy, leaving the door wide open.
Shortly thereafter, I was visited by an unpleasant apparition, another blond in flowing robes. Crazy Emily...goddammit. She gazed at me with a brainwashed expression, told me how much she liked me and how she wanted to be friends. "God, you're beautiful," she gushed. She then told me, again, just how much she was in love with my boyfriend and how she wished we could share him. I said nothing, just stared and handed her the beer Nancy gave me. I'm not sure when or why she left, but I know it could not have been anything I said as I was coldly silent the whole time.
I decided to leave the party...I could not stay in the room, could not add any bacchanalian joy to the scene outside. My discontent and self loathing must have put off quite a stink. As I headed back toward the stairway, I was blocked by The Mad Hatter in his big, round, black-framed glasses and green top hat. He was usually ranting under his breath and could be expected to shout profanities and bitch about the lack of fairness in the world. Tonight his words were lucid and fortifying. He looked at me and said,"Don't worry about it. You'll get there." He then melted into the crowd. "Thanks," I croaked after him.
As I stumbled downstairs I grew increasingly aware that I would need to hole up again before leaving the party. I was not, however, aware that I was being followed by an ex-boyfriend who was apparently waiting for a chance to talk to me alone. I headed straight for the ground floor bathroom, seeking sanctuary again, and found my destination mercifully empty until I turned around to close the door. There, in the doorway, stood a young man wearing antlers and a loincloth with a look of lascivious concern on his face and a fat, aromatic joint between his fingers. I sat down on the toilet trying to ignore him... he followed me in and closed the door.
"I'm worried about you, are you okay?" he asked, handing me the joint. Through bleary eyes I glanced up at him, snatched the joint, and took a hit. I then tersely informed him that I was fine and was soon leaving the party. As I exhaled, I handed the joint back to him and stood up, feeling as though I were a giant towering over him, and politely nudged him aside as I reached for the door handle. He put his hand on my back and asked, "Can I walk you home?"
With the first burst of will I felt that night I glared at the horned god and snarled, "Fuck no!", pushed him aside, and walked quickly to the front door of the building. I opened it and ran into the night air, feeling bright hope, heavy sorrow, and sweet relief, all at once. My Halloween lessons from that night are as follows: Do not place any expectations on what effect any given grand event may have on your life. Do not spend a small fortune on a Halloween costume when a sheet will do. Have pity on and offer beer to crazy women who lust after your boyfriend. Marijuana, mushrooms, bourbon, and horny ex-boyfriends are an infuriating combination and will inevitably cause you to puke. And, of course, the Atlantic Hotel offers its wisdom to those who wander up and down the staircase, sometimes in a room decorated with white sheets, through a schizophrenic savant, or by way of an illicit toke inhaled in the bathroom downstairs.
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