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Mr. Rose and the Cosseted Girl. We partied mostly for the simple pleasure
of partying. There were pretences; there always are. But ...
Submitted by jennmarie414 on November 30, 2005
Category: English
Words: 5912 | Pages: 24
Views: 233
Popularity Rank: 43,937
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We partied mostly for the simple pleasure of partying. There were pretences; there always are. But when I retreated to the relative seclusion of Harry’s kitchen to hit up the rum bottle, I wasn’t thinking of Lebanon. I wasn’t thinking of Lebanon or Emil Jackson or any of that crap.
Harry’s kitchen in Bethlehem was a familiar place; I’ve ended up there more times than I expected to, curled up on the floor, staring sideways at the fridge magnets that spout mysterious philosophies at me, hoping his parents weren’t going to get home. Years after all that crap, with us cast in the role of responsible intellectuals, I didn’t have to worry about his parents getting home. Had they shown up, they would’ve surely downed a shot with me and welcomed Harry home with open arms. They might’ve disapproved of Emil Jackson and the whole Baby Woodrose debauchery that was occurring in the basement, but that was beside the point.
When I walked back into the room Harry was sitting in, that bastard was surrounded like he was F. Scott Fitzgerald dug up and put on display, meat still hanging haphazardly from the bones, wicked small member dangling loosely between his legs. That was Harry—F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ugly corpse rotting, until a few weeks ago, in the fiery hell of Lebanon. That image of Harry forced me out, away from the crowd, onto the back porch.
I remember honestly being glad for the Lebanese boys. I remember, before the last delirious night in Harry’s Bethlehem residence, keeping constant, speed-of-light e-mails flowing back and forth between my place in upstate New York and Harry’s Lebanese skunk hole, and we’d idealize the kids and talk about how the Cedar Party was the next Hungarian Revolution and the rest of that kind of bullshit that streams out of your mouth when you’re watching something but not taking part in it. Even Harry was too far away from it to really understand it, but he told me some interesting and flashy stories about college kids...
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