Are you enjoying this story so far? I sure hope so. Let's not waste time, shall we? Presenting chapter three, in which there is a party:
One hour after the first guest (Clyde, like it mattered) arrived, Stan was well on his way to his ultimate goal of being massively fucked-up. All he'd been drinking was beer, but it wasn't very good beer. He liked Goose Island; he missed the way drinking designer beer made him feel more intelligent. He wanted to credit Loren for that, because his fridge was always stocked with six-packs of brown glass bottles, perfectly cool to the touch. Cartman's beer, on the other hand, was lukewarm dish water, something along the lines of Coors Light, and Stan struggled for a moment to recall the last time he just drank beer to get drunk, rather than to hold while discussing postmodern theory with a girl in leggings in a living room lit by white Christmas lights. Lately he'd been straying toward moderately priced whiskeys, which was something Loren's father had introduced him to over Thanksgiving. Stan had almost forgotten how easily cheap beer went down; how easy it was to get drunk on it. And it wasn't one of those slick, invincible highs, either; he felt a little dizzy, like he just wanted to barf on everyone in the room before the night was over. Instead of talking about news judgment and blogging, he wanted to talk about massive boners and ice skating, bad music and football.
He was in luck, because if South Park was made of nothing else, it was boners, ice skating, bad music, and football. Stan himself liked to talk about his football days as a freshman in high school, but he'd bowed out when he broke his leg ice skating with Kyle one Saturday. He remembered his corduroy pants becoming soaked cold, and the bad music that was ringing in his ears over the pain as he realized his leg was broken, so he couldn't move it, which he'd needed to do to hide his massive boner, which was solely brought on by the fact that Kyle was cradling him, talking to 911 on his cell phone. He was 15 then, and he knew well enough that he was treading on thin ice. But Kyle was reckless, lacked good judgment, thought risky things were brilliant. Being at this party brought those memories to him, and he sighed, trying to forget that Craig was taking his picture.
"It's genius," Craig was saying, as he snapped away in Stan's face. "I just take pictures of any old crap and people look at them. I'm a genius."
"And this site is called what again?" Stan asked. He lifted his cup and was disappointed to find he was fresh out of beer.
"Oh, that's good, keep doing that," Craig prompted. "It's Craig's Pictures of Drunk People dot com."
"Excuse me, what?"
Craig sighed, and lowered his crappy digital camera, and ran a hand down his face. His skin looked raw under his black stubble, which Stan could tell was soon to develop into a full-blown beard. Stan thought a little stubble went a long way, and a beard just went too far. "It's .com," he repeated. "I'm getting like 40,000 hits a month. I got picked up by Gawker."
"Oh," Stan said in recognition. "Gawker." He nodded. "My boyfriend's ex worked for Defamer."
"Nice. Tell me about the boyfriend." Craig snapped a photo of Stan's shoes. "Nice Cons, by the way. Green is definitely your color."
"It is?"
"Shit, yes."
"I always thought it was blue."
Click. "No, blue is such a whore. Everyone looks good in blue." Click. "You got a boyfriend?" Click.
Stan sighed, and leaned against the wall, wondering why he was upstairs with Craig, being photographed outside of the bathroom, when the keg was downstairs, Kyle was downstairs, the party was downstairs … Stan made a face, and Craig snapped another photo. How many of the same picture was Craig going to take? "He's a—" Click. "—drama major." Click.
"Is it serious?" Craig asked. He flipped the camera and played with a few settings.
"No." Craig was … turning off the flash? "Well, he thinks it is."
"No kidding." Now it sounded like Craig wasn't even listening.
"He took me home for Thanksgiving."
"How horrible," Craig mumbled. "He must be loaded."
"What?" Click.
"Got you off-guard, nice." Click. "A drama major at Northwestern, not a whore, wants to settle down, ex went to L.A. for Defamer. Trust-fund baby, am I right?"
"I mean…"
"Probably a local?"
"Well, yeah, but…"
"And you're not into it?" Craig asked. He lowered the camera and took a picture of the ground. He looked into Stan's eyes, and laughed at his befuddled expression. "I know him." Stan opened his mouth wide, not sure what to say, and Craig playfully smacked him on the shoulder, and gave another cruel laugh: "I know them all."
With Craig blocking the narrow hallway, it was difficult to escape, but as he twisted out of his confinement, Stan nearly fell on top of someone unsteadily coming up the stairs, a head of closely chopped auburn hair looking up at him. Not knowing what else to do, Stan extended a hand, and helped Clyde up the stairs. He looked back and forth between the two other men, wondering if it was time to make a dash for more alcohol yet.
"Clyde, you slut!" Craig cried, pulling the man into a tentative, albeit unnaturally close embrace. Then he shoved him away. "Lift up your pant leg."
"Why?" Clyde asked.
"Just do it," Craig ordered. "Oh, and say hi to Stan."
"Hi, Stan."
"Hey, Clyde."
"How's Chicago?"
"Oh, it's fine, how's Kansas?"
"Can't complain, I—"
"No, Clyde, the other one," Craig moaned. "Actually, lift them both up." Clyde sheepishly crouched down gingerly, yanking up one leg of his khakis to reveal a prosthetic leg, which gleamed in the light of the hallway. "Beautiful," Craig slurred as the flash of his camera bounced off of Clyde's leg. "Absolutely gorgeous. That's like 500 hits right there. Now show me the colostomy."
"What?" Clyde asked, voice heightening. "No way!"
"People wanna see it," Craig demanded.
"No one gets to see it!"
"Fine, be a baby. Come on, Stan." Craig yanked Stan into a room, leaving Clyde to shrug it off and go use the bathroom, or whatever he'd come up here for. "Come here, I'll show you my site."
"How do you know there's a computer up here?"
Craig just rolled his eyes, and snapped on the lights. Stan's eyes adjusted very quickly, and he looked around the room. It seemed familiar, like he'd been in there before, but he didn't remember any room like this upstairs at Butters' house, with a sewing machine and a computer and a jukebox in the corner. But it smelled familiar … like something rancid, animals maybe … guinea pigs? And vanilla yogurt … it dawned on Stan that this was Butters' room, or had been.
"Here." Craig motioned him over to the computer, and Stan shook himself out of the fog of his own memory. Craig pointed excitedly at the screen.
"This is…" Stan said blankly, trying to comprehend what was so fucking awesome about hundreds upon hundreds of uncategorized photos of dirty-looking scenesters getting drunk amid what appeared to be some kind of laser light show.
"This is it!" Craig enthused.
"Oh, yeah. That's awesome," Stan lied. "How many pictures do you have on this thing?
"By my count, like 20,000." Craig was obviously quite pleased with himself. Stan gave him a curious look, with a slightly protruding tongue, very are we done yet. "Here," Craig said, snapping a few more. "Yes, I'm a genius. Pictures of you looking at my pictures. It's so…" Craig thought for a moment. "Meta." Click click click. "I might be the smartest person below 23rd. No, make that 14th." Click. Stan prayed that this would be the final click of the evening. "I am the Downtown scene," Craig concluded.
"Uh, cool." Stan began to slowly inch out of the room, Craig's lens following the whole way. "Good job, dude. Nice site."
"I know," was all Craig said in response.
XXX
So this was the problem with going to a party without your boyfriend: You had to figure it all out yourself. No waiting in a corner for someone to come over and ask if you're together; no one to leave with you if you decide it's not your scene. Stan didn't know if this was his scene or not, but he marveled at how familiarly foreign these people looked to him. There was a pregnant chick standing by herself by a bookcase, and Stan went over to talk to her because he hadn't met her yet, and Stan figured it would be ungentlemanly of him to go the entire party without introducing himself to the future mother of Kenny's child.
"This party kind of sucks, huh?" he asked her, casually leaning against the wall.
"Yeah," she snorted appreciatively. Her hands were clasped; she seemed anxious.
"Has Kenny been neglecting you?" Stan made sure to use his appreciatively sympathetic smile; women loved it.
"Well, he hasn't said one word to me all night," she admitted.
"That's so like him," Stan mock-gasped. "Do you want me to go yell at him for you?"
"Um, that's okay," she said warily. "I don't really care."
"I'd be pretty pissed if I were you."
"Why?"
"Isn't it kind of rude to take your girlfriend to a party where she doesn't know anyone and completely ignore her?"
"I'm not Kenny's girlfriend," she protested.
"What, fiancée?" Stan asked.
"Ew, no. I haven't talked to Kenny McCormick in four years. I'd rather die than marry that poor piece of trash."
"I'm so confused," Stan admitted. "If you haven't talked to him, how did he get you pregnant?"
"Kenny?" she asked. "I'd never have sex with Kenny. Did someone tell you this was his kid?"
"Yeah. He did."
"Well, he has a lot of nerve," she said coolly. "I'm a surrogate for a childless couple. What kind of crap is he trying to pull?"
"Well, if you're not having Kenny's baby, why did he bring you here?"
"He didn't! I was invited!
"You were?" Stan paused as he nodded. "Is your name Trish?" he asked.
She groaned. "No, you idiot. My name is Powder, Stan. You've known me since I was 6."
He suddenly wished he had a drink. "Excuse me," he said unsteadily. "I need a drink. Do you want one?"
Powder just gave him a resentful look.
What a bitch, Stan told himself as he looked around for the bar or something. The keg was outside, he remembered, stepping over a jacket and a scarf.
So he got some beer, and talked to Token about how weird it was to be back in South Park. "I haven't been home in a year," Token confessed. "It's so beautiful out East, I kind of pity the rest of them, stuck here forever, for the most part."
"Yeah," Stan agreed. "It seems like another life when I'm gone." A moment passed between them, and Stan observed Token as he sipped from a leather flask, monogrammed with his initials. "And you come back and it feels like you never went away, like this is where you're meant to be." He sighed, and finished his beer.
"Not really." Token recapped his flask, and slipped it into the inner pocket of his camelhair coat. "My folks just wanted me to come back before I started med school. I figured they're paying for it, I should probably do it for them."
"They miss you," Stan said, thinking of the tense Christmas he had two days ago with his own parents.
"Eh, I don't know. I don't know if they miss me, or the idea of having a kid at home."
Stan crushed his plastic cup underneath his sneaker. "Right."
"Good luck with that internship," Token said, by way of farewell.
"It's a residency," Stan mumbled, knowing well that Token was gone already, couldn't hear him.
He talked to some more people, and he began to realize what was wrong with this party: It was the same conversation, over and over again. People wanted to know what he was up to, who he was dating, if he was going to stay in the Midwest or come back to South Park. He was beginning to confuse the ancillary details he'd gathered about other people: Wendy was still at Berkeley, had a hot boyfriend, didn't know what she was doing. Bebe had transferred from some community college to Scripps, decided she was gay, cut her hair off, it looked horrible. Stan, in his drunkenness, kind of wanted to take her aside, give her his comforting smile, tell her she was very pretty, and suggest growing it out, but he thought better of it, because in all honesty, he couldn't recall having one conversation in his entire life with a lesbian that didn't end poorly in some regard or another. He just didn't get along with them.
Clyde was studying to be a veterinarian, which Stan had to restrain himself from laughing about. He had one leg, and it just seemed insane to him in his current state that someone missing an appendage could be a veterinarian. It seemed amazing, that it had been five years since the accident, and yet it seemed like yesterday, or maybe only a week ago. Had Stan been to Butters' house during that mournful week? Had he and his friends sat in Butters' basement, taking advantage of his hospitality to get high there under the stairs, discussing the suddenness of the tragedy, how Tweek and Red would never show up late to homeroom ever again? Did they even know at that point if Clyde was going to make it?
Something about drinking made these memories stir around in Stan's head like a martini, little nuggets of information long buried coming to light. Life was so fucked up, man. He barely knew what to make of it when he nearly collided with his host, losing a few drops of Coors in the process.
"Oh my god, Butters," Stan slurred, grabbing the shorter blond boy by the shoulder. "This party is awesome. Thank you so much for having it."
Butters blushed. "Aw, you know, it's not really my party, it's Eric's party, you gotta thank him."
"Where is he?" Stan asked.
"I think he's upstairs making out with Kelly Rutherfordminksin."
"No way."
"Well, yes way, I think," Butters said with some uncertainty. "If you wanna know the truth, I think he talked me into throwing this whole party so he could get her here."
"You know him pretty well." Stan finished this bottle of beer and slammed it down on the counter.
"I guess," Butters said noncommittally. "I don't think about it a whole lot."
"But doesn't it bother you that he's upstairs in your room making out with some chick?"
"Well, no." Butters stood up a little straighter, and Stan now figured he wasn't really drunk at all, even if he had been slouching, which was very un-Butters-like. "First thing, I don't have a room in this house anymore."
"What happened?"
"My parents, they made my room into my mom's office."
"Oh," Stan said with sympathy, even though he already knew this. "How horrible."
"Yeah, well, I got a room at school, it's okay. I'm just sleeping in their bed 'cause they went to Cabo, so I'm watching the house."
"Why would they go to Mexico without you?" Stan asked. "You're their kid."
"Eh, I dunno, they're weird people."
"And it really doesn't bother you that Cartman is making out in your house with a girl?" Stan repeated, seemingly focused on this point.
"No, I'm telling you." Butters sighed. "I don't care."
"It doesn't bother you just a little that he's…"
"I'm over him." Butters crossed his arms. "That's final."
"Okay," Stan conceded. "Whatever, Butters." He spotted something on the counter, and picked it up. "Is this tequila okay to drink?"
Butters shrugged. "It's not mine."
"Sweet." Stan looked at his toes, and then he punched Butters all friendly-like in the arm. "You seeing anyone?" he asked.
"Yeah, kinda," Butters admitted.
"That's cool. Why didn't you bring him home?"
"I didn't want to." Butters was beginning to sound a little annoyed, but Stan was somewhat beyond the point of being able to detect anything so subtle.
"I'm sure your parents would like to meet him," Stan pressed.
"Yeah, well," he sighed. "They don't really know that I'm into guys or anything."
"Oh my god, Butters, you need to tell them. What are they gonna do? Ground you?"
"Heck, no, they wouldn't ground me," Butters squeaked. "They'd disown me and stop paying for my school and I'd never see them again."
"You gotta learn to just…" Stan paused, and he made a weird swooshing motion with his hands. "Get over it," he concluded.
"No, you gotta learn to just … let me make my own decisions."
"No, Butters, you gotta learn to just hold this bottle for a minute." Stan thrust the bottle of tequila into Butters' hands, and he began to put his hands all over the countertop. "You got shot glasses?" he asked.
"Oh, sheesh. There's a couple in the cabinet."
After pouring two shots, Stan handed one to Butters, and they raised them together. "To Butters," Stan said merrily. "And this great party."
"It's not my party, it's Eric's party, I'm just—" Butters noticed that Stan was already tipping his glass, so he sighed. "Lordy," he droned, downing the tequila.
"Oh my god," Stan breathed. "That was great for a first time."
"I drink. I do know how to take a shot."
"Just great, Butters," Stan continued. "I was a little drunk when I told my parents. Maybe all you need is a little courage."
"For the last time, Stan, I mean it, I'm not coming out to them." Butters slammed the shot glass down on the counter. "So just pour me another one, okay?"
Stan smiled, and did so. "Atta boy, Butters," he said proudly. "You're the best, dude."
XXX
Stan staggered out back; he was looking for Kyle. He wanted to leave; the party was quickly devolving into too many invasive questions, and Stan was lacking the evasive abilities he knew he needed to get out of talking about Loren, or newspapers, or his life in Chicago. He and Kyle always left together; it was just the way it was. Kyle was next to the keg, he could tell; even with his vision a little blurred, no one else would be outside in this preternaturally warm winter weather without a jacket. Come to think of it, no one else hanging around would have that fiery mess of tangled hair like Kyle did. So he staggered up to his friend, slapping him on the back, and Kyle returned the gesture, and pointed at his younger brother.
"Can you believe this kid?" he asked, and Stan didn't want to say anything, because really, until Kyle pointed him out, Stan hadn't noticed Ike. But he saw him now, and Stan took a tenuous grasp of the kid's hand to shake it. "He just drinks like a fish," Kyle added.
"Whoa," Stan said honestly. "That's really cool for a kid."
"I'm not a kid," Ike said crisply. "I'm a machine."
"Whoa," Stan said again. "Being a machine is really cool."
"He is," Kyle confirmed. "He can play guitar."
"Bass," Ike corrected.
"Bass, guitar, whatever," Kyle said dismissively. "It's all good." He swatted at Stan's behind and began to stumble away.
"Where you going?" Stan called out.
"He probably just has to piss," Ike said dismissively. "This party's pretty gay."
"Heh, yeah," Stan agreed happily. "Butters is totally gay, he throws like the gayest parties, he always has."
"I always thought high school parties sucked ass, but this one's just retarded."
"Aw, no way. Like, everyone's here."
"And everyone's totally lame. Like, there are two pregnant chicks here. What's the point?"
"Chicks like being pregnant," Stan theorized.
"It's not cool," Ike affirmed. "You guys were all so cool when I was little, and now it's like you all went to college and got lamer."
"Maybe you just got cooler," Stan offered. "Things seem better when you're younger, then you grow up and you realize how lame things were then. But you're pretty cool, for, like, a kid."
"Thanks," Ike beamed. "You're pretty cool for a lame grown-up."
"I'm not a grown-up," Stan said dismissively. "Wait, you think I'm a grown-up?"
"Well, yeah. You live in a city, and you work at a newspaper."
"I just got a residency…"
"Well, it's cool."
"Aw, thanks." Stan smiled, and he put a hand on Ike's shoulder. "I remember when you were just a little, little boy. We used to beat on you pretty hard."
"It was okay." Ike batted his eyelashes, which Stan noticed were very fine, finer than Kyle's, although not nearly as long.
"You were just a little bean," Stan continued. "And now you play guitar."
"Bass. I am in a band."
"That's cool," Stan slurred. "Bands are cool."
"You're cool," Ike pressed. "What's your boyfriend like?"
"Who, Loren?" Stan asked. "He's okay." He paused. "Actually, I hate him."
"Then why're you with him?"
"Um, it's like … you ever dated anyone?"
"No," Ike admitted.
"Well, when you do, and you will, you're very good-looking … when you do, you'll figure out that there's some people you love, and some people you only love to fuck. I just feel so bad about it, he likes me a lot, but the sex is awesome."
"Why's it so awesome?" Ike asked.
"Oh my god," Stan sighed. "I can't tell you that!"
"Just tell me."
"No," Stan said firmly. "You're too young to know these things."
"No, I'm not," Ike insisted. "Trust me, I'm not."
"You really wanna know?"
"Yeah," Ike confirmed. "I really do."
Stan sighed again, and took his hand off Ike's shoulder, only to put his entire arm around the boy's lithe little torso and lean in to whisper, "He's got the tightest fucking ass I've ever had the pleasure of knowing." Stan's breath, moist with beer and some tequila, touched at the rim of Ike's ear. "But don't tell anyone that, okay? Don't tell Kyle that."
"Okay," Ike promised. "I won't."
"I really gotta dump the guy. He's like a vacuum cleaner, but he's, like, sucking out my soul."
Ike nodded, as if he knew what Stan was talking about. Stan nodded back, and there was silence for a moment.
"Hey," Ike said sweetly puncturing the silence. "Do you want me to get you a drink?"
Stan looked at the ground, and then at Ike. He didn't know why, or maybe he thought he shouldn't, but the boy's soft smile made him really think he should take him up on the offer. "Okay," he said happily. "Get me a drink, please."
"What do you want?" Ike asked.
"Oh, I don't know," Stan said. He rubbed his hands together. "I think anything is fine."
"Okay." Ike paused. "One anything, coming up."
I really like this chapter, but if you have constructive criticism, please pass it on. Anyway, after this, the drama ramps up. See you at chapter four! I hope.
