I had just woken up. All I could think of was the heat, the sweat already running down the back of my neck. I reclined back into my bed and felt a slight dampness. The sun was already high enough in the sky to fill the entire room with blinding light. It must have been at least eleven o'clock. I rummaged around the side of my bed where my phone was, sliding my arm further and further down the crack between the mattress and the wall until my fingers finally grabbed hold of it. The time was 1:11 PM. What the hell? When had I gone to bed? It was sometime after 3. That's all I could remember. Today I had no obligations. Well, to be honest, I did need to find a job. That could wait till tomorrow, though. Today was Saturday, and that meant parties.
The main party stretch where I lived was a row of ancient, massive, glorious Victorians, painted an assortment of colors - pastels of smudged orange and wasabi green, dull tones of rust and blue, bright splashes of yellow and whitewash. It was our own version of San Francisco's Painted Ladies. Some had their trims colored in contrast, and some had the outward-facing edges of their stairs painted differently, sometimes which each step a different hue. The stairs leading up to the front door along with the accompanying front porch were the main defining characteristic of a Victorian. Apparently they had been made that way to keep the house and its occupants safe from seasonal flooding. Today, the stairs acted as a grand entrance to any of the numerous gatherings of young people that somehow always materialized on weekend nights ("the weekends" sometimes starting on Thursday).
...
The din of voices sounded from afar like the crackling buzz emitted from power lines, a nearly but not quite constant hum, punctuated by snaps and shrieks. Each home had its porch filled with bodies, cigarette smoke and occasional cackles drifting lazily into the street. I was looking for the largest party, the one where I would be least noticed, the one with the least people I knew. I took to a sidewalk and walked purposefully but relaxed, searching for the right place. I could feel a pressure in my chest. a mixture of excitement
The main party stretch where I lived was a row of ancient, massive, glorious Victorians, painted an assortment of colors - pastels of smudged orange and wasabi green, dull tones of rust and blue, bright splashes of yellow and whitewash. It was our own version of San Francisco's Painted Ladies. Some had their trims colored in contrast, and some had the outward-facing edges of their stairs painted differently, sometimes which each step a different hue. The stairs leading up to the front door along with the accompanying front porch were the main defining characteristic of a Victorian. Apparently they had been made that way to keep the house and its occupants safe from seasonal flooding. Today, the stairs acted as a grand entrance to any of the numerous gatherings of young people that somehow always materialized on weekend nights ("the weekends" sometimes starting on Thursday).
...
The din of voices sounded from afar like the crackling buzz emitted from power lines, a nearly but not quite constant hum, punctuated by snaps and shrieks. Each home had its porch filled with bodies, cigarette smoke and occasional cackles drifting lazily into the street. I was looking for the largest party, the one where I would be least noticed, the one with the least people I knew. I took to a sidewalk and walked purposefully but relaxed, searching for the right place. I could feel a pressure in my chest. a mixture of excitement
