our roommates are French. When we meet, it is in an open door.
“Hello,” We say.
“’Ello," they say.
And so on. We must have stayed there, in the doorway, for at least two minutes greeting each other. We told them to eat a Hershey bar. They told us to watch Godard.
You have two minutes and an open door to communicate your cultural legacy. What will you say?
That night the Australians take us on a pub crawl ending at The Hive. Take the house from Mask of the Red Death and put a deejay in every room. Hang disco balls and strobes from the ceilings. Give Poe's worried guests cheap drinks and gyrating hips.
"Remember when Gregg burnt the chips?"
"Let's not speak of it."
I've discovered the bridge between modernism and post-modernism. I want to call everyone I know. I want to give high-fives to animals. Break my bones and build fires.
Pour another drink.The next night is spent in tense sobriety, huddled around a deck of cards. The game is Higher/Lower. We successfully guess that 34 cards are higher or lower than their previous card. The next card, card 35, has us biting our lips. We've come so far, we've drawn diagrams. Calculated probabilies. "Surely it's higher."
You know when film makers adapt Hunter S. Thompson by layering images in glittery, drug-induced sequences?
It was nothing like that.It was a bottle of whisky with no hangover, a night talking about childhood bedrooms. Another night spent dancing. Birthday candles. Castles. The most masculine lip-ring you ever saw. "Jaysus!". The smell of seagulls. A ghost story.
Somewhere, I'm putting off a shower, writing a book I'll never end.