After Party: A Short Story
Posted: Monday, September 05, 2011
by Melissa Swenka
MeliSwenk
The lights are up, the show is about to start, and no one is more excited than you. Music on the hi-fi system is recycled, created for mass production. You’re in a set of clothing worth more than your life, created by a man you’ll never meet, and whose name you will never be able to pronounce. Especially after all these mixed drinks. The light, fruity colors can help you forget it’s alcohol; but the way you’re drinking, everything that happens tonight—even though it's once in a lifetime—will probably be lost in a drunk's stupor.
If it doesn’t, you’re an ungrateful prick, and you won’t be invited to any of the after parties.
“You’re going to the after party, right?” A bleary-eyed table mate asks. The color of her fruity drink matches yours, and you can’t quite recall how you know her.
As you nod slowly, you realize the proper response is always only two words long. “Which one?”
Your table mate, the one asking you the question, smiles knowingly, and that’s because you both know what the answer really is: every party. Every after party is the goal. You may not achieve it, but it’s always the ideal.
Talk turns to mundane conversation, shoe sizes, hair styles, and how to appropriately hide breath sprays and tampons from the cameras. About as mundane as high school prom, and you want to be surprised, but the fruity drinks numb your inherent sarcasm. Amid the canned banter, the forced, nervous laughter, and the refracted stage light from award after award being handed out to your less-than-deserving peers a familiar name is called. The name of your show. One of those awards where the entire cast and crew needs to parade to the stage. Realization strikes that you just aren’t drunk enough for this situation, and you try to chug before leaving the table. You hope the camera lens zooming in on your ensemble doesn’t catch the vain attempt to lick the Tom Collins glass dry. That would just be excessive.
But isn’t that what these shows were about, just a little? Excess? Is it really appreciation for an art or several arts: direction, writing, acting, lighting or even costume? Ah, there goes the alcohol talking: prolific, prophetic, and philosophical. Just like it’s supposed to be. Questioning, probing, delving into the wonder of what’s going on, and then you are rocketed back to the stage beneath all the designer shoes. Looking out at the crowd who, for the most part, are cheering you on thinking you deserve this award and what it means. It’s never really about that little shiny statuette, is it? It’s all about what that statuette means.
Doing what you can to keep from narrowing your eyes against the solar flares—your mother warned that squinting isn’t attractive on anyone—a moment of real clarity strikes and you’ve forgotten how you managed to make it to the stage. The rustle of designer gowns, chiffon and taffeta, and the tinkling of rhinestone cufflinks remind you of the ice melting at the bottom of your empty Tom Collins glass.
Before you can blink, between the people around you, hugs and kisses are shared. Some kisses in the air near your cheek and, by others, right there on your cheek: warm and slobbery. That spot, all wet, left from a kiss of brotherhood and sharing a great amount of effort. All that effort—putting a show on television that entertains millions— and you get to stand behind a person, the director or producer, for anywhere from 30 to 60 seconds while your family and loved ones are thanked for you. He or she sends appreciation out to people never met for the group of people grinning and roasting under the stage lights.
The expensive clothes begin to feel like a waste. The jewelry. The hairstyle. All of it. There isn’t even a moment to thank your parents. No thanks for anyone except in your own head, in your own thoughts—which are swimming deep in those fruity damned drinks.
Then you get led to the press room. Bulbs flash and questions are shouted at you. Well, not you, but the person who thanked your loving mother. The person who thanked “the cast and crew” and somehow meant you. That person gets to answer questions that will be posted in the tomorrow’s USA Today, The New York Times, and Variety. His or her picture will appear in Entertainment Weekly or People.
At this point, all you want is another drink. Going back to that stinking table in the middle of a useless melee seems pointless unless you’re getting another fruity-fucking-drink. Somehow drinking that drink is making the bitter taste of the group win sweeter.
Ah, now you’re getting sentimental. The alcohol has gone from philosophy to sentiment in the beat of a heart, and there’s no stopping it. From the press room you have to go to the bathroom. It was going to happen sooner or later; now you’re shuffling these high-priced clothes around your waist, trying not to take any waste out of here with you. Can you imagine a trail of the old ass wipe hanging off of Angelina Jolie’s heel or the back of Hugh Jackman’s freshly-shined shoe? Now, that would be entertainment! Comedians are well known for being skipped come award time, unless the Emmys are where you want to end up—People’s Choice or Kid’s Choice Awards like Jack Black and Jim Carrey. Ah, now that you’ve passed just enough alcohol to drown a small woodland creature you can head back to the useless melee.
So, you’re back at the table. The snooty table mate itching to go to parties is all but snogging with her Tom Collins glass, and she’s giving you an arched eyebrow classic Hollywood villains would envy. Your high-priced cologne has worn off, your alcohol buzz is slowly following it, and the crowd is losing its patience for the sad impersonation of Ryan Seacrest guffawing into the narrow mic. Said pompous host is about to call out good-bye to his salivating audience—all of whom are wondering which party or media outlet they will hit up first—and we all know that means you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here. So, the cameras are off, people are about to get real. Seacrest-in-waiting has lost his early-morning-weatherman smile.
After the show, after the acceptance speeches, after there’s been enough drinks to not question your judgment but before you’ve had so much you can’t function at all you keep going, a strange and mellow kind of adrenaline kicks in. There is a need to at least be able to stand up and rub elbows at these parties. And the elbows come soft.
Hearing anyone over the music is impossible. Seeing anyone in the dim lighting is, too. And just sitting still isn’t really an option. The press is crawling all over the place, calling out names of the party’s elite. Feelings from that high school embarrassment of a dance where you had to take your cousin or go alone—horror of horrors!—rears its ugly head once more. The one picture taken of you is by the person sitting there paid to take it. It was no burning desire to capture you on film for memories. It was merely because he had to.
After the brief consideration of going to a second party, a person captures your attention. That cute crew member from the last film you worked on. A grip or a lighting tech. You can’t remember, but you know you’ve seen the face. Soft, welcoming. A smile bright enough to light up a room.
With your last drink in hand, you approach and begin a conversation neither of you will remember. It’s impossible to know how many drinks have been flowing into the cup held at chest level. And what a lovely chest it is.
One question later, you are following this random, attractive lighting tech out of the party. A member of the academy stops and wants to talk to you. No recognition synapses are firing and their words are immediately puffs on clouds in the night air. Something about your award lingers in the frontal lobe but dissipates before you forget about your partner in crime heading toward the car. You stumble, nearly kissing cement, and grab the hood of the car for stability. The chill in the night air settles, and you can’t wait to get into the running vehicle.
You’re not sure where you’re headed, but it’s a fuzzy, fizzy haze of lights guiding you and the driver there. Christmas lights, it makes you imagine what Christmas lights might be like on LSD.
The hotel room is quiet and homey. It’s nothing like your one-bedroom studio, but it feels like a place to live rather than a place to visit. Lights are switched on and you’re left alone while the facilities are being used. Your first instinct is to check the mini-fridge for the mini-liquor.
Victory!
The bathroom door is creaking open and you turn. Wiping the excess liquor from your bottom lip, arms are extended out to the room’s renter. The bed beneath you is soft and cool, untouched by a human body in at least a couple of hours. Soon two sets of clothes are landing on the floor in a whisper of intent. A few moans and needy gropes later, light snoring is seeping out from under the door.
You wake up first and think it must have all been a dream. There was no way the television show you were working on won a Golden Globe just last night.
And that can’t possibly be the lighting tech from that indie film you worked on last summer, can it? The mole, left cheek… Yep, lighting tech from that documentary on Iowa’s punk rock scene.
What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Damn those fruity drinks!
The display on your cell phone lights up and a text message from one of your show’s stars asks where you ended up. Responding this early in the morning would be uncouth. Digital numbers in a shade of cherry licorice tell you it’s only 6:37 a.m. You ask yourself if getting the hell out without waking Sleeping Fucking Beauty is at all feasible.
Damn it! What were you thinking?! And where is your underwear?!
Pulling yourself from the bed, fabric in a familiar color peeks out from under the loveseat nearby. You snatch it up and head toward the bathroom. You piss; forego hand washing for fear Sleeping Fucking Beauty is a light sleeper, and tip-toe to the door.
Victory! The hinges don’t creak.
You make your way down the hall and realize your favorite watch is on the night stand next to the bed. Going back for it is not an option. Not talking to that lighting tech is completely worth having to buy yourself a brand new watch. You’ve been in the market anyway. Just needed a reason. At the end of the hall is an elevator, empty, and you step on contemplating what you will wear to next year’s award show.
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Top-level comments on this article: (4 total)"Trying to articulate the world she lives in" - You do it so well. I don't figure I'll be going to any extravagant awards show in the near future but after reading this I feel like I have. I like your style. And I learned the 'after' festivities are pretty much exactly what I would have imagined. Dare I ask what television show you worked on?Never worked for a television show, but I grew up watching all the award shows. My mom loved them, and I like to write Glam fiction. Thank you for the kind words! :D
This is great. Well written, enjoyable to read. Insight into a whole different perspective about awards, receiving them and everything associated with the hupla. Fine!Thank you very much for the kind words! I'm glad you read it. :D
This reads like a personal experience, it's amazing - I only know it's fiction from your response to Brianna! Your writing is very powerful, it has such an edge, it's a pleasure to read.Thank you VERY much, Jennifer! I was going for a short story in the second person, because I don't read a lot of literature like that. I found a novel written that way--Joe McInerney's "Bright Lights, Big City"--it's on my bookshelf, and I can't wait to read it.
It's a pleasure! Are you going to write a book - or are you already writing one? I think you'd be really good at it.I have a completed novella in the editing stages, but I really, really like the short story format. Thanks for your kind words! :D
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