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Rory
Everybody Have Fun Tonight
Rory swaggered through the gym, cool as he could be, bobbing his head to the ironic rhythms of “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Pockets of formerly pretty people dancing in tight circles tried to reel him in, but he was a porcelain-seeking missile, veering around human pylons, oblivious even to Emily Neeman’s impressive new boob job. As soon as he spotted the door marked Boys, with the little stick man on the front, he got a running start, as if he were on a basketball court taking three big steps for his lay-up, slammed his shoulder into it, and bowled inside.
He was in. He was safe.
He inhaled the sweet lemon scent of fresh urinal cakes and disinfectant. The familiar smell calmed him. The place sparkled. The janitorial squad had done an outstanding job for the evening. Rory hated to ruin it.
With the exception of some modern amenities, it was just as he remembered. On one wall stood a row of urinals and three stalls, each scarred with high school graffiti. On the other wall, a line of mirrors and sinks. The middle faucet dripped steadily. Above the mirrors dangled a purple and green banner: Class of ’89. You Pissed Away 10 Years! Behind the door squatted a garbage can, and halfway up the wall perched a shiny chrome hand-dryer. At the back was a condom machine. The chrome and condoms were new. There were no escape windows, which sucked. But at least the place was empty.
Rory burrowed into a stall, locked the deadbolt, and took a seat on the toilet. Then he opened his palm and stared at it.
It was a piece of paper folded into a square, but it was more complex than any ordinary paper square. It had a square’s four sides, but it also had tucks, triangles, and pockets. Once he unraveled the puzzle, Rory could never put it back together the same way. He could build a kick-ass paper airplane, but these had always been beyond him. It was an anomaly, an antique, a precious time capsule, a harbinger of doom.
It was a handwritten note.
A note folded in that expert origami way that only high school girls could master. She wrote his name in purple ink. The R was a giant bubble towering over a small o and r, and the y had a tail that swung across like an ornate vine, cradling the other letters artfully. It was magnificent.
But Rory couldn’t open it. Not yet. First he had to fight his crawling stomach, inching its way upwards like a zombie rising from the pit, its half-digested beef-tortellini corpse seeking the plate from whence it came.
It had been ten years since he’d seen her. He was standing by the bar, smiling, fresh drink in hand--
Rory suddenly remembered he carried a rum and pineapple and took a drink. The cool, soothing sip pushed the beef tortellini down a couple ribs.
She had sidled up to him, pretty as you please, and held out her hand for a shake. Was it a peace offering? Were they friends now? Rory hated that word, but liked it better than fuck nutz. So Rory shook—her hand; he did not suffer a convulsive fit and slide vibrating to the floor as he thought he might. He was shocked when the rough paper passed from her skin to his. For an instant, the covert and wondrous event had him feeling like the grade 10 version of James Bond, until the secret note fell from his sweaty palm, smacking the gymnasium floor like sheet metal.
Bonjour, Inspector Clouseau.
Rory was proud he didn’t ralph on her shoes as he picked the note up, and was further surprised she didn’t seize the opportunity to stab him in the back of the head with her stiletto heel. But somehow he managed to sift it off the floor, not say anything stupid (not say anything at all actually), and outrace his gurgling stomach to the bathroom.
Rory admonished himself. Open the note. It won’t be that bad, he told himself, just do it.
One more sip. A deep breath.
He unraveled the intricate layers of paper, moving fast so his stomach didn’t realize what he was doing. He read like a computer. His eyes scanned letters, words, and sentences. His legs bounced with each syllable, the rhythm helping him get through before it happened.
Rory fell to his knees, heaving and gasping. But nothing came.
He tore off a square of toilet paper and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. The thin paper drenched and stuck. Rory peeled it off strip by strip, but knew with a certainty bred from experience that he’d not gotten all of it. He imagined if he connected the dots of toilet paper leavings they’d make the L for Loo-zer. He rubbed his head angrily and watched the remaining tufts float into the bowl.
Spitting made him feel better, as if he’d accomplished something, like he’d been teasing the water and fulfilled his end of the bargain for once. The note was not what he expected. It was impossible.
Another heave.
Another zombie false start.
Don’t think about it, he told himself. It’s only a note. He took a drink instead. Ahhh, that was better. A note from her.
Rory threw up.
In the aftermath, he watched the pasta chunks float around the bowl and fantasized they were tiny life preservers that he could latch onto and flush himself to safety. It didn’t matter where he wound up, so long as he made good his escape.
Before a second kamikaze butterfly could dive-bomb his intestines, Rory clumsily refolded the note and jammed it down the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. It was survival. He pulled out a bottle of green pills, twisted off the cap and—
The sound of the bathroom door opening froze him. Rory listened as footsteps approached his stall and stopped. He imagined a person looking in the mirror, oblivious to his presence. He would leave soon. Just have to wait him out.
“Rory?”
BAM!
The kick on Rory’s stall door jarred him. His body jerked, and like a pile of cartoon Mexican jumping beans, his pills leaped from their container and plunged into the puke water.
He was in. He was safe.
He inhaled the sweet lemon scent of fresh urinal cakes and disinfectant. The familiar smell calmed him. The place sparkled. The janitorial squad had done an outstanding job for the evening. Rory hated to ruin it.
With the exception of some modern amenities, it was just as he remembered. On one wall stood a row of urinals and three stalls, each scarred with high school graffiti. On the other wall, a line of mirrors and sinks. The middle faucet dripped steadily. Above the mirrors dangled a purple and green banner: Class of ’89. You Pissed Away 10 Years! Behind the door squatted a garbage can, and halfway up the wall perched a shiny chrome hand-dryer. At the back was a condom machine. The chrome and condoms were new. There were no escape windows, which sucked. But at least the place was empty.
Rory burrowed into a stall, locked the deadbolt, and took a seat on the toilet. Then he opened his palm and stared at it.
It was a piece of paper folded into a square, but it was more complex than any ordinary paper square. It had a square’s four sides, but it also had tucks, triangles, and pockets. Once he unraveled the puzzle, Rory could never put it back together the same way. He could build a kick-ass paper airplane, but these had always been beyond him. It was an anomaly, an antique, a precious time capsule, a harbinger of doom.
It was a handwritten note.
A note folded in that expert origami way that only high school girls could master. She wrote his name in purple ink. The R was a giant bubble towering over a small o and r, and the y had a tail that swung across like an ornate vine, cradling the other letters artfully. It was magnificent.
But Rory couldn’t open it. Not yet. First he had to fight his crawling stomach, inching its way upwards like a zombie rising from the pit, its half-digested beef-tortellini corpse seeking the plate from whence it came.
It had been ten years since he’d seen her. He was standing by the bar, smiling, fresh drink in hand--
Rory suddenly remembered he carried a rum and pineapple and took a drink. The cool, soothing sip pushed the beef tortellini down a couple ribs.
She had sidled up to him, pretty as you please, and held out her hand for a shake. Was it a peace offering? Were they friends now? Rory hated that word, but liked it better than fuck nutz. So Rory shook—her hand; he did not suffer a convulsive fit and slide vibrating to the floor as he thought he might. He was shocked when the rough paper passed from her skin to his. For an instant, the covert and wondrous event had him feeling like the grade 10 version of James Bond, until the secret note fell from his sweaty palm, smacking the gymnasium floor like sheet metal.
Bonjour, Inspector Clouseau.
Rory was proud he didn’t ralph on her shoes as he picked the note up, and was further surprised she didn’t seize the opportunity to stab him in the back of the head with her stiletto heel. But somehow he managed to sift it off the floor, not say anything stupid (not say anything at all actually), and outrace his gurgling stomach to the bathroom.
Rory admonished himself. Open the note. It won’t be that bad, he told himself, just do it.
One more sip. A deep breath.
He unraveled the intricate layers of paper, moving fast so his stomach didn’t realize what he was doing. He read like a computer. His eyes scanned letters, words, and sentences. His legs bounced with each syllable, the rhythm helping him get through before it happened.
Rory fell to his knees, heaving and gasping. But nothing came.
He tore off a square of toilet paper and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. The thin paper drenched and stuck. Rory peeled it off strip by strip, but knew with a certainty bred from experience that he’d not gotten all of it. He imagined if he connected the dots of toilet paper leavings they’d make the L for Loo-zer. He rubbed his head angrily and watched the remaining tufts float into the bowl.
Spitting made him feel better, as if he’d accomplished something, like he’d been teasing the water and fulfilled his end of the bargain for once. The note was not what he expected. It was impossible.
Another heave.
Another zombie false start.
Don’t think about it, he told himself. It’s only a note. He took a drink instead. Ahhh, that was better. A note from her.
Rory threw up.
In the aftermath, he watched the pasta chunks float around the bowl and fantasized they were tiny life preservers that he could latch onto and flush himself to safety. It didn’t matter where he wound up, so long as he made good his escape.
Before a second kamikaze butterfly could dive-bomb his intestines, Rory clumsily refolded the note and jammed it down the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. It was survival. He pulled out a bottle of green pills, twisted off the cap and—
The sound of the bathroom door opening froze him. Rory listened as footsteps approached his stall and stopped. He imagined a person looking in the mirror, oblivious to his presence. He would leave soon. Just have to wait him out.
“Rory?”
BAM!
The kick on Rory’s stall door jarred him. His body jerked, and like a pile of cartoon Mexican jumping beans, his pills leaped from their container and plunged into the puke water.
*****
© Christopher R. Bruce
