So back to that party...

When I showed up at Paul's loft early on Saturday evening, he looked me up, he looked me down and took in the bun, the hoodie, the jeans and the sneakers and asked, "E-mail too harsh?" he asked.  

I shouldered him aside with my messenger bag and smirked when I saw I'd rumpled his tailored black shirt. "If it isn't Captain Jerk McJerkleton of the 81st Jerkface Brigade."

"I'm sorry?" he asked as he tried to keep up with me. I was on a tear through the space, up three flights of stairs from the ground floor garage to the master bathroom on the fourth floor.

"I don't even know why I bother," I spat as I pounded up the stairs. "I mean, honestly Paul. Why do I bother?"

"Because you find my rakish charm endearing?" he asked, striking a pose on the top of the third floor landing.

I kept moving. He tried again. "I was just trying to help?"

My response was to lock the man out of his own bathroom. "Jerkface!" I
shouted through the door.

"Harriet," he whined, his voice muttered through the door. "You know I wasn't trying to be cruel on purpose."

I scoffed and started rummaging through my bag. "You're a jerk, Paul," I shouted. "You're a jerk and you hurt my feelings and you should know better."

"I'm sorry." His voice was so loud, I knew he was pressed up against the door and trying to be sincere. "Please don't be mad at me, Harry." I flipped off the closed door with enthusiasm and went back to doing my makeup.  

He was sitting on the bed, frowning at his shoes when I poked my head out a few minutes later. "Do you get what I'm saying?" I asked. "Do you at least get where I'm coming from?"

"There's been some talk about my jerkosity," he said, looking up and grinning. "And I think I probably agree with you on that issue. I'm a jerk, I'm a jerk, I'm a ginormous tool."

"Now apologize," I prodded, not stepping out from behind the bathroom door.

"I'm sorry, Harriet," he said in a sing-song cadence.

"Now beg for forgiveness."

"Please forgive me."

"Now admit you're a giant man-whore."

"I'm a giant man-whore."

I was drunk with power. "Now dance like a robot."

He stood up and started moving his arms back and forth, making servo noises with his mouth. "Okay," I laughed. "You're forgiven." I threw open the bathroom door and stepped out with a hearty tah-dah.

Paul whistled. I had pulled my hair out of its bun (and for once it was thick and wavy and doing what I wanted), smoked my eyes, shed my hoodie to show off a glittery black top with a plunging neckline and traded the sneakers for black strappy heels. "I can pull off 'girl' without your coaching," I said pointedly.

"I never doubted you for a minute," he said as we went downstairs to the living area. "Honestly. You're the prettiest girl on the whole block and every guy here is going to fall in love with you instantly."

"Uh huh," I said. What he didn't know was that I'd hidden my iPod and a graphic novel under a stack of towels in the bathroom for when every guy at the party didn't fall in love with me instantly. It's always nice to have a contingency plan.

Two bars were in the process of being set up on the middle two floors of Paul's four-story space, and a couple of waiter-y type staff were milling about, waiting for revelers to show up and be served. We went onto the third-floor balcony so Paul could smoke and went another ten rounds in a game I like to call "Why Paul Sucks."

"You know why you suck?" I asked as he tapped out a Lucky Strike, an affectation he'd picked up while I was off in the Pacific Northwest.

"Why do I suck?" he asked, cheerful.

I looked across the street to the converted gas building and watched patrons of the Flying Star cafe mill in and out before answering. "The e-mail, for one. This party, for another. Hell, the whole idea that I'm incomplete and in need of a man and that I'm so lame, I can't even land one without your help. That's why you suck."

He took this all in, smoking thoughtfully. "That's all?"

"Also, I don't want to harp, but the e-mail was cruel," I said. "And I resent being a front for your womanizing ways. I know this party's just your excuse to score."

"And you're the dearest wingman ever," he said, sweeping my hand to his chest and clutching it for a minute.

I pulled free of his grasp and made a face. "Quit it."

"I'll do the robot again," he said.

Our arguments always followed this path. He would chip away at my anger with jokes or cajoling until I gave in and let it go.

"Look," he said, crushing his cigarette and standing up. "I promise, tonight it's all about you. I will not hit on, make a pass at or even leer this evening. My goal this evening is for you to have a good time."

"Uh-huh," I said, unmoved.

"And if I fail to come through for you, I promise, I'll make it up to you," he added, widening his eyes.

"Uh-huh."

He snapped to attention and clicked his heels. "Scout's honor," he said, throwing a salute. "And, because I know how much you hate people, I stashed my PSP and a couple bottles of Guinness in my laundry for when you bail."

"Now that's what I'm talking about," I said, dapping fists.

We went inside and people started to arrive, and Paul slid into the role of consummate host. He moved from group to group of chattering party guests, greeting his friends with cheers and back slaps, before introducing people around and pointing to the alcohol.

I hung back to watch. Paul had invited a wide cross-section of Albuquerque's beautiful people to his party: porcelain, fragile rockabilly girls with ivory-powered faces and second-hand square dancing skirts, achingly hip hipster boys in skinny jeans and heavy glasses, mingled with vamped-out glamorpusses and popped-collar frat rats. One guy, who couldn't have been more than twenty, was wandering around with a mustache better suited to a Civil War-era general, there was a dude in a bunny suit and I recognized a couple of minor local celebrities and a burlesque dancer.

It was that kind of party.

I held in for as long as I could. Really, I did. I sipped at a martini in a red plastic cup and stood on the fringes of conversations for about an hour, contributing snippets of opinions here and there, but not making much headway. Every so often, Paul would come around and put a hand on my back and say, "Hey, Harriet. I want you to meet a friend of mine."

He would steer me through the crowd to another bunch of people and say something like, "Vince, this is my pal Harriet I was telling you about. Harry, this is Vince. He's the," and then he'd rattle off an impressive-sounding resume: comic book artist, club owner, fighter pilot, independent film producer. Vince, or Bobby or Chuck would smirk and shake my hand and say, "Nice to meet you," before turning back to the conversation he was having with an infinitely more beautiful woman and leave me out cold.

Paul only saw the fighter pilot (Chuck?) give me the brush-off. He scoffed and pushed me back through the crowd. "He is such a poseur," he said as we dodged elbows and drinks. "Like he even stands a chance with Neve. She's done runway work in friggin' Milan. She's out of his league. Hell, she's out of my league."

"That makes me feel so much better," I snarked, but he was already swept up in conversation with yet another stunner and I wandered away.

That was the problem with Paul's parties: he always invited too many women. Beautiful, talented women. Beautiful, talented, charming women. Beautiful, talented, charming, size-zero SINGLE women, because Paul didn't seem to know any other kind. Mix with every eligible bachelor Albuquerque had to offer, and I was way out of my comfort zone. I gave the party until 11:00 to improve.

At 11:01, I pushed my way through the throngs of beautiful people up to the third floor and slipped past the velvet rope blocking the flight of stairs up to Paul's bedroom. I have to give Paul's guests credit: they did respect that velvet rope. His room was empty. There weren't any couples hiding in either closet, or getting it on under the brown leather duvet on his platform bed. Even the bathroom was vacant.

It only took a few minutes to dig out my provisions, yoinked, a couple of pillows off the bed, uncapped my beer on Paul's working antique Coke machine, and set up shop in his closet. Yeah, the closet. It was the only fully enclosed room (minus the three bathrooms) in the apartment, and I closed the door against the sound.

But the door swung open even before I had a chance to get situated under a purloined blanket and open my book and a guy I hadn't seen before invaded my space. This guy? Was the Anti-Paul. Hispanic. Over six feet tall with a thick build, wearing a brown ringer t-shirt and jeans. Olive skin, spiky brown hair, shining gold eyes and put me in mind of a bear for some reason.

Oh, of course I looked; thanks to Paul and his stupid party, I had boys on the brain.

This dude only got a cursory glance of me before he closed the door, slid to the floor and moaned. "Oh, thank God," h said as he stole my blanket and wrapped his head in it.  "I am not the only one. Do you mind? I have a pounding headache."

"Have you taken anything for it?" I asked on automatic pilot.

"No," he whimpered. "I just need to be in a dark, quiet place for awhile and it'll go away."

"Do you want something for it?" I asked, putting my book down.

He didn't wait. "Oh, God, yes."

"Hang on," I said, going back into the bedroom. It was still clear, but there was a bit of giggling coming from the stairs. I ran into the bathroom and found Paul's bottle of Advil. On my way back into the closet, I pulled a Coke from the machine and uncapped it. The caffeine would help.

"Here," I said, pressing the bottle into one hand and a couple of Advil into the other.

He pulled his head from under the blanket and regarded the cold Coke bottle for a moment. "Wow" he said finally. "Where'd you get this?"

"The rich are different from you and me," I shrugged, stealing my blanket back and climbing back into my spot.

"Fitzgerald," he nodded. "Dude had a point."

I found my place in my book as he knocked the drugs. "Anyway, feel better."

"Thanks," he said.

For a ten minutes, it was peaceful. I read and drank my beer, and the dude did his best impression of a corpse. He stuffed a pair of balled-up jeans under his head and covered his eyes with his hands and his breathing was so regular, I thought he'd fallen asleep. But after ten minutes, he sat up, blinked twice and leaned against the wall. "That was really cool of you," he said as he started rubbing his head. "I feel loads better."

"Not a problem," I said, flipping a page.

The guy took a pull off his Coke and cocked his head to the side. "So why are you hiding out?"

"I don't do parties," I said.

He laughed. "Seems like the wrong place to be if you don't like parties."

"I had considered that," I said, my eyes back on my book.

"So why don't you go home?" he asked.

I held up my beer and gave it a little shake. "Been drinkin'," I said. "Don't want to rack up a DWI."

"Ah," he said.

"Why don't you go home?" I countered.

"Designated," he sighed. "And the girl I'm with is having, quote, too good a time to leave. End quote."

I leaned in, feeling a little chummy. "You know what I'd do?" I asked.

He also leaned in. "What?"

"Leave her sorry ass here and go home, where it's quiet and the guest list is regulated."

He smirked. "And yet, you're hiding out in a closet."

"Been drinkin'," I reminded him. "Plus I have a secret ambition to be R. Kelly."

The dude looked around. "Really? Where's the gay pastor? Where's the guy with the gun? Where's the intrigue with the midget? Where's the incredibly self-important director's commentary where he explains the concept of a cliffhanger?"

I cackled. "R. Kelly: Believes he can fly, like his women young and invented the cliffhanger."

"Where would great literature, or at the very least, 'Dallas' be without the storytelling prowess of R. Kelly?"

"Fort Worth?"

We grinned at each other as Paul's clothes gently swayed over our heads. I liked the dude. He got my brand of humor and bantered back.

"You know, you could take me home and then go home yourself and solve both our problems," I said. "And if you played your cards right, I might be willing to spring for a non-alcoholic bevvie of your choice, so long as it was coffee."

There I went, already breaking one of Paul's rules.

The guy grinned. "I don't know," he said. "I don't like driving strange women home after midnight. You'd probably dump my body somewhere on the mesa."

"It's not even 11:30," I said, glancing at my watch. "And pardon my saying, but you're too big for me to lug by myself."

"So you were planning on dumping my body on the mesa," he laughed.

"I have a few hobbies," I said, digging on the flirting. "R. Kelly reenactments, homicide, reading."

"The trifecta in past times," the dude nodded. "I approve."

"I'm so glad," I snotted. "Because I totally seek out and live my life based on your approval."

He laughed again and I decided I'd be gracious for once and thank Paul for throwing this party, for going to this trouble for me, so I could meet this awesome, sarcastic, headache-prone guy and engage in some serious party flirting.

And then I opened my big mouth. "So, how do you know Paul?"

The guy rolled his eyes. "I don't, actually," he said. "My friend, Janice, does. I guess they went out like a million years ago. Anyway, he called her up in the middle of the week and said he was having this party, and would she bring any single guys she knew because he wanted to find his best friend a boyfriend. So she brought me. And now here I am, hiding out with you, because can you imagine what kind of girl would hang out with that rich pendejo? As a friend? She's probably dog-ugly and secretly hoping he'll notice her after all these years and fall madly in love with her.”

I tried to keep my features neutral, but I think he saw my lips tighten. He looked away and frowned. "Or she could be a very charming, very gorgeous, very generous girl who enjoys hanging out in the closet with virtual strangers?" he backpedaled. "And boy, did I not only just put my foot in my mouth, I swallowed."

"Yeah," I said, picking my book up again. "You're done."

He stood up and looked at me. "Are you sure you don't want to pretend like the last two minutes didn't happen?"

"It's been fun dude," I said, not looking up.

"Jesus, I am sorry," he said, and I wondered what was up with all the apologies. I waved this one off, and he stood there for another minute, with his hand on the doorknob like he was going to say something. I bristled in anticipation. "Well," he said and then he left.

I stared at the page for another thirty seconds and swore. I dropped the book, untangled myself from my nest and chased after the guy. But the crowd had swelled during my exile and I couldn't spot him anywhere.

Paul swung past my line of view and put a hand on my back. "Harry, come with me. There's a guy I want you to meet. "

"Is he Hispanic and wearing a brown ringer t-shirt?" I asked, still casing the joint for my closet companion.

"No," Paul laughed. "See the blond guy in the suit? I want you to meet that guy."

"No," I said as he pushed me past people. "You've got to help me. I've already met a guy. We were hanging out in your closet."

Paul stopped and looked at me with a mixture of awe and respect. "Look at you, Harriet Schroeder, getting busy in my closet like a seventh grader," he said. "It's very retro. I'm proud of you. So where is this guy?"

"That's the thing," I said and his face fell.

"You ran him off, didn't you?" he asked. I began chewing on my bottom lip. Paul heaved a sigh. "What happened?"

"He mocked the concept of your party and inadvertently insulted me to my face," I said.

Fortunately, Paul knows me. "And you were offended and blew him off, and now he's gone and you are living the Cinderella song."

"We clicked," I said urgently. "And now I can't find him, and you have to help me, because we clicked."

Paul got it. "Okay," he said scanning the crowd. "I know about 40% of the people here. Did you get this guy's name?"

"Do you think he'd call me dog-ugly to my face if we'd made introductions?" I asked.

Paul took this in stride. "Did he say who he came with?"

I racked my brain. "Someone named Janice?" I asked. "Said you two used to go out?"

Paul went pale. "Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "Any other chick, and you know I'd be playing Sherlock Holmes for you, but not Janice. She hates me."

"Then why did you invite her?" I asked.

"If I said I did it for you, would you believe me?" he asked.

"And yet you're not going to help me track down this guy," I sighed. "You're unbelievable."

Paul rubbed his face. "The thing about Janice is that she,"

"Hates you," I supplied.

"Despises me!" he sputtered. "God, the only way I could even get her here was the promise of lots of alcohol and single guys who weren't me." He cringed.

"Ran around on her?" I hazarded.

"Bethany," he nodded. "And Gerri."

"You're pathetic," I said. "When I die cold and alone and my eighty cats eat my face, it will all be your fault."

I stalked away, and as the noise of the crowd swelled, I could hear him asking, "Hey, have you seen Janice?"