Liquid Gold
one
Setting: Tim Kirch’s Duplex, Tempe, Arizona
Time: 8:15 p.m., June 9, 2006
It’s hot. Hotter than hot; the dry air leaks through the windows and the doors and the only repellant is an elaborate set up of fans around each AC vent, attempting to spread the cool air around the apartment and to each of the party dwellers. It’s crowded. Crowds make my throat tighten and my insides churn… leading me to question why I’d agreed to come along to the party in the first place. Tim’s nineteen and older than I am by four years, but his younger brother (who’s older than me by only two weeks) is my best friend, which gets me invites to all of the parties and various shenanigans that go on in the duplex. I usually don’t show, but Pat (Tim’s aforementioned younger brother) said that a kid with a nice set of pipes would be there (read: not the smoking pipes; voice pipes) and that it’d give us a chance to snag a singer for the band we’ve been trying to start.
Pat disappeared with his brother ages ago, leaving me to sulk in the corner with a mixed drink of three parts whiskey and two parts cola. I don’t know anyone here, save for a few acquaintances that I can’t talk about much other than the weather with. I kind of want to go home, and debate downing the rest of my drink and leaving the duplex to catch a bus back to my place.
“Garrett!”
Pat’s voice, shrill over the sound of the music, strikes down that plan. I still try to finish my drink up—and consequentially wince at the burn of whiskey against my throat. Pat finds me right where he left me, and he kind of frowns for a second before motioning for me to stand.
I clear my throat and speak over the bass: “What’s up?”
“That guy’s here,” he replies. “Upstairs with Tim. C’mon.”
We weave between clusters of people, Pat leading the way and mumbling all the ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me’s that we’ll need before racing up the staircase to the second floor of the duplex. Technically, Tim only rents out the second story apartment with his best friend, but two of their friends rent the first story apartment, which leads to the duplex being, basically, a house full of teenagers. My cheeks feel flushed and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the feeling of sweat on my skin and the dizziness from the buzz of intoxication. Away from the party, it’s cooler and calmer, which at least settles the nerves of being stuck in between large crowds of people.
Tim’s room smells like weed and tobacco. They’re still smoking, and the greeting that I get is a piece and lighter passed to me. I don’t really like smoking, but I do it. I don’t cough anymore. The high feels nice, better than the alcohol buzz. Tim musses my hair, and the sweat keeps it disheveled. I leave it be and sit by the AC vent to cool off.
Pat sits next to me and nudges me with a bony elbow. “See that guy?” he nods towards a skinny kid who’s sitting on Tim’s computer chair backwards with a cigarette between his lips. “That’s John. He’s the guy I was telling you about.”
John looks over at the sound of his name and—shit. His eyes alone are a shock; in the dim light, they look golden and I don’t even know if that’s physically possible for a human to have eyes made of liquid gold. I blink, unable to look away from his gaze, and he smiles. It’s a little lopsided, and he bites his lower lip as it spreads into the curve. I clear my throat (quietly) and offer a wave.
Pat introduces us: “John, this is Garret. Gare, John.”
“It’s nice to…” he speaks as he shuffles the chair over to us, offering me his hand. “Meet you.”
I shake the offered extremity. “Yeah,” I reply lamely. “The, uh, feeling’s mutual.”
He’s still smiling and, closer, I can tell that his eyes aren’t quite liquid gold but they’re pretty damn close. A shock of green and wow, they look almost unnatural. His pupils are dilated, and I know mine must be too—and then wonder if his eyes look so outlandish because of the weed, or if it’s true about him.
“Pat said you sing,” I say, and he nods. I realize that I haven’t let go of his hand yet and quickly drop my arm to the floor. It hits the carpet with a delicate thud, and the pipe makes its way back to me and Pat. It gives me and excuse not to try to make lame conversation with this stranger with almost-golden eyes and close my eyes when I take the hit. I keep them closed as I pass the pipe and lighter off to John and exhale slowly. The ganja’s effects are calming, and after a few more hits I’ve lost the uncomfortable buzz from the alcohol and find myself smiling and forgetting about my horrible conversational skills. At some point, John ditched the computer chair and sat cross-legged next to me and Pat.
“Alright, boys,” Tim says as he puts away the piece and the lighter. “I’m gonna go back to the party—you get yourselves acquainted and shit.”
He leaves, and the older kids that had been smoking leave with him, drawing the headcount down to three: me, Pat, and John.
Even with the marijuana loosening my strings, Pat does most of the talking with John. Turns out he used to go to the same high school as us, only he graduated last week and is enrolled in the local community college for the fall semester. He plays baseball. He’s never been in a band before, and the only reason why he’s talking to us is because Tim heard him sing and told Pat about him. He insists that he isn’t as interesting as we (read: Pat) is making him out to be.
“Can you sing something for us?” Pat asks and the excitement drips off his words like sweat off of an exercising obese man. John looks hesitant.
“It’s just us,” I say, hoping to be reassuring. “Besides, if you’re gonna be in our band you’re gonna have to get used to singin’ in front of people.”
He laughs, nods. His smile is lopsided again and I think it’s cute—and quickly banish the thought away and focus on his nose instead of his lips. He sings, and Pat decides within the first line of lyrics that he should be the singer. I second the vote and, just like that, our duo-shitty-cover-band became a trio.
Time: 8:15 p.m., June 9, 2006
It’s hot. Hotter than hot; the dry air leaks through the windows and the doors and the only repellant is an elaborate set up of fans around each AC vent, attempting to spread the cool air around the apartment and to each of the party dwellers. It’s crowded. Crowds make my throat tighten and my insides churn… leading me to question why I’d agreed to come along to the party in the first place. Tim’s nineteen and older than I am by four years, but his younger brother (who’s older than me by only two weeks) is my best friend, which gets me invites to all of the parties and various shenanigans that go on in the duplex. I usually don’t show, but Pat (Tim’s aforementioned younger brother) said that a kid with a nice set of pipes would be there (read: not the smoking pipes; voice pipes) and that it’d give us a chance to snag a singer for the band we’ve been trying to start.
Pat disappeared with his brother ages ago, leaving me to sulk in the corner with a mixed drink of three parts whiskey and two parts cola. I don’t know anyone here, save for a few acquaintances that I can’t talk about much other than the weather with. I kind of want to go home, and debate downing the rest of my drink and leaving the duplex to catch a bus back to my place.
“Garrett!”
Pat’s voice, shrill over the sound of the music, strikes down that plan. I still try to finish my drink up—and consequentially wince at the burn of whiskey against my throat. Pat finds me right where he left me, and he kind of frowns for a second before motioning for me to stand.
I clear my throat and speak over the bass: “What’s up?”
“That guy’s here,” he replies. “Upstairs with Tim. C’mon.”
We weave between clusters of people, Pat leading the way and mumbling all the ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me’s that we’ll need before racing up the staircase to the second floor of the duplex. Technically, Tim only rents out the second story apartment with his best friend, but two of their friends rent the first story apartment, which leads to the duplex being, basically, a house full of teenagers. My cheeks feel flushed and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the feeling of sweat on my skin and the dizziness from the buzz of intoxication. Away from the party, it’s cooler and calmer, which at least settles the nerves of being stuck in between large crowds of people.
Tim’s room smells like weed and tobacco. They’re still smoking, and the greeting that I get is a piece and lighter passed to me. I don’t really like smoking, but I do it. I don’t cough anymore. The high feels nice, better than the alcohol buzz. Tim musses my hair, and the sweat keeps it disheveled. I leave it be and sit by the AC vent to cool off.
Pat sits next to me and nudges me with a bony elbow. “See that guy?” he nods towards a skinny kid who’s sitting on Tim’s computer chair backwards with a cigarette between his lips. “That’s John. He’s the guy I was telling you about.”
John looks over at the sound of his name and—shit. His eyes alone are a shock; in the dim light, they look golden and I don’t even know if that’s physically possible for a human to have eyes made of liquid gold. I blink, unable to look away from his gaze, and he smiles. It’s a little lopsided, and he bites his lower lip as it spreads into the curve. I clear my throat (quietly) and offer a wave.
Pat introduces us: “John, this is Garret. Gare, John.”
“It’s nice to…” he speaks as he shuffles the chair over to us, offering me his hand. “Meet you.”
I shake the offered extremity. “Yeah,” I reply lamely. “The, uh, feeling’s mutual.”
He’s still smiling and, closer, I can tell that his eyes aren’t quite liquid gold but they’re pretty damn close. A shock of green and wow, they look almost unnatural. His pupils are dilated, and I know mine must be too—and then wonder if his eyes look so outlandish because of the weed, or if it’s true about him.
“Pat said you sing,” I say, and he nods. I realize that I haven’t let go of his hand yet and quickly drop my arm to the floor. It hits the carpet with a delicate thud, and the pipe makes its way back to me and Pat. It gives me and excuse not to try to make lame conversation with this stranger with almost-golden eyes and close my eyes when I take the hit. I keep them closed as I pass the pipe and lighter off to John and exhale slowly. The ganja’s effects are calming, and after a few more hits I’ve lost the uncomfortable buzz from the alcohol and find myself smiling and forgetting about my horrible conversational skills. At some point, John ditched the computer chair and sat cross-legged next to me and Pat.
“Alright, boys,” Tim says as he puts away the piece and the lighter. “I’m gonna go back to the party—you get yourselves acquainted and shit.”
He leaves, and the older kids that had been smoking leave with him, drawing the headcount down to three: me, Pat, and John.
Even with the marijuana loosening my strings, Pat does most of the talking with John. Turns out he used to go to the same high school as us, only he graduated last week and is enrolled in the local community college for the fall semester. He plays baseball. He’s never been in a band before, and the only reason why he’s talking to us is because Tim heard him sing and told Pat about him. He insists that he isn’t as interesting as we (read: Pat) is making him out to be.
“Can you sing something for us?” Pat asks and the excitement drips off his words like sweat off of an exercising obese man. John looks hesitant.
“It’s just us,” I say, hoping to be reassuring. “Besides, if you’re gonna be in our band you’re gonna have to get used to singin’ in front of people.”
He laughs, nods. His smile is lopsided again and I think it’s cute—and quickly banish the thought away and focus on his nose instead of his lips. He sings, and Pat decides within the first line of lyrics that he should be the singer. I second the vote and, just like that, our duo-shitty-cover-band became a trio.