To See And Be Seen

[MurderWeasel]

((Alton Gerow continued from We're Milling Through The Grinder, Grinding Through The Mill))

Alton swept into the party with flash and panache, as was his style. He brought with him two cases of craft beer, two bottles of cheap whiskey, and a handle of vodka, all of which was deposited in the kitchen, donations to the common cause of getting the population of George Hunter High completely inebriated for the last big bash of the school year. He also carried a significantly nicer and pricier bottle of absinthe and stashed it in the back of a cabinet during a moment in which everyone’s attention was drawn by what looked to be a brewing fight but ultimately fizzled into nothing, asking a junior girl too shy to actually drink herself to track Forrest down and let her know its location. The gift seemed likely to be in keeping with their host’s tastes.

Neither early nor late, Alton drifted from room to room, each offering its own unique blend of excesses and experiences to sample. He was smiles and greetings, pats on the shoulder and shared chuckles over not-particularly-funny jokes. His movements were loose and casual, his conversation the same, a glass tumbler he’d bought on the way and would ultimately abandon in the sink with Forrest's dishware filled with alcohol not of his own provision always in his hand.

He was dressed to stand out but not to clash with the vibe, the formality of black slacks and a forest green button-down offset by the buttons being undone to reveal a pale yellow undershirt and the sleeves being rolled. If he broke a sweat, it didn’t show, even when he danced in the packed basement, on beat to tunes he would have never chosen and had never before heard, face to face and front to back with one girl and then another and another, getting closer only to spin away a minute or two later.

When marijuana was proffered, he declined politely, withholding for a change his customary judgment ("Leave the dope for the dopes") in the spirit of the day. He watched with understated interest as the chemically-impaired fumbled, risking life and limb on senseless excursions or relenting to carnal impulses. He passed doors that were open and doors that were closed and doors that were locked to ensure the privacy of party-goers and doors that were locked to keep party-goers out. He raised an eyebrow and took a quick sip as he eavesdropped on various games—the truth was, he was daring enough but never had he ever cared to be the center of a spectacle of public humiliation.

Alton had a word and a grin for everyone he passed, almost always with a name on his tongue to match to the face before him and a casual reintroduction for those who’d somehow forgotten his own. Much like the majority of those present, he agreed that everything had come together wonderfully, that Swiftball was truly a smashing success.

The funny thing was, when it was all over, when the energy had ebbed and the games had run their course and most of the revelers had faded from fatigue or faded to hidden locations for private liaisons, nobody could remember having any sort of truly meaningful interaction with him, and nobody could pinpoint exactly when he’d left.

((Alton Gerow continued in Patzers and Paretos))