Sitting Down

Oh crap. Did anyone hear that?

No; the room is focused on Anthony and Alisha or Aleecia or Alice-sha talking about how they’re going to vote for Nader and make a difference in our democratic process. Yes, thank you for ruining everyone’s life—whichever you are. Thank God there’s a Bush supporter over there named Kelly. That’ll keep them busy for hours. And I’m supportive of this.

Sweet. Well, here I am, at Amanda’s behest, wasting my Saturday night at this party where I don’t know anyone or care to know anyone. I could be at home, cleaning my toe or dusting a mirror, or writing a letter to Amnesty International on green, totally-recycled paper, but no, here I am, sitting on this chic black leather couch with the ass seam of my pants split wide open.

Hang on. Let me pretend to scratch my back…oh yeah. Yep. The split goes all the way up to my belt. My beautiful embroidered grey silk Valentino pants that I dieted for a month to get into—obviously not long enough—have gone and ripped right in half. Naturally, the lines of these beautiful pants would have been ruined if I wore underwear; yes, this free-balling event brought to you by non-slave labor manufactured Valentino. Stupid high wage labour.

This couldn’t have happened when I was sitting at home, where they could bust all they wanted and I’d be mildly amused; they couldn’t have busted when I was riding the El—embarrassing maybe, but not strange for a Saturday night in Chicago. It couldn’t happen in the back room of a club where I’d gain popularity; no, I had to come here, to this big ol party, and sit down. I don’t even have a drink to nurse me through this. That’ll teach me to be sober.

The room is a great big huge rectangle. It is the largest living room I have ever seen in my entire life, and the door is at the opposite end of the room. It might as well be in Kenosha. There is a big huge table in the middle, where the food is piled high on top of itself in a grand buffet. There are 6 bird-of-paradise in a tall vase in the middle. Maybe I could stand up and grab a plate, cover, then run out. I’d have to return the plate though, and who’d eat off of it? Well, considering this crowd…never mind. Or, I could use the flowers in some elaborate Carmen Miranda ass-covered-by-flowers design scheme, and canasta my way out of here, wowing everyone and making a clean getaway all at the same time. No, Jonathan would have a hissy fit about someone moving his precious flowers.

Why oh why are these couches leather? Even if I managed to somehow create a diversion, say, down the street, where everyone would go, I could escape, but first I’d have to peel my ass off of the sofa. The ripping noise of peeling flesh would boomerang the guests back to me, to gather around, to see what was going on. They would discover me half raised up on one side, crying for butter. Then they’d call me Sticky Ass and I’d be banished from these lousy parties where people’s asses can get stuck to the furniture. Where’s the surgeon general’s warning on that one, huh?

Where the hell is Amanda. She was wearing a sweater, wasn’t she? I could borrow it and wrap it around my body. She’d make me buy her a new one, though. That’s fine. Unless I’d somehow rip the sweater, too. She probably has some nice Guatemalan sweater that won’t fall apart. I should arrange a protest outside of Milan, protesting shoddy Italian labor, and alerting the world to the Plight of my Ass. CNN could cover me 24 hours a day, with big headlines, and maybe an Internet video. I’d like that.

What would John Kerry do?

Over in the corner, blocking my escape route, Joshua is telling Sarah and Robert something that is involving some huge amount of witty repartée. I know they’re going to catch sight of me. Then Joshua will rope in some friends and they’ll all stand at the opposite end of the room and talk about me.

--Look at him. Isn’t he that writer or something?
--He’s pretty lousy company, sitting there all by himself. He probably thinks he’s better than us.
--I bet he’s writing a story about us right now in his head.
--He’s not even drinking. What kind of writer doesn’t drink?
--Well, when I get famous, I’m going to have to get addicted to heroin so that my recovery will help my comeback.

And so on. Oh please let them stay self absorbed. Please, please, please. God they’re talking about me, I’m sure of it. They’re looking at me right now. Why did I come here.

--I hear he doesn’t even write his own stuff.
--Yeah! He has this disgruntled homeless lesbian ghost writer with no leg who does all the writing for him.
--I bet he pays her $10 a story, plus a bottle of cheap booze.
--I know! He keeps her in a basement dungeon along with Tiny Tim while he goes out to the ball with Cinderella.

I suppose I’ll just be content to sit here forever. Maybe one day Jonathan and Gregory will move, and I’ll be left here for the next tenants. I am sure they won’t want to take the couch with them. How would the advertise the apartment? What are the abbreviations for “Large, sunny room; Includes Ass Stuck Man.” Maybe the new tenants will have children who will use me as a jungle gym, or they’ll test out science projects on me, like making me eat baking soda then pouring vinegar in my mouth. I could teach them different languages; I could earn my rent coaching them at Trivial Pursuit. Who knows; I might become very happy sitting here for the rest of my life. Good southern exposure; a nice tree outside. Would I get secretary’s ass?

Oh great. George is coming over. Amanda told me I just had to meet him, that’d we’d get along beautifully. How long is it going to take for him to discover that I’m going to live the rest of my life on this couch? Oh of course he’s hot. Why wouldn’t he be. “Will you marry me?” Sure, but the couch comes included. And no Valentino Tux. He stopped to fill up his plate. Maybe there’ll be an earthquake and I’ll just slide right out of the apartment into a crack in the earth and be done with it. Clear skies; no lightening; no chance for that saving grace, of course. Here he is. I’m smiling, I’m smiling, I’m smiling:

“Hi; you must be George. George; if you were me, what would you do if…”