|
|
Frat Row
They're out on the deck. Three piece suits insulating themselves in the seventy degree weather. Sweating. Heavy cologne carried by the wind, three houses down, towards me, seated in a plastic lawn chair, feet resting on an abondoned tree stump.
They stand there, uncomfortable, flowers nearly wilting in their clammy sweaty hands. Their heads turn to the left; they watch the girls parade, nearly twisting ankles and slipping down the sidewalk. The overly-semi-dressed girls. What kind of life would that be? I hope I never know. The champaign bottles pop. It reminds of childhood, when the boys threw noisemakers at dogs and laughed as they skittered away, yelping. Instead of yelps I hear giggles. Giggles of girls pretending to be adults, believing this is what it means to be an adult in college. Playing dress-up. A glorified version of the game called house. I wonder when people cease gaming. Does one ever win the game or is it a never ending Monopoly game? It popped again. "Shit." The intelligent conversation on my right drifts over to me, carried by a strong, southerly gust. I wonder if I should go inside. It was peaceful out here. The people compel me to watch them, flashing their feathers, warbling, glittering in the soon to be setting sun. I was taught that the males were the brilliantly feathered birds, whistling their melodic desire. Now they are instead the ones who only sing the mesmerizing songs, catching the brightly plummaged females in the bouquets of roses and baby's breath, petals beaded with champagne. The girls have all arrived. No, I take that back. Couples continue to walk to the house, continue to trip over each other's airs of self-importance, arms entwined, fragrances battling for dominance, stifling the bouquets so carefully chosen. I just realized this is the first time I haven't seen all the girls walk by in nearly identical clothes. Oh of course, I forget. They are individuals. Individuals who wear a mirror and some days paint the mirror or cover it in decals so it does not so closely reflect everything around them. Their giddiness is setting in. Is it on purpose to quell...to quell what? What can one even feel in this situation? inhibitions? conscience? common sense? disgust? the threat of individuality and standing apart from the throbbing mass of satins and sequins, of sashes and corsages, too tight neckties, too expensive and hot black suits? The sun couldn't bear to shine on what will be a night to make or break many of these people who are congregating on the neighbor's lawn. I wonder how many tears were, are, will be shed. how many relationships will be ruined? how many actions will be regretted? if any words would desire to be sucked back into their lungs? The motorcycles compete for noise and speed, their gutteral outbursts are punctuated by the continual sharp blasts of corks flying. I just saw a girl from high school jiltingly glide down the sidewalk and past my house. Her straight brown hair is blond curls piled on her head. Her yellow dress reminds me of one my friend wore to a costume party in the seventh grade. My friend was dressed as Little Bo Peep. Unlike my friend, this girl has sheep; her entourage of frillly glitter and sequined coated clones walk on either side and behind her. It is now six o'clock. The transportation has arrived. Who needs t.v. when you live on frat row? I watch, bemusedly, laughingly, as they line up for a large group picture, sink their spiked heels into the mud, trip down the stairs, and climb into the two yellow school buses.
prefix | suffix
|
