Method of Mancy

There is a glimmer of movement in my peripheral vision and I glance up to the wall by the door where some anime is being projected. I recognize the show, but don’t care enough to follow along, staring instead at the neon signs around the interior of the bar. The drink I’ve ordered is nowhere near as good as it was the last time and I wonder if it’s the same recipe at all. I keep trying to sip on it, but just can’t force myself to drink it, and eventually give up, asking the waiter if I can have something else. I settle on a regular highball, which the waiter brings not long after.

I melt into the booth, invisible as ever and sip on the mediocre drink. My attention flutters back and forth between each sub-conversation happening in our large group, but none of them give an opportunity for me to participate. For a moment, I think I might have vanished entirely. But then the birthday boy proves me wrong by suddenly blanketing me with his drunken arms and spitting out words he knows he should keep to himself. I try his drink, a sickly sweet blue concoction that makes my nose crinkle, and place it back on the table like it might explode. He returns to his conversation as if he forgot my presence as quickly as he remembered it, and I go back to listening to everyone talk without me.

After downing several shots in quick succession, the birthday boy gets up to take a bathroom break and I follow close behind, my own bladder full of whiskey and club soda. As we’re waiting, a couple of guys walk up to the line and the one at the front yells a question at me more bewildering than any of the other drunken mumbles I’ve heard.

Is this the small penis line?!

I look left and right to see who the hell he thinks he’s talking to and none of the other people in line are looking at him with any recognition. I also realize I’m the only woman in said line. I look back at the guy and he’s still staring directly at me, waiting for a response. I wonder, what’s his game here? Is he clumsily trying to shit on everyone in line? Is he trying to imply that I would know the answer personally? Or is he just a drunk weirdo trying to be funny and really missing the mark? Yeah, probably that. 

I really wouldn’t know, dude, I spit out, delivering it with an air of finality. An air of finality that, of course, a drunk guy will ignore.

The drunk and his friend continue to press on, now bringing up other penis-related topics to chat loudly about. The birthday boy gleefully joins in their babble and they start to talk back and forth over me. It’s immediately too irritating so I squish myself between the birthday boy and the wall, pushing past him ahead in the line so he can entertain the drunkards and I can escape this nonsense. After I’m done in the bathroom, I return to the table as quickly as possible so they don’t have a chance to talk at me again.

The night continues on much the same as before, and I slowly morph into a creature of surveillance–a shadow of a human with eyes and ears to take in information, but not given a voice to speak with–blending perfectly into the background like some sort of sci-fi spy tech. I’m living only in standby mode, watching and waiting.

Suddenly, I am activated as a member of the group addresses me. But he’s only asking me about someone else. “Is [your lover] still coming? When is he going to be here?” I provide the requested update like a voice-activated virtual assistant, and as soon as my answer is delivered, the conversation sweeps right over me again like a cloud pushing across the plains.

We move locations, in search of grease and calories to offset all the booze. I even greedily devour a limp, oversized slice of pizza as I hang onto the edge of the table. The group’s bickering is louder now without the competition of so much ambient noise, and their laughter bounces off the graffiti-plastered walls. I pose with the birthday boy for a celebratory photo (my fleeting moment in the social spotlight) and then I vanish again.

This time, our new environment has so much more interesting detail for me to take in, so I stop looking toward the door and look around our table instead. I try to read the many layers of paint scribbled on the walls, finding creatively crude writer names I would never be able to think of myself and funny phrases scrawled in tiny letters. All the while, I continue listening to the group’s conversation, looking for a way in. Looking for anything I can contribute, any way I can participate, but I still find nothing. The current topic is so far over my head that I barely understand what they’re saying in the first place. So I start counting all the AWOLs I can find and try not to let myself wonder why I’m even here.

My lover arrives, fresh from his shift at work, and I nearly knock the whole table over in my hurry to stand up. I try to walk and not run across the few feet between us but I still crash right into his chest, quickly gathered up by his strong arms into the welcome warmth of his embrace. He greets the group and they immediately halt their chatter to welcome him, bubbling with not-at-all-concealed interest for the newest addition to the night out. They sparkle with new energy and cluster around him like a shimmering school of fish, herding each other out of the pizza place and onto the street toward our last location of the night.

Despite being joined hand to hand, none of this enthusiasm they have for him spills over to me as we make our way to the next spot. But I don’t care one bit. Every considerate step he takes next to me on the sidewalk breathes my existence back into me, solidifying my place in reality. Every little touch he graces me with fills me with warmth against the chilly night. And with his eyes magnetized to me at nearly every moment, he pulls me out of the background and back into the light.