Jumping Into Water From a Great Height (pt. 2)

In which Pierre finally completes his sentence and Henry has a misadventure en route to the toilet.

Pierre makes us wait until he has fished a cigarette out of his pocket, and lit it, and taken a extended, loving drag of it. Then he continues, with no more clarity than before 'I... just don't get... much out of it.' He pouts his lips and waves his cigarette around in a sort of resigned motion.

'What on earth to you mean?' I ask, initially more flustered by the delivery and the lack of a punchline than by the content of the statement itself. I was used to these sorts of irreverancies from Pierre.

'Well, I grant that Nature is the root of all being, the anchor point of our life-world, but I just don't get all this personal connection nonsense. I've never felt it. I like concrete and glass and books, man.'

Nicole shakes her head incredulously. 'The man I love. Can you believe it?'

'I'm not sure how to talk to you anymore.' Corey says.

'Just like this, it's easy.' Pierre smirks. 'One word in front of the other. Just like walking.'

'Screw you.'

'So you really don't like trees and oceans and all that stuff?' I ask.

'I don't dislike them. I'm not a bloody monster.' He grins, looking down at his costume and relishing the irony of his statement with a pleasure that borders on the sexual. I often got the feeling, that were it a viable option, Pierre would make love to the phrases he conjured.

'Please don't misquote me.' He continues. 'I just find no personal connection.'

'You're crazy!' Corey shakes her head.

'My thoughts exactly.' Nicole agrees.

'Erm, will you excuse me?' I ask, darting between them. I suddenly have a desperate urge, both physical and spiritual, to find a bathroom

'Nature calls.' I sing over my shoulder, grinning at Pierre.

'Nice one.' He winks. ‘Respect.’

I head towards the house. I really had to go, but I was also a little concerned about how fast the tension had risen. I was worried that if it became too serious of an argument my real quest for the evening would be derailed. Pierre was a dear friend, but he was also a provocateur who cherished outrage and irony. Corey was also a dear friend, but she was a morally stringent doctoral candidate in post-colonial literature. They were not the ideal match for innocuous poolside chit chat.

I worm my way through the crowd of cologne-soaked bodies between the tall cedar hedge and the pool. Inside, the house is a minimalist, post-modern maze of white walls, pristine tiled floors, and geometrical art. It is deserted, eerily so. It reminds me of a set from a Jordan Peele movie and also a line from one of Pierre's blog posts that had always stuck with me: 'Any architecture may also be read as an expression of fear, for every physical form of a dwelling delineates the cruelties that the resident is most afraid of. Every generation must learn anew how their houses will be haunted.' Truthfully, I had no idea what he meant by it but I think about this quote almost everyday.

I open a door leading just off of the entrance hall, supposing that it must be the restroom. I truly couldn't have been more mistaken. Inside is a large bed on which three naked folks are twisted up in what seems to be a highly baletic and dextrous manoeuvre. One of the - shall we say… athletes? - looking up as I enter, has the patience and poise to inform me to 'look next door, gaffer' before he returns his equipment to the endeavour. I click the door shut. Surprisingly, I feel little embarrassment. Perhaps it was the way the guy said 'gaffer'. It's sort of a magic word, isn't it? It instantly cushions the most edgy, passionate situations into a tea-party like atmosphere. Or maybe it was how they all just seemed so chill, as if they had expected me to walk in on them or something. Perhaps they had left the door unlocked on purpose? Maybe, that could be it..

These thoughts in mind, I scan the hallway. There is another door to the right, not six feet away. I walk over and open it, circumspectly. I am relieved to find that sure enough, this is indeed the bathroom.

Now I am going to let you in on a little secret.

I have lately taken to 'sitting'.

I know right? This is, let's face it, quite transgressive - and, dare I say, evolved - for a fellow born biologically male and some commentators (those most afraid of FREUDIAN CASTRATION) would surely see this as a relinquishing of the GREAT MALE ADVANTAGE. But G. M.A. be damned, sometimes it is nice to just sit down for a moment and give things a think. Sit down, lil’ bitch, be humble, you know? Take a break, have a kit-kat. Lots of people have thought about it before me.

I gaze across the surprisingly rustic bathroom - pine floor, wooden cupboards, sink of dark marble, walls chrome-grey - at a wall-print of a flower bouquet. I feel the cool, cradling touch of the wooden seat on my blanched intellectual buttocks. Forgive me, but I think about two more things.

The first has to do with the flower print on the wall (a cluster of yellow lilies) and how the bathroom, even in the most avant-garde constructions, is always the one hold-out from an earlier time, the final bastion of resistance to change. The human body will always need a toilet, a sink, and a shower, because there will always be shit, dirt, and sweat. There's only so much a revolutionary aesthete can do about that. The Bathroom should, in my humble opinion, be renamed 'The Great Room of Receptacles'. Next year, they should hold the conservative party convention in a giant bathroom. They could have a whole bit where they pretend to be liberals and 'piss away' public money. HAHAHA.

The second thought I have is slightly less ingenious and it has to do with the Daughter of the House; Eve Dawson. You see, I have been in love with Eve Dawson for years. Much of that time has been spent agonizing from afar but recently we have struck up an acquaintance and I have allowed myself to permit the idea that she might actually fancy me. Tonight is the night I will finally tell her how I feel. This is my mission.

Also - and please don't tell anybody this - part of the reason I have taken to 'sitting' lately is because I overheard Eve a few weeks ago saying how much she likes a 'sitter'. I tried it right away. I thought, this isn't so bad, I could get used to this. Nicole once said to me, her and Eve being fairly close, that Eve was 'physically straight but personally gay', which Nicole explained to mean that the only thing Eve really liked about men was their physical form, and more specifically, their cocks. The more traditionally 'feminine' traits they had the better.

I told Nicole that this sure boded well for me. I had a friend in my sophomore year at Uni who once affectionately called me a Lesbian. I was a lesbian with a cock, that’s what I was. I was perfect for Eve! My hopes were sky high. In a far-off garden of my imagination, I heard the faint tinkle of wedding bells.

When I step outside the bathroom, however, I am disappointed to find that I am no longer alone. Nicole, Pierre and Corey are waiting for me.

"There he is!'' Nicole shouts, pointing at me. 'Trying to escape.'

'Guilty.' I mutter.

"We have a question for you to clear up.' Pierre declares.

'Oh god.' I mutter again. I feel deeply embarrassed all of a sudden, as if they could read my bathroom thoughts, as if they could hear that ecstatic clamour in my mind, that fanciful flight of lovebirds.

'As an esteemed Philosopher, do you think that the modern 'hiding' away of death in industrial slaughterhouses is a chief cause of post-modern social alienation?' Nicole asks.

'Why do you ask?' I reply.

"Oh we were just having a fight about it.' Nicole continues. 'I believe this is so, but Pierre essentially thinks that we overstate the importance of material events in social histories.'

'What would you posit instead?' I ask Pierre.

'Well..' He begins, in that regal, academic manner of his, as if to speak was to unroll a delicate ancient manuscript. 'If I had to give one answer I would say... the occult.'

'The invisible? The dark powers?' I ask, incredulously.

'Yes, the invisible, the dark powers. The hidden.' He spoke with an arrogant tone, as if to suggest that we were silly for not already understanding what he was going to say. 'Now don't misquote me - I still believe the economy to be influential on human affairs. I simply believe invisible forces are no longer given their due. They may actually turn out to be of the highest importance, when all is said and done.'

'Interesting, Pierre, very interesting.' I say. I am racking my brain for a response when I hear a voice call out from behind me.

'Henry!' I whirl around. I could recognize that enchanting wind in the middle of a cyclone. It’s Eve's voice, and it echoes down the fabric-less hallway like a basketball in a gymnasium. She bounces toward me, light footed as a dryad. She throws her alabaster arms around my neck. She is dressed in a sailors cap and a navy blue captain's uniform.

'Charon?' I ask.

'Yes yes yes!' She beams. 'I'm so thrilled you came.'

'Of course.' I reply.

In my periphery vision I am dismayed to note Nicole rolling her eyes. I believe this is because Eve Dawson is so sexy and I am so smitten and all of this dynamic is embarrassingly obvious to everyone around us.

'Can I show you something, Henry?' Eve asks, her eyes wide as suns.

'Of course.'