The following is a work of fiction, mostly in the sense that it isn’t a work of fact, journalistic or otherwise. Any resemblance to real events or persons is entirely coincidental. This is the second of a multi-part narrative (Part One).
In case you’re wondering, the panhandler was actually slightly entertaining, enough so that even someone disinclined towards generosity might have dug a quarter out of their wallet corner. The train pulls out of 137th street, and rolls onto a viaduct, again bathed in the spring afternoon light. Almost instantly, one of the phones buzzes with a text. There apparently is a “free” tonight, which is great, fantastic, good shit, and also opens up another problem.
Procurement, if you will.
Actually, let’s back that up, for two reasons. First of all, someone should have bothered to introduce these kids, and perhaps tell you how many of them they are. Sorry. Anyway, this group of five high schoolers–three more so than the other two–has been through a fair bit together. Not in the sappy, characters-in-a-long-running-family-sitcom-sense, but more in the sense that they’ve had to endure the company of each other for far too long.
The kind-of ringleader of the group was a character named James Cohen, who was, as per the classic, well-worn underachiever mold, clever but distinctly lazy. As it stood on this mid spring day, he was on the wait-list for Columbia University. Not to spoil this story, but they won’t accept him. He knows it, they know it, and his guidance counselor sure as hell knows it, but thanks to his triple legacy, the admissions committee up at 116th will go through the motions of reshuffling his application and sending him another letter in a month or so. Of all the kids in the group, James was the one with the closest to a decent social life outside of hanging out with these other four misfits (read: losers), and he of course was filled with the most grandiose visions of college parties, women, and supposedly, much easier course work. Discounting the Columbia string-along, James was probably going to stay in-state for college, either at one of the more respectable New York state schools or some small liberal arts school his parents would shell out for to paper over the vague embarrassment of their well-tutored child not getting into a “prestigious” university.
James’ best friend in this group, and the only one of them he would trust with information of even mild confidentiality, was a kid named Steve Ronson. The two had gone to middle school on the Upper West Side together. He too was an academic underachiever, at least relative to his parents’ expectations, but he also worked much harder than he generally let on, and is headed to Chicago for school in the fall. He could probably use the distance from New York. Steve was once a fairly respected kid in middle school, but a dreadful faux-pas in freshman year–the specifics of which are not relevant to where he and his friends stand in early April, 2011–consigned him to his now mediocre social life. People far removed from his social circle still occasionally reference his name. Negatively. Still, he’s a good, kind kid, and most importantly for the afternoon’s purposes, has a fake. It was Steve’s cards and bookkeeping that kept that game back at the pizzeria going.
Alex Williams rounded out the three closer-knit kids in the group. He also went to the same Upper West Side middle school as James and Steve, and his continued association with the two was basically the residue of those initial three years together (Alex, unlike the other two, had went to parochial school before 6th grade). The three got along well enough, but over the past year Steve and James had started behaving more as a pair, with Alex stuck as sort of a third wheel. Alex probably cemented this frost by subtly trying to cock-block James at a somewhat grimy party a few months ago. Subtle enough for plausible deniability, but James can truly hold a grudge at times.
The other two kids on the train that day, the two not as “in the loop” (presuming one even wants in on this ‘loop’), were Lewis Hernandez and Richard Yee. They were the only non-white kids of that five. Those two facts aren’t related, unless you want them to be. Richard was the one who didn’t have money, or the inclination, to join the poker game earlier. Their slight isolation from the other three was mostly a function of not having gone to the same middle school as the other three. Anyway, Lewis and Richard were both on the school newspaper, which was a truly depressing experience, least of all because no one else gave a shit about them being on the newspaper. The two often played ball with James, Steve and Alex on Friday afternoons. Both lived in Queens–Richard in Flushing and Lewis in Astoria–but probably were going to crash in “the city” if the evening got too interesting.
The five kids stand outside of the newer head-house at the 72nd street station, having just got off the train. James asks Alex, who got the original text about the parent-free house,
“Is this going to be just a free or an actual party?”
Before the answer, a note about terminology here. A “free” simply means that the parents are away. Typically this lends itself to a small, usually exclusively male night where the guys sit around and have Meaningful Conversations, play video games, and compare notes on attractive women in their classes they couldn’t get with. Beers are typically invovled. A “party” typically features the parent free house, but more people, more interesting diversions, and more importantly, a decent number of girls (or should we say women?).
“Not sure. Keep in mind this thing wasn’t even supposed to happen just a half hour ago,” Alex responded. “At any rate, there is drink to be acquired.”
But first, they were going to go to the house in question, just as soon as the kid’s parents left for their upstate country house. That supposedly was going to happen soon, as signaled by a text he would send 10 minutes after they drove away. They sat on the benches in the not-quite-a-park next to the station and waited.