Alpha

The party has grown from twenty or twenty-five to about sixty people now. I step out on the balcony for a cigarette. I wish I lived in the fifties when everyone smoked and it wasn’t a big deal to anyone. Everyone likes a drunken cigarette. It’s one of the finest pleasures I’ve discovered so far in life. I suppose that is how I started smoking. I continue to smoke because it calms my nerves, and I take pleasure in the dirty looks I get from self-righteous non-smokers. Cigarettes make for good conversation. The balcony is beginning to get crowded so I make my way back inside wherever I am.

I hate crowds. They make me anxious. I hate the word crowd. It’s dissonant. It’s vulgar. I feel like I’m suffocating in a crowd. Suffocating in a pile of ignorance and arrogance. Suffocating in my own generation. My peers. God, I hated that.
         
I discard my cigarette on the hardwood inside. As I cross the room I catch the eye of a petite blonde girl who desperately tries to act like she wasn’t looking at me. Here we go, Henry. I walk over to her and lean in.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m Arthur.”

I say it with a feigned British accent. I extend my hand. She takes it. Her eyes light up at the sound of my voice. I’m too good at this. I should be given a handicap or something. There are a few things I’m good at. Lying is one of those things. I never lie to a girl in order to sleep with her- that would be malicious. My lying is, in my mind, good-natured. I get intrinsic satisfaction out of someone believing my lies. I guess I get pleasure out of deception. Not the act of deceiving, but the fact that it works. Even stupid little lies bring me satisfaction. The smaller and more trivial the lie the better. If I tell a random girl at a party I am from Des Moines and she believes it (and why wouldn’t she?), I am happy.

“OH MY GOD! Are you really British?” she asks. She is overly animated. She has been drinking.

“Absolutely”

“That’s so sexy! Say something else!” she demands.

Too easy, Henry. I appease her by talking in my accent for five or so minutes. I quickly become annoyed with her drunkenness, so I make my exit. She is noticeably upset by my leaving which only makes me want to leave more. Of course I could have my way with her that night if I wanted. Quite easily actually. She would have been more than happy to go home with Arthur the boy with the British accent. But as I pointed out earlier, I’m not here for sex, I’m here for words.
          
I make eye contact with another girl, this time a brunette in a purple dress. I tend to like brunettes more, and purple is my favorite color. She has nice teeth. I make my move.

“Hello,” I open. I give her my trademark smile- no teeth, one eyebrow raised.

She looks intrigued, yet a little guarded. I don’t blame her. At first glance I’m a snake, a con-artist. The smart ones catch onto it fast. They see me as the tempter, holding out a poisoned apple. You can see it in their eyes.

“Hi, I’m Rose,” she says. She seems sober enough. Now it was time to turn on the charm.

“What a lovely name. I’m Henry.”

I give her my real name because I love a girl with nice teeth, and I really do love the name Rose.

“What year are you?” she asks. Small talk. Always small talk. That’s all they know how to do when confronted with a stranger. Have the same conversation over and over again until they can almost answer for the other person. It’s not human. It’s computed.

“I’m a sophomore studying Journalism.” I decide to cut the shit and give her my test.

“What is your favorite book?” I ask.

“My favorite book?”

I can tell she that she has never been asked that question at a party before. Most girls haven’t- unless they’ve talked to me. I love to read. It’s my passion. I think everyone should always be reading something. I find people I like in books, but I can’t have conversations with them.

I wonder what she will say. I look at her expectantly, eyebrows raised.

“Well that’s a tough question,” she responds. “I guess I’d have to say it’s a tie between Gatsby and Jane Eyre.”

She has passed the test. I’m impressed. I let her know.

“What you’ve just told me makes you the most attractive female at this party in my eyes,” I tell her. She smiles widely, but looks a little confused.

“And why is that?”

“Because you read.” She still isn’t quite sure what I mean, but I like to keep it that way. You’ve got to set yourself apart from the pack. You’ve got to be memorable. Intelligence is sexy, but don’t mistake pretentiousness for intelligence. The world is full of pretentious assholes.

“Well what is your favorite book, Henry?”

I love it when they call me by name. You could say it’s a weakness. I decide to lay it on thick with the whole mysterious gig.

“I haven’t read it yet”

Smooth, Henry. This really gets her interested. Her guard is down now.
         
I decide to play the small-talk game with her until I am overcome with anxiety due to the amount of people in the room. I give her my number, tell her to text me sometime, and move toward the door. She looks disappointed. I turn back.

“By the way, purple is my favorite color,” I say. I let my gaze hold for a moment, then head for the door. You’re too good, old sport. You’re too good. I like to think of myself as Jay Gatsby sometimes. A real charmer. She likes Gatsby, and so do I.

I take in a big hit of fresh air, which I have found is the best cure for my anxiety. I think of Rose, and the text she will send me within the next half hour.

I pull out of the parking lot. I’m the only car leaving. Everyone else seems to be arriving. I am used to this. People sometimes tell me I leave the party early. I usually respond by telling them I’m just ahead of the game. Either that or I scoff. That’s another thing I’m good at: scoffing. It feels good to let out a hardy scoff when someone says something particularly dumb or assuming. It lets them know that you really are ahead of them, above them. Above them where it counts.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I know who it is without having to look, but I think I’ll keep her waiting until tomorrow.

Rose. I really do love that name.