Bottoms Up

by Ben Kujawski

The leaves were wet on the ground and they stuck to everything that would come in contact with them. They stuck to the knee of Mike Pillipins’ pale grey corduroy pants as he crouched next to the basement window. His hands were in his pockets because he didn’t like the feel of the wet grass on them. The pockets acted as a sort of retainer, forcing him to balance on his haunches.  All the houses of the neighborhood were dark save this one and his own. It wasn’t raining any more. It was dark but you could still make out the intricacies of the passing clouds.

What brought him here was an enigmatic occurrence which took place every Saturday at 7pm. Everyone in the neighborhood would converge on the house of Earl and Mimi MacLamarren. Everyone except him, for the five years he had been there. Not once was there an invitation extended. Pepe and Florian Concalves moved in four months ago and they were even invited. They had moved from Alabama and at first were very friendly to him, but then something changed and they cut off communication. Like a switch had been flipped. And with the very flipping of the switch they were also invited to the gatherings at 502 Marimont St.

The blade of light projecting from the basement window and onto his face was a vibrating pink. It vibrated its way out of the tanning beds as they sat, waiting to be occupied. There were about fifty to sixty people in that basement and not a stitch of clothing on any one of them. That is, unless you counted the hats which echoed Carmen Miranda or the copious mardi gras beads. He squinted in disbelief. For a moment he was glad he had not been invited. These people were freaks and he was disgusted. But the same loneliness that brought him here soon made him wish he had somebody to share this bizarre experience with.

He’d moved from the suburbs of St. Louis five years ago and hadn’t managed to make any friends. The only people he spoke to were acquaintances at church and the grocery store clerks who joked about him when he was approaching their registers and then again when he was gone from them. Coming from the Midwest, there was something about his appearance that just did not mesh with the tastes of the Eastern Seaboard. Perhaps it was his long pale face and his thin light brown hair, his slack jaw, or his bland dress which denoted no stylistic aptitude whatsoever. His overall appearance seemed to be that of an item which had been left to become sun-faded in a main street store window.

Steel drums blared from a top-of-the-line Marantz stereo system and at the far end of the room was a bar designed like a tiki hut. The walls were painted with a highly detailed panoramic beach mural of Polynesian influence that featured nude men and women of varying skin tones and ethnicities. There was even a nude Elvis -- or so it appeared -- sporting Hawaiian leis and singing to a group of disrobed women. Next to the tanning beds was a fireplace and next to that -- and closest to him -- was a hot tub where perhaps a few too many guests soaked their naked bodies.

Hypnotized by the depravity occurring before his eyes, the importance of balance had slipped his mind. His pocketed hands were unable to escape their corduroy restraints in time to prevent his bulbous forehead from thudding against the window. This made a loud enough noise that several people in the hot tub looked up and were immediately able to recognize his face pressed against the glass. He didn’t look in; he didn’t want to know if he’d been spotted. Frantically jerking his hands from his pockets, he sprung up and shuffled away toward his home with head down and eyes fixed solely to the ground in front of him. Any thoughts about what had just occurred were pushed from his mind in favor of the sole objective of locking himself safely inside of his home.  A warmness crept its way into his cheeks and his forehead. Entering the safety of his house, he stood at the door seething with adrenaline and feverishly attempting to remove his still tied shoes. With shoes off, he closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and then, brushing aside the lace curtain, peered out the sidelights. There was nothing to see outside except for his maroon ’97 LeSabre, and its magnetic ichthys.

Mike’s mind was a torrent of uncertainty, flinging itself around the confines of his skull, attempting to comprehend his predicament. He sweated and scratched at his neck until it was red. Eventually he convinced himself that they had not seen him and even if they had, he would just pretend like he didn’t know what they were talking about. That night he prayed, asking God to make sure he hadn’t been seen.

Sunday came and went. He didn’t go outside the entire day -- in fact, he didn’t intentionally look out a single window, lest he should see any of his neighbors. When the sunlight coming through his windows would find its way into his peripheral vision, he would quickly avert his eyes elsewhere. With the aid of his crippling anxiety, Mike eventually convinced himself that he might be was coming down with something and that it might be best to skip church just in case.  He couldn’t risk knowing if they knew; he just wanted to pretend it didn’t happen.

Monday came and work provided an excuse. At the very least, for eight hours a day he’d be safely within the confines of the Aerosata Technologies’ human resources department. He also ate out a lot during the next few weeks, at restaurants closer to work than home. He gave himself excuses to go to the store and pick things up which “he needed” such as fly swatters and new tapes for his answering machine.  On weekends, he’d volunteer at the church: serving in the soup kitchen, calling bingo numbers, and washing pastor C.J’s Ford Taurus. And when all else failed to occupy his time, he drove around in unfamiliar neighborhoods until it was time to go home and go to bed.For nearly three weeks he hadn’t seen a single person from his neighborhood and was beginning to believe that he had gotten away with his botched foray into covert reconnaissance. Seated in front of the television, Mike had prepared himself something of a celebratory breakfast: three eggs scrambled with store-brand American cheese, two slices of white bread spread thinly with store-brand grape jelly, and a cup of Lipton tea. The eggs were cooked on a high heat which had dried them into crumbles which resembled what it might be like if somebody had taken a fork to the bottom of an old sponge. The American cheese looked like melted plastic, binding the crumbles together. It was just the way he liked it.

He thought about how great the foldable TV dinner table he was using worked and that it was too bad that nobody ever came over to use the other four in the set that he bought. He wondered what kind of wood it was made out of. It was fiberboard covered in a plastic “woodgrain”, but he thought it was possibly oak . On the television set, a man and a woman with never ending smiles demonstrated how to attach ornaments to a Christmas wreath made of fake golden branches. As the second forkful of plasticky ovum entered his mouth, there came a knock at the door.

The eggs stuck in his mouth, he was unable to swallow them so he spit them back onto the plate, a string of saliva trailing behind and draping from his chest to his chin. Being in direct line of sight to the door, he knew he couldn’t hide. Two days ago he had finally declared it safe to open the blinds but now the move had sunk him and Earl MacLamarren was looking straight at the back of his head.

Walking to the door, he began to realize that the air had all been sucked out of his house and that he could not breathe. In fact, the closer he got to the door, the less air there was. Yet he continued to walk closer, his limbs working against his own well being. He couldn’t remember getting up from his chair and now he was at the door, his hand reaching toward its own doom. Opening the door, his strategy revealed itself to him: Make the first move, grab the wheel of the conversation, and DO NOT LET HIM IN.

“Hey! Earl how ya doing? I’m actually just about to step out.”

That was all he could think of and thus control was swiftly grabbed from him as Earl ignored Mike’s statement of unavailability.

“Don’t forget to turn off your TV”, Earl pointed past Mike towards the man and woman who were still smiling. His teeth were like theirs: an unearthly, laboratory white made to intimidate the stained imperfect teeth of the everyman. The contrast of his unseasonal tan exaggerated the whiteness so that the impeccable smile became the first feature one’s eyes would meet. His skin was taut and smooth save for a tiny bit of looseness on his neck. But the minuscule jowls only seemed to multiply his regimented handsomeness, acting less like a sign of aging and more like the tapered fins of a cadillac.

Earl continued, “May I come in? It’s freezing out today.”

Mike stepped aside, his strategies failing him one after another. The intrepid defender he thought himself mere seconds ago was now a panicked inchworm dangling on its silken string, waiting to be eaten. Earl’s eyes swept the foyer of the ranch style home, taking note of its paltry decor. As he spoke his eyes continued to analyze the lonely habitarium...

“We don’t really know each other too well Mike.”

“No I guess not, I-“

“You moved here from Ohio right?”

“Missouri, uh…. St.Louis”

Earl clicked his tongue, “Missouri! Always get those mixed up, I don’t know why. Where do you work?”

“Aerosata Technologies… in Manchester.”

Earl’s eyes settled on Mike with apparent concern. “Manchester’s far. Any family out here?”

“No.”

“Friends?”

“No.”

“That’s really too bad.”

Mike could see where they were going and that control was no longer available to him.  He attempted to throw himself from the rapidly accelerating vehicle of conversation.

“Is it really cold out today? I’m going to grab my parka.”  Mike shakily piloted himself into the closet. The parka was right in front of him but some primal instinct urged him to stay hidden in this dark sheltered space in order to deter further harm. As he cowered inside the closet, there were approximately 30 seconds of silence between the two men before Earl spoke.

“Okay then Mike, if you ever get lonely I just want to say as a neighbor, you’ve got an open invitation to the MacLamarren’s.”

Believing that his opponent was now relinquishing, Mike popped out of the closet and threw on his parka.  Earl cracked the storm door open, the pneumatic door closer sucking air into its chamber.

“Thank you Earl, see you soon.”

But Earl stopped and looked directly into Mike’s eyes with a smile like one big shiny white machete.  As he spoke, the smile retained near perfect shape, like he was practicing some sort of ventriloquist act.

“As a matter of fact! We’re having a little get together this weekend. Why don’t you come on by.”

“…Yea, I’ll let you know, I might have some plans already.”

And finally, the moment he had been trying for the past three weeks to avoid was upon him.

“You don’t have any plans Mike.” Earl’s face had transformed from smiling joviality to hardened seriousness. His eyes beamed into Mike from under their robust salt and pepper brows. Mike’s attempts were growing weaker.

“No, I do, some buddies at worked wanted to-“

“Stop it.”

Mike was unable to respond. All routes were closed. There was no way out. Earl took in a deep breath and then exhaled it through great his nostrils.

“Mike, I’m going to be frank here. It was unneighborly of us to not give you a chance. We saw your Jesus fish there and we thought, maybe this guy isn’t right for the crowd. Without ever really holding an actual conversation with you. We made an assumption out of a little bumper sticker and that’s just not fair. So I’ll say it one more time. Mimi and I would like you to come to our get together this Saturday.”

Still ineffectually clinging to his original response, Mike choked out a reply.

“Okay, maybe I’ll see-”

Earl’s nostrils flared and his veins bulged as he unexpectedly barked at Mike, startling the nervous Midwesterner.

“Damn it Mike, we saw you! Stop playing games. Maryanne Gelski, Todd Arnette, and Carl Tsu all saw you. They were sitting in the hot tub. They saw you!”

The veins receded and the nostrils contracted as Earl returned to an inviting tone.

“Nobody’s upset Mike, we just want to extend our friendship to you as our neighbor. We’d like for you to come, and you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to. But if friendship makes you uncomfortable, then that’s fine…”

Stepping out of the door frame, Earl directed the rest of his speech with a tinge of disappointment into the twenty degree air outside.

“…we won’t bother you again, the rest of the neighborhood and I will all stay on our side of the property line and you can stay on yours. But as long as you’re here, you’ve got an open invitation to join.”

The door was released and the pneumatic closer began to exhale until, nearly closed, it released the aluminum storm door to rattle shut. Mike stood motionless, not breathing and burning to death inside his down parka.

II.

It was over now and it could have been worse but almost immediately his home began to feel empty.  Never had it felt so absent of life. The way those steel blue eyes scanned Mike’s meager furnishments had struck a chord of dissonance within him.  

After Earl left, Mike stood in his silent house for an hour, looking out the window at the light grey sky and thinking about what he should have said. He went out but he had nowhere to go, so he just drove to the grocery store parking lot and sat there listening to the radio for a while. But, there was no broadcast on the planet which could breach the maelstrom of thoughts swirling inside of him.

His thoughts soon grew into contempt and eventually he took solace in his righteousness. What those people were doing was grotesque and perverse and he didn’t want to be a part of it. In fact, it was almost December! The month of the birth of the baby Jesus and those hedonist perverts had the nerve to engage in such flagrant degeneracy! He decided to purchase a “Keep Christ in Christmas” magnet to accompany the ichthys on the back of his LeSabre. “Boy will that get their goat”, he thought to himself as he perused the church store. Unfortunately, he could only find them in stickers which he did not prefer, citing to the cashier factors such as resale of the vehicle and permanence of arrangement.

It was the first Saturday since the encounter. Like clockwork, the entire neighborhood converged on the MacLamarren house. He looked from his window and could see the silhouetted bodies underneath the mercury vapor street lights, making their way to the den of sin. People talked and laughed with each other as they strolled past his home, not noticing or not caring that they were being surveilled.

The television did not have much to offer besides a re-run of Jeopardy, which he’d seen three times already. He had skipped dinner that night and went straight for the moose tracks ice cream before deciding to go to bed around 8pm. Lying in the silence of his bedroom and thinking about how he should have eaten a real dinner, he could faintly hear the unclothed merrymaking occurring down the street.

Around midnight, Mike got up and peered at the MacLamarren home from his window. Even being five houses down from him, he could see the vibrating light radiating from the basement. Sitting on the edge of his bed in the darkness, an idea came to him: why not have his own party? By two in the morning he was done making a flier for “GAMES ’N’ FOOD  NIGHT: good GAMES! good FOOD! good CONVERSATION! Every Saturday, 7pm Sharp!” He had composed the festive leaflet on his Compaq, using several font sizes and colors. The corners were adorned with clipart images such as balloons, chess pieces, and smiling people with party hats on. The amount of color ink required to materialize the flier was more than his printer contained, and so the bottom third was faded but still legible.  

Church service was at 9:30 the next morning. Immediately following its conclusion, he beelined to the community board and tacked up the flier. He then stood by with eager hopefulness to watch for any interest. Greg and Maryanne Fipsin were the first to take notice of it. He swooped in like a destitute salesman at the first sign of their interest.

“Hey guys, I just put that up.”

They stared blankly at him for a moment as if he had just spouted gibberish at them. And he had. Being anxious as he was, not a single discernible word left his lips. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Sorry… I just put that up. Do you think you can come?”

They smiled at him insincerely, then Maryanne spoke up, “No we can’t. That’s on the same day as Kate’s bouquet party.”

It was true. Every week, Kate Miller hosted a bouquet arrangement party where the women would come to arrange flowers while their husbands would sit on the couch and watch football while drinking a lot of beer. He had known that but the excitement his game night idea brought him had caused it to entirely slip his mind.  

But, certainly not everyone from the church would be interested in arranging bouquets. Kate Miller shot him a dirty look when she saw his it. When most of the parishioners had filtered out into the parking lot, pastor C.J appeared. He greeted the pastor with a smile and asked if he might be interested in coming to game night. The pastor responded with a distracted and unconvincing “maybe”, then asked if Mike could help him wash his car again.

Saturday came and Mike washed pastor CJ’s Ford Taurus in the freezing cold then asked if he would be coming to the party once more. Pastor CJ delivered the same exact response as if it was being played from a tape recorder.

And so, Mike set up his party. He had four different kinds of soda and six different kinds of chips. Chips were a subject of great pride for Mike -- he’d always considered himself something of a connoisseur, though he’d never shared that sentiment with another living soul. Tonight there were also six different colored plastic bowls on the coffee table which contained: Cooler Ranch Doritos,  Cheetos Puffs, Bugles, Funions, Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips, and Tortillas chips with “queso” dip. Aside from the chips, four pizzas had arrived. Mike was starving but he refused to eat a bite until the first guests arrived.

Nobody had shown up at 7 o’clock, nobody had shown up at 8, 8:30, or 9 o’clock Nobody was going to play Jenga or Connect Four or Spillikins or eat the deviled eggs or the tater tots he made. Nobody was going to eat the thoughtfully curated selection of chips.

The once gooey cheese of the steaming pizzas had congealed into a unappetizing gelatinous orange skin. He watched once again as guests descended upon the MacLamarren’s, hoping that he would be surprised any second now as they turned out to be his own guests approaching for an evening of fun designed by Parker Brothers and Milton Bradley. At 9:30, he began to give himself a mental beating. He should have thought about it more, he should have checked first, nobody liked him, he was a sucker.

Then he thought maybe he shouldn’t have assumed people would come to him, maybe he should go to them. He had been selfish. It wasn’t that late yet. Perhaps he could drive over to Kate Miller’s and catch the end of the get-together.

The Buick didn’t like to start on these cold evenings but on the third crank he got it to catch.  Usually he’d let it warm up but tonight there was no time. Quickly stopping at the 7-Eleven, he picked up a six pack of beer. It was never really his drink but he figured it might help to have some social currency with which to buy himself into the group of men sunk deep into the couch, watching football. When he arrived people were leaving, Kate Miller and her husband were distributing hugs and handshakes to their happy guests. Mike parked at the curb across the street and just sat there watching. He briefly thought about hiding but he knew that nobody would notice him. By a quarter after, they were all gone and he sat there in the dark for nearly an hour not wanting to go home. When he eventually walked in through the door of his silent abode, he immediately grabbed the room temperature pepperoni pizza. He ate one and a half slices on top of which he placed a heap of Bugles.

III.

Following the next Sunday’s service, he realized that his flier was still tacked on the wall. He waited until everyone had left and then returned to remove it from the community board. For lunch that day he had a turkey sandwich with mayonnaise and a touch of salt on a single piece of white bread which he tore in two. He sat in the dining room at the front of the house. The large window which looked out to the street was obstructed by an immense rhododendron which he had allowed to get out of control. Winter had made the plant naked of leaves and it was now just a mess of gnarled sticks waiting for spring. Despite the visual blockage, the afternoon sunlight blasted through the window.  He dropped the venetian blinds down but left them cracked open just enough to allow several dozen thin lines of sunlight stripe the room. His table and the matching chairs were made of grey painted aluminum tubing with white padded vinyl covering their flat surfaces. Sometimes the thick padding caused him to accidentally spill drinks.

Today he had a glass of milk, which he did not spill.  Of the four chairs at the table, he had only ever used one. Taking notice of this, he decided to switch. Now instead of looking out into the foyer, he was looking at the blank white wall, under which stood a dark grey buffet table. On top of the buffet table was an 8x10 framed painting of Jesus which his mother had sent along on his move east. In the painting, Jesus was helping a pauper with a missing arm. Jesus looked sad. Mike was sad.

He made his way to 502 Marrimont at around 2pm. Standing on the porch, he stared at the doorbell. All he had to do was try once, if they didn’t answer it would be their fault, not his. The doorbell rang but nobody moved inside. He wondered if he should try again, but instead he just waited ten minutes for someone to respond to his initial ring and then began to descend the porch stairs. As his foot reached the second step, Earl rolled into his driveway in his black late model BMW SUV. He waved to Mike with a big smile on his face as he gathered several bags of groceries with his powerful arms and stepped out of the car.

“Mike!”

Mike froze where he was on the stairs.

“Oh, hi Earl…”

They looked at each other for a moment, neither saying a word until Earl spoke.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, just hello.”

“Want to come inside?”

“Nope I… This is fine...” Mike’s diffident voice trailed off.

Earl had ascended the stairs and was now on the top step, positioned slightly above his visiting neighbor.  The frigid December air was beginning to seep through Mike’s clothing. His Members Only jacket was not meant for such bitter temperatures but the split second decision to walk to the MacLamarren’s had rushed his choice in winter wear. Earl inhaled and exhaled through his nostrils a deep, visible,  mind focusing breath. His expression became one of compassion.

“I know why you’re here Mike.”

“...You do?”

“Yes, and like I said, you have an open invitation. We’re all very welcoming.”

“Okay.”

“What do you say, you come by next weekend?”

“Um, I’m not sure.”

“Look”, Earl put his hand on Mike’s shoulder, “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Plain and simple. You can come here, see how comfortable you feel and then decide where to go from there. Okay buddy?”

“...Okay.”

“So, we’ll see you Saturday then?”

“Yea, um… Should I bring chips or something?”

The defined muscles of Earl’s face pulled open a warm smile.

“Chips! Certainly! Everyone will be looking forward to having you. See you then Mikey!”

Earl patted Mike on the back and retreated into the house with excessive smile. Mike smiled too, he liked being called Mikey. His brothers and sisters used to call him that when they were little. The cold didn’t bother him on the way home.

Two hours later he was looking in the mirror with his shirt off. By Friday he was standing in front of the the mirror completely naked.  The toilet bowl gave him an extra fifteen inches of height, so that he might better assess his genitalia. Though he hadn’t regularly exercised in years, he thought that his body wasn’t in too bad of shape. Throughout the week, this bodily assessment had become a nightly activity, coupled with two sets of five pushups --which didn’t seem to help much physically but were mentally reassuring.

On Saturday he went to Dilkin’s Grocery to pick up the  chips. Mike again bought six bags of his favorite chips: Doritos Cooler Ranch, Bugles, Cheetos Puffs,  Funions, Tostitos (plus queso dip), sour cream and onion potato Lay’s, and a bag of pretzel rods which he had purchased for safe measure, while well aware of their status as non-chips.

At the checkout line a woman kept glancing at him. She had a familiarity about her which he couldn’t place. She was in her forties, short hair, skinny. She wore a light blue tank top which exposed about an inch and a half of skin above her olive low-waisted cargo pants. Her face was pointed and skeletal, but in a way attractive to him. Outside of the store she was waiting for him.

“A lot of chips you got there!”

“Oh, hi. Um, do I know you from somewhere?”

“You should...”

She opened her mouth wide and raised her eyebrows high in a comic display of insincere shock. He laughed, embarrassed of his inability to recollect.

“Sorry…”

“I’m Denise. I live four houses down from you silly. 517 Marimont.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

She laughed at his blushing face and touched his arm, he liked it. She looked him in the eyes, he liked that too. Her skin too was very tan and her teeth were very white, though not as structurally perfect as Earl’s.

“Mike, right? I hear you’ll be joining us at Earl’s tonight.”

“Uh, yup. Yea! I’m the chip guy!”

He shook the bags of chips in an attempt to make a comedic gesture. It took. She laughed and touched his arm again.

“Awesome, can’t wait to see you there! We’re all looking forward to it.”

Smiling after her as she walked away, happiness wrapped around him like a blanket. First warming him on the outside and then suffusing through him. He felt like he could belong somewhere for the first time in a long while.

Mike Pillipins didn’t own any Hawaiian shirts or any shorts for that matter. He had been raised to think that shorts were for girls. The domineering patriarch of the Pillipins family was very adamant about his stance: men wear slacks. Mike was the youngest of twelve children and at the time of his birth, his father was seventy four years old. He died of bone cancer when Mike was fourteen. The illness sank the family into a chasm of strife and chaos which had lasting effects on all of the Pillipins. As a result, the majority of his siblings no longer spoke with one other.  While alive, his father would often condemn his acquiescent fifty two year old wife with allegations that the food she cooked for him was “poison that had incurred the damnable malady” upon him. The oppressive waves of his elderly father’s influence ran through Mike’s life, leaving him with no option of clothing which would befit a tropically themed fiesta. Thus, Mike decided to just wear what he had been wearing all day: a faded cream colored polo, khakis, a grey canvas belt, and slightly dirty white sneakers.

Next, he was stuck in a debate whether or not to wear underwear, seeing as it would be coming off anyway. He decided it was more practical to go without. While removing his underwear in the bathroom, he once again assessed his body, grabbed some scissors, and performed some last minute grooming. Doubts would enter his mind, but he quickly and assertively pushed them away with remembrance of his friendly supermarket encounter. Throwing on his clothes, he headed downstairs, quickly realized that he felt odd without underwear, and relived the last twenty minutes. This time leaving the bathroom with underwear as part of his ensemble.

While putting on his shoes, Mike caught a glimpse of the Jesus picture atop his buffet table. Jesus was still sad as he helped the one armed pauper. Had Mike given enough thought to the predilections of his lord and savior regarding nude tiki-beach-tanning parties? The prospect of eternal damnation momentarily caused Mike to have second thoughts. Certainly, sad Jesus would want Mike to be happy even if he could never be. Pressing his hands together and bowing his head, Mike preemptively repented should the heavenly Father and his only begotten Son judge the coming actions to indeed be sinful.

At this point, he was now five minutes late. He hurriedly grabbed the colorful stack of designated “chip bowls” from the dishwasher.

IV.

Outside of the MacLammaren house there were already twenty cars parked along the road. It was a particularly cold night at twenty two degrees. Many of the neighbors had decided to drive the short distance to Earl’s house. Mike cut across his neighbors’ yards to get there, much as he did the night he was caught. The frosted earth crunched beneath his sneakers. Climbing the stoop, he could hear voices inside, the windows were fogged with condensation. His heart was pounding as if trying to break out of his chest and save itself from the forthcoming embarrassment.

He knocked. A woman named Tammy answered the door. He’d seen her around the neighborhood walking her three great danes.  The interior of the ground floor hinted nothing of the exotica which existed in the sublevel. The home decor was relatively conservative: paintings of fruit, handmade signs which declared heartwarming sentiments, and those scented candles that you'with the dried fruit and flowers stuck in them that you’re not supposed to burn. Though the house was bustling with guests, it was not overcrowded. Aluminum chafing dishes steamed above their Sterno cans, their contents not yet revealed. Everyone at the party greeted Mike with an embracing smile and already knew his name although he was positive that he had never said a word to ninety-five percent of them.

Earl startled him with a jaunty bear hug from behind, nearly causing Mike to drop his chips and bowls on the floor. On the oversized “tiki-style” grass hat sitting atop Earl’s head was scrawled “King Beach Bum”. He introduced his wife, Mimi, to Mike and then withdrew back into the crowd, taking the chips to distribute into the plastic bowls. Mike usually insisted on a specific bowl color for each type of chip, but given the circumstances, he decided to let it slide.

Mimi was very nice to him. When she spoke, she projected. Years of hosting had taught her to maintain a certain volume when speaking at parties. Her very large mascara-lined blue eyes opened widely and receptively when she listened.   The sleeveless polyester V-neck button up she wore was aqua and her tight fitting jeans were almost as white as her impeccable teeth. The MacLamarrens were both well maintained and attractive for people of their age, in stark contrast to the majority of the party’s guests.

Over the next hour, Mike enjoyed conversations with almost everyone there. The partygoers were making a point of welcoming him to the party and he felt very much welcome there. His tensions began to dissolve. He ate some good baked ziti, had a mai tai, everyone had their clothes on, and life was good. There wasn’t a time when he could recall feeling such acceptance and community.

Several other partygoers were sporting Tiki hats which denoted specific titles. Andrew Kent and his wife Sarah were the only black couple at the party which largely consisted of chubby white people. He was a towering seven feet tall and Sarah was just shy of five feet. Atop the towering man was a hat declaring him, “Mr. Tiki”. Around his neck hung a Polynesian-style mask that must have been purchased from some sort of discount party store. When asked what his title meant, he explained that he was a something of an assistant master of ceremonies. Another distinguished guest, a very large red headed woman designated as “Rummy”, acted as a bartender. The coconut shell brassiere she sported was barely able to contain her billowing mammaries.

Being wrapped up in warm conversation, Mike had all but forgotten the purpose of the gathering. Slowly, people started to filter down into to the basement. He ignored it for as long as possible, but he couldn’t disregard the vibrating pink light which escape each time the basement door was opened. Anxiety grew within him and he became distracted from his conversations. At last, it was just him and the MacLamarrens. Earl placed his beefy hand on Mike’s shoulder and spoke in a hushed but reassuring tone.

“Mikey, we don’t want you to feel any pressure, but will you join us in the basement?”

Mike looked to them both, he nodded with uncertainty and averted his eyes to the basement door. Mimi approached him and put her hand on his arm.

“It will be okay Mike, and if after a little while you’re still uncomfortable, you can feel free to leave.”

She took his arm under hers, his forearm contacting her left breast. The softness comforted him and he followed her toward the basement, Earl trailing closely behind. The door opened and the pink light hit him. It was not unbearable, but something about its quality caused him to squint. She let Mike go first, placing her hands on his shoulders as he descended the carpeted staircase.

The light fixtures were one of two kinds: miniature UV tanning lamps which emitted blue light or Tiki torch style lamps with carbon filament light bulbs that mimicked a flame. The walls were half paneled with bamboo. The upper half of the walls and the ceiling were covered by the Polynesian mural. Rummy was already situated at the Tiki bar where she was topless and hard at work.

On the other end of the basement were the tanning beds and hot tub. Above them a three dimensional glass sun emitting UV light protruded from the mural. There were multiple laminated signs in the area warning guests: “Do Not Enter Tanning Beds Unless Completely Dry - TOWELS AVAILABLE”.  Small potted palm trees were draped with leis for guests to wear. The woven rattan furniture creaked as guests plopped their unimpeded physicality upon them. Speakers were wired throughout the large basement so that not one remote area would miss out on the hi-fi audio projections of the Beach Boys, Jimmy Buffet, Martin Denny, or any number of the countless, forgotten Exotica composers from the post-war era.

Having descended the staircase, Mimi leaned close to him and spoke softly, “when you’re ready...” Earl patted him on the back and beamed a reassuring smile before drifting off with Mimi into the sea of flesh. Mike tried to keep his eyes busy, but was unable to stop the naked bodies from wandering into his peripherals.  He was deep in thought, trying to figure out how he might eject himself from the party when Jake Ainsworth approached him. Mike was staring down at the floor and accidentally saw Jake’s penis, causing his eyes to jolt upwards. Jake winked at him, extending a strange looking concoction which featured a straw, frozen in a cone of ice.

“Navy Grog?

“What?”

The drink that had the toxic vibrance of a dart frog. “Rummy makes ‘em best.”, Jake touted.Mike willingly grabbed alchemical beverage for social lubrication but more importantly as a means to focus on something that wasn’t a naked human being.

“Enjoying yourself Mike?”

“Oh yea. Yup.”

“Listen, nobody is going to judge you, just remember that. I mean look around, these people are not the pinnacle of physical-“

“I know, I’ve just never done anything like this… Do they have a bathroom I can change in?”

Everyone at the party was now naked, their clothing stashed neatly in a bamboo cubby near the staircase.

“Why do you need a bathroom? Just drop ‘em buddy!”

Immediately after shouting and drawing the attention of  several people nearby to Mike, he could see the anxiety rising in the newcomer’s blushing face. He quickly hushed his tone and directed Mike to the lavatory, “Okay, okay. It’s across from the bar.”

There was somebody in the bathroom, he had to wait patiently for four excruciating minutes, knowing that all eyes were on him. Joanne Komencki exited the bathroom, her swaying age-stretched breasts drawing his attention then ricocheting his eyes around the room as he searched for some neutral point to settle on.  She hadn’t turned the fan on. As he entered, he could feel the dense warmness of the fecal air swirling in behind him.

He turned to close the door, and as he did so an ass crossed his line of sight. Mike didn’t know whose it was or if it had belonged to a man or woman. As the door closed its final inches he spotted something which was very disconcerting to him. Upon the malformed dimpled rump was the image of a Polynesian totem. The face on the totem was grinning fiendishly with its teeth bared and eyes wide open. But the depiction, which took up nearly three quarters of the cheek, was not rendered with the skillful defined lines of a tattoo. Instead it appeared to be made of the rosie brown scar tissue of burned skin.

The septic atmosphere of the bathroom was increasingly difficult to breathe. He thought he’d get used to it but it didn’t happen. The lighting was far dimmer than the rest of the basement and the uncharacteristic maroon and gold fleur de lis wallpaper was immense and suffocating. A large water damaged promotional poster for Rodger and Hammerstein’s “South Pacific” hung above the toilet.

He couldn’t shake the vision of the scarred buttock. He thought it was odd. Sure it could be nothing, some people were into that sort of thing, but there was something about it that nagged at him. “Why would somebody do that to themselves?” he repeated in his mind until the smothering energy of the room began to send shocks of anxiety through him.

He looked at the toilet. Joanne Komencki had not flushed and her gigantic turd lay nestled in a bed of toilet paper. Mike quickly dropped the lid down and gave it a flush, thanking God that it actually went down. He had to get out of there. It was now or never. Frantically he ripped off his shirt; he felt better. Next he dropped his pants and underwear down around his ankles, adrenaline rushing through him. It was time to make his premier.

Turning to the door, he caught himself in the reflection of the golden knob, the tiny room fisheyed on its convex surface.  His body was misshapen and rotund, he was hairy and disgusting, his ass looked deflated, and so did his tiny little penis. Returning to the mirror he could see the image of his father laughing at what his youngest son had become, “a little candy ass ninny with no clothes on”. Finding himself suddenly exasperated and short of breath, he quickly bent down to pick his pants up from around his ankles. In doing so he smacked his forehead on the granite countertop. Holding in a scream, he caught himself the mirror once more. As his forehead thudded, Mike had a moment of clarity: he decided to exit the bathroom, thank them for the invitation, and then promptly resume his life without the company of these mentally unsound individuals.

Shuffling backward out of the bathroom, he could immediately feel the eyes upon him. People were still talking, the music was still playing, but the energy had shifted into a dark place. A place, he was soon to find, of offense, ire, and tribal contempt. Mike had hoped to avoid seeing any more naked bodies upon his exit, and in this he was successful for the only thing he could see were the glaring eyes of the King Beach Bum burning from across the room like the angered spirit of Kūkaʻilimoku himself.

Trying to excuse himself through the horde of nude flesh, the atmosphere grew dense and foreboding. Something inside him told him to flee, but humans often dismiss such notions as absurdity or paranoia until it is too late, and now it was too late.  Attempting to keep his vision at eye level, something was pulling it downward. He knew what it was before he even saw it. Every single guest at the party was marked with the very same totem scar on their asses. By the time he reached Earl, he felt like he was about to vomit on him. His shaky voice began to utter an apology.

“Earl, first I want to say-“

Earl’s veins bulged from his dense neck, his eyes beginning to grow red as he interrupted Mike.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

The stench of rum exuded from Earl, but he was not sloppy. His tone was commanding but measured, with a hint of impatience.  His muscles rigged their large friend-making smile across his face.

“You said if I didn’t feel comf-”

“You came here Mike, you came here to be part of our community. Now, I think you’re being a little rude. Don’t you?”

Mike began to trip over his words.

“Y-you said, if I didn’t feel comfortable, I wouldn’t- I didn’t have to.”

“Well, now I’m saying you have to. You have to do it right now because everyone is here and we’re all expecting you to...”

A woman’s ape-like voice screamed from the crowd,”Bottoms up!”

Earl addressed the crowd, “Now, now folks, Mike is just new to this and he’s going to join us any second now.” It sounded like a threat more than a defense of Mike.

Earl placed his hands on the clothed man’s shoulders. His muscles released the toothpaste commercial smile and allowed Earl’s chiseled features to convey his seriousness.

“Mike, I’m telling you to take your clothes off right now.”

While the two spoke, the fleshy heap of party guests had gathered in close around them, the music had stopped. Everyone listened. Everyone heard. Every word that exited Mike’s mouth, every way he held his hands, made eye contact, or contorted his face emanated his pulverized diffidence. Another voice sprang from the front of the enormous mound of skin, it was Carl Tsu.  His slim frame was almost invisible amongst the corpulent majority.

“You came here and you spied on us. I saw you! Uninvited! You think you’re better than us huh? We’re a bunch of weirdos. Just a bunch of naked beach freaks! Well, you’re wrong! You’re the weirdo Mike! You’re the-”

“Enough!”, boomed Earl. He was now uncomfortably close to Mike and his low voice became gruff and demanding. “Take them off or we’ll take them off for you.”

“I don’t like this. I’m going now”, Mike responded feebly.

Attempting to head for the staircase, Mike was met by a girthy fellow with a beard who used his globular paunch to obstruct him. The man’s eyes were dispassionate and unwavering as Mike pleaded for access to the staircase. He was seized by Earl’s robust talons as they instantaneously ripped his polo shirt in two, binding his arms at his sides.  The herd moved in, grabbing at him. He tried to fight but was unable to resist. Hands pulled him from every direction, tearing at his clothes, tearing at the canvas belt around his waist. Before he knew it he was on the ground, completely naked. He looked up at the nudist mob, they’re be-fuzzed members glaring down at him. They made no sudden moves and no sounds. Sometime during that brief struggle, somebody had put on Jimmy Buffett’s “Come Monday” at a deafening volume.  Mike had always enjoyed the song in his normal life but as he sat naked and defenseless at the bottom of a pit of thighs and penises and flabby bellies and vaginas and feet, it only made him feel exponentially insane.

A faint chant begin from somewhere within the iniquitous gathering.

“Bottoms up!… Bottoms up!.. Bottoms up!”

It grew louder and louder. He looked at each face for a meaning but found none. Earl stepped forward, picking him up off of the ground.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this to me!” Mike’s voice hoarsely squeaked.

The time for words was over; Earl ushered him through the canyon of warm sweaty flesh that closed in behind them. The flesh canyon continued its chant at a low controlled volume “ Bottoms up… Bottoms up…” The lights dimmed and from somewhere a bassy drum began to pound, conflicting with the gentle rhythms of Mr. Buffet.

Earl pulled him toward the tanning beds and hot tub where Andrew Kent stood with the cheap Tiki mask now pulled up over his face and an enormous electric branding iron in his hand. The grinning totem glowed red hot at the end of the wand. The chant continued.

“Rummy!” Earl shouted, while glaring into Mike’s eyes. Rummy emerged from the crowd, carrying her namesake beverage. Earl grabbed the bottle, took a swig and then the crowd seized Mike again as Earl force fed him the liquor. At this moment Mike was begin to surrender himself to their will. The hands turned him around, leaning him over a rattan stool.

“Bottoms up!.. Bottoms up!…” The chant grew louder. The herd began to clap in rhythm. Earl reemerged, now sporting a mask which was carved of a dark stained wood. The long mask reached from the crown of his head to just below his sternum. Atop the dark mask was a mane of golden grass. Earl began to speak in a vernacular which attempted to be that of some ancient polynesian high Priest, but was very clearly fabricated and nonsensical.

“Ni ni hoo haas TIKI no mun un l-l-l-l-l-l-la AH-BA!”

The crowd echoed his last word, “AH-BA!”

Mike tried to plea but his throat could no longer make the noises he wished it to. His overworked veins bulged from his crimson skin. He was no match for the thousands of pounds of hairy unabated flesh which bore down on him. A sense of relief enveloped him and he began to relax.  With the acknowledgement of his powerlessness and their supreme domination, there was no option but to lose. The figures of his captors became blurred in his eyes, soaked with tears of strain and despondency. The masked King of the Beach Bums knelt in front of Mike and picked his head up. Mike’s glassy eyes were bloodshot and distant. With deranged fervor, the firebrand chieftain of the nudists hollered one final bout of nonsense right into Mike’s face.

“Ka mee no HAHA soo soo Kon ziff AH-BABABABABABABABA AH-BA AH-BA!!!!!”

And with the last “AH-BA”, Earl whipped his right arm downwards. The hands of the naked people braced Mike and the white hot iron burned into his ass. The pain sent a shudder through his body, his vision became a band of white, his body fell limp, but his mind went to a different place.

On the floor above him sat six bowls of his favorite chips, just sitting there and having nothing to do with the atrocities currently in play. Nobody had eaten any of his chips during the party. He knew this because he had watched very carefully. Even while deep in conversation, there was always an eye watching the chips. It was on old social trick of his. At parties, Mike often would watch to see who ate which chips. He felt that it helped him to gauge one’s personality. A fun person would undoubtedly like funions, someone with a zesty personality might go for the Doritos, and a more conservative type might go for the potato chips. But nobody at this party had eaten a single one of his chips and now it all made sense to him. He wished he could become a chip, nestled safely within a colorful plastic bowl with many other chips that were just like him, unmolested by the rabid tanning oil soaked hands of his fervently unclothed neighbors. And at that very moment he became a chip, a Bugle to be precise. Bugles with their nontraditional yet consistent shape were a middle road chip. They were not garishly zesty, it was their unique geometry made them a sleek and interesting. Most people who met Mike would probably disagree with this incarnation, likening him more to a reduced salt oven baked plain potato chip, but it no longer matter what others thought. He was now nestled amongst all of his conical brothers and sisters in a festive lime green plastic bowl. There was love in that bowl, love and acceptance. He was happy to be a chip.