Party Animals

5:58pm and Marcus stared intently at the door. Marcus had always been the "party guy", even decades after he had left Harvard, his contacts and legal profession still were dominated by his reputation as the organiser of the wildest parties on campus.

So yet again he found himself in charge of the latest charity event, a fundraiser for a legal aid charity called TransLegal. Though the charity didn't matter, it was just the justification for having a party that wasn't about a single person. But this party had one difference, Marcus had been going through a lot recently, and had decided to use this party to reclaim his old mantle.

The problem was that despite his reputation, nobody giving Marcus the money and power to put events together actually wanted the kind of parties Marcus organised at college and specialised in. Law offices were dominated by old middle class men who were more into brandy by a fireplace than drug filled rager that ended when the police turned up. Marcus was considered the best party organiser working in the legal profession, but was not allowed to organise the kind of parties that got him that reputation. As he grew older, his life grew quieter, and his parties grew tamer. From all angles in his life, he began to feel like a caged tiger and wanted release.

For this party, Marcus had forsworn the usual five star hotels and expensive event spaces in favour of a modern mansion that had been converted to a party venue by its owner while he dealt with the financial ramifications of his divorce. Nestled in the foothills outside the city where the rich build large and private spaces to do with as they wished, it was ready for Marcus' plans. It had bars dotting the indoor and outdoor spaces, a kitchen large enough for caterers to operate in, a pool and jacuzzi, a far reaching integrated speaker system, a small gazebo in the garden that could double as a stage for entertainment, and even a table tennis table with beer pong supplies on standby.

But then there were the added touches Marcus had included to recapture the college party atmosphere that had forged his reputation. Instead of some posh black tie caterer, he had struck a deal with a café whose unique selling point was that their servers only wore bikinis. He couldn't wait to see the old men reaching for their heart medication as food and drink was handed out by scantily clad women.

Marcus had also hooked up every immature idea he had ever had while idly thinking about the ultimate party when he was at college. Naturally he had set aside rooms for those who wanted to do drugs, hidden away with contingency plans in case someone called the police. He had filled a paddling pool with jelly, lots of decks of cards for strip poker, and a series of twister mats flanked on all sides with sundae bars. At every turn he had planted drinking games and forfeit games that he knew could make memories even in those too intoxicated to remember any other point of the night. He had even figured out how to rent billiards and foosball tables and cleared space so some friendly competition would get drinks flowing and raise spirits.

So now he stood by the front door, nervously checking his phone and the time, tonight he was going to piss off a lot of people, but he would get back the swagger worn away by a million small acts of enforced maturity. Those who survived would be in no doubt what they should expect from now on if they wanted a party organised by Marcus Selassie.

It was exactly 6:00pm, the official start time for the party, and Marcus stared in horror as a taxi approached the house. Someone was going to be on time! Out of the taxi stepped a stuffy middle aged man in a regulation tuxedo, his hair straight from a catalogue and his face looking the right mix of disapproving and uncomfortable that was a death knell for a good party atmosphere.

"What kind of guber turns up to this sort of party on time?" Marcus mumbled to himself.

~~~

How Barnaby Watford ended up at the party

~~~

"Do I have to go?" I asked petulantly.

"You don't have to, but it will be great for your career." My boss replied.

This was exactly the kind of situation I became a lawyer to avoid. So many people saw lawyers as they were on TV, charismatic and suave, giving big speeches and shocking reveals, people who went into law to be like that didn't last their first year out of law school. I saw being a lawyer as a profession where hard work and diligence could win over that annoyingly effortless charm through which the charismatically stupid flirted their way through life.

I loved the late nights preparing briefs, the structures, the lack of surprises, my life was a cavalcade of being so well prepared the other side settled or backed down before I was ever called upon to do public speaking. But then I got promoted to a level where all talk turned to where I would be going for a partnership.

Partnership is another thing that doesn't happen like in the movies, but this time in a bad way. In movies the hero works hard and when he is judged to be the best lawyer he is promoted to partner. In the real world, when a lawyer has saved up enough money to give a huge chunk of it to a group of old men he's networked to death, then he can become partner.

So an invite to a big fancy party where several members of partnership boards would be swanning around is something all logic is telling me is a good thing, and yet it feels to me like swimming back into the social waters I often drowned in at high school. Making partner would solve all my problems, so I was determined to see this through no matter how uncomfortable it was.

My wife and I have a relationship that nobody seems to understand but us. Many wondered why an intelligent woman such as Matilda would want to be a housewife, but she describes herself as a "lady of leisure", able to indulge a smorgasbord of hobbies and academic pursuits at any time. I'm still single minded enough that I can get passionate about any angle of the legal system I need to call upon, but she needs a constant rotation of new engagements to hold her attention. Until now our passions simply matched in their intensity and intelligence. She would listen to me talk for hours on end about obscure legal precedents, and in turn I would listen to her wax lyrical about the effects of welding different metals, or megalithic stoneworks on Tongan islands.

Lately I have started to see Matilda's interest in our marriage fading and I'm worried that I may soon become yet another passing hobby for her. It wasn't unusual for her to be gone for a semester at another college or a research trip, but we at least kept in regular touch. Her most recent distraction is a sociology course at a community college just beyond an easy commute so necessitating another bout of dorm life for her. This one is different though, recently she hardly ever answers my calls and when I can get through she would talk about all the great lessons she was learning, however I was never privy to what those lessons were.

So I decided that becoming a partner is the key to the higher pay and shorter working hours necessary for me to start joining her on her interests, travel with her, learn with her, actually start really sharing our lives. Matilda has put up with my monoculture long enough and I was determined to do whatever it took to shake things up, even if it meant my worst nightmare, social interaction.

I dressed myself in a nice tuxedo, posh enough to show I had money to invest in my clothes but not fashionable enough to show I wanted to draw attention to myself. I took a deep breath and stepped into a taxi for a long night of ass kissing.

~~~

"Barnaby Watford, pleased to meet you. I'm sorry, am I early?" Barnaby asked, stepping into the house as Marcus pressed a Champagne glass into his hand. "The invite said 6pm."

"Marcus Selassie." Marcus stated by way of introduction as he fought through Barnaby's formal handshake. "You are bang on time, it's just the rest who are late."

"How unprofessional of them." Barnaby quipped. Marcus bristled, this man was to be his nemesis, Marcus knew that this man storming out would be the bare minimum to consider this party a success.

"Speaking of unprofessional, would you like an appetiser?" Marcus asked, waving over a server he spotted in passing.

"Why not, I'm sure I could... good lord!" Barnaby interrupted himself as a young lady in a skimpy gold bikini held a tray of spring rolls out for him.

"What do you think?" Marcus asked, drinking in the abject shock on Barnaby's face. "Some very attractive girls putting themselves through college will be our serving staff tonight, if that doesn't kick off the party on the right foot I don't know what will."

"Well, yes, of course." Barnaby stuttered, unable to keep his head from turning as the server walked away.

"You're not uncomfortable are you?" Marcus gloated, trying not to sound too vicious.

"Bit of a shock but it's not too outrageous for me." Barnaby lied. "Just makes you wonder what kind of woman would sign up to do that."

~~~

How Matilda Watford ended up at the party

~~~

"Do I have to go?" I asked petulantly.

"Afraid it's all hands on deck." My boss replied. "But at least there's a nice payday in it for you."

Payday? Two months ago the thought of caring about a paycheque would have brought a bitter laugh to my lips, but now it was all I could think about.

I called myself a lady of leisure, my husband pulling in enough money from his job as a lawyer that I could become a true cosmopolitan, moving from one interest to the next and fulfilling my every whim for development.

Every so often I would do another short course at one university or another, meeting new people and excelling at a new discipline. But the one that spun me off into this new direction was a sociology course I took at a community college of all places. I'll admit community college was always an act of vanity for me, I know it's snobbish but it was always assumed I would be top of the class in any course taken at the far less prestigious institutions, and it was no different when I started studying one of the humanities at Rindlebrook Community College.

In that class I built up a rivalry of sorts with a young lady called Mercedes. Our seminars always seemed to descend into debate between the two of us while the rest of the class would watch in awe. My breadth of knowledge seemed to clash hard against her deep and intuitive understanding of Marxist and neo-Hegelian analysis. I always left our discussions feeling invigorated but she would sometimes take it incredibly personally and be less gracious than I.

It wasn't until the first round of class grades were posted that my ego took a hit. For the first time in a long time I was in line for salutatorian, second place, silver medal. What's worse was not Mercedes' position as valedictorian, I knew if I was coming second she must have pipped me at the post, but it was the sheer gulf between our grades. She was as far ahead of me as I was the rest of the class. As luck would have it we were assigned as groupwork partners, so I had a chance to buy her a coffee at the campus café and ask her what her secret was.

"How willing are you to be personally insulted by my answer?" Was Mercedes candid reply.

"I'll take it in good spirit." I responded, bracing myself.

"It's because you are the very picture of privilege and infra-political class dialectics. You have come to learn sociology like society is a butterfly in a frame for you to investigate. My dad is in prison for an amount of weed that the police wouldn't have even inconvenienced a white person over, with an additional charge of resisting arrest because he screamed swear words as they beat his ass. My mum is a manager at a bikini cafe that my sister worked at right up until she was knocked up and had to quit. I was meant to be going to UCLA until a teacher took a bribe to give me a behavioural suspension so my scholarship would pass to a rich kid whose dad wanted to save a few bucks. When I read about society in books, I see people putting into words what I have been suffering from all my life. So now I'm at a community college, working my ass off for a piece of paper that says I'm smart enough to be worth the effort a rich person has to go through to pay me what I'm worth."

I sat stunned for a while.

"You didn't actually insult me that much." I noticed, trying to lighten the tone.

"If you think that, you didn't see the point." Mercedes spat. "You're vacationing in lives you are indirectly responsible for making harder than you could ever endure. The issues we study are structural, and when the scales tip, you are on the side it was in favour of. How many other people in that class do you think have no other pulls on their time like you? I work as a bartender, get a bit of extra cash looking after my niece, and pull any odd jobs I can so I don't end up in a bikini in my mum's cafe. Everyone else in that class is working, has caring duties, has any of a number of distractions that you have paid to get around. You have a free run at every piece of work we are assigned and you are still bitching that you're only second place."

I felt a wave of guilt and anger well up within me, I wanted to snap back and tell her she was wrong, but my open mind betrayed me. It was hard to hear but I accepted she was right.

"I joined that class for the same reason I do anything, to broaden my horizons." I stammered, "I never realised how much I was missing."

"And what you're missing can't be learned in a book, you have to live it, but I don't see you doing that." Mercedes scoffed.

"You may not see it, but I will."

...

I made my plan, I would work for my living, I wouldn't spend a penny I didn't earn myself until I had finished my sociology course. I moved out of my dorms into a cheap apartment and I found the worst job I could stomach. I signed on with a cleaning agency, working 40 flexible and unusual hours a week to earn enough to rent a shared apartment and pay for cheap food.

In the first week something became quickly apparent to me, I was not good at cleaning. I figured that with my wide breadth of knowledge I could handle "unskilled labour" but a good thorough clean that was expected from paid cleaners seemed to elude me. It must have made its way up to my supervisor as I soon found myself facing the worst jobs.

It was the worst experience of my life, the education I needed, working my ass off cleaning up disgusting things, then going back to my tiny apartment and eating ramen noodles and worrying about my bills. Naturally my grades began to slip, not enough to cost me my salutatorian status, but enough to make me far less distinguished. Money worries were a constant feature of my life, but I was determined to see it through.

Mercedes had recommended cleaning work when I went through my plans with her, and had told me about the agency I signed on with because they cleaned her mother's café. So it was no surprise when I ended up being sent there for another bottom of the barrel job for cleaners who earned the ire of their manager, to clean the dried semen often found in the toilets and once or twice in the main café. I saw pictures on the walls of the waitresses in skimpy gold bikinis, and instead of my usual wave of judgement, I felt sympathy, they too were trying to make ends meet however they could.

The cafe was open late so cleaning usually took place in the morning before it opened, which is why one morning I was able to witness the spectacle of Mercedes' mother, a statuesque picture of strength called Meagan, storm in channelling all her fury into a text message. She wiped her brow, looked around, then locked eyes with me.

"Cleaning lady, how would you like to make 200 bucks plus tips for 12 hours work?" She yelled. I marvelled at the prospect of getting an amount of money I wouldn't have stopped in the street to pick up a month ago. $200 was a week's wages and she wanted to give me it for a day. "I've had both of my servers drop out on me, so it'll be hard work, but if you put on a bikini and take some orders, I'll get you your money."

I froze. She wanted me in a bikini, debasing myself for $200. The figure meant a lot more these days, but I had a remaining sense of dignity that was linked to my former life where $200 barely covered some of my outfits, I needed some time to think, but apparently that was also a luxury I was no longer permitted access to.

"Come on blondie, yes or no" Meagan asked expectantly.

"Yes, OK." I nervously responded.

"Thanks, no time to lose, let's get you sorted with a uniform." She immediately replied, grabbing my hand and dragging me into the staffroom, leaving my mop and bucket forgotten in the corner. "What bra size are you?"

"34C" I reactively responded, the bluntness of the question asked out of the blue lowering my defences.

"Yeah we got that." She replied, pulling a gold two piece bikini out of a draw and thrusting it at me. "Changing room is next to the bathroom."

I looked at myself in the mirror, adorned with this gold monstrosity and saw a steady cumulation of the physical manifestation of the changes I had been going through. I simply hadn't had time to notice my body changing through a poverty diet and constant physical exertion. I was leaner and more muscley, but at the same time my skin glowed less and my blonde hair was more greasy and unmanaged, with brown roots beginning to show through where hair bleaching had been a luxury discarded early in my journey.

I nervously left the changing room and my new boss was already waiting for me with a can of something she was in no mood to pre-explain, instead opting to order me around.

"Turn around." She ordered. I obeyed and felt my bikini briefs being lifted up and something sticky being sprayed underneath. "Body adhesive, lets us give you panties that are not quite a thong but still showing off most of the butt. Trust me, this is the most exposure our licence will let us get away with so if you feel your panties retreating into your crack come back here for another spray. If you are of the bouncy persuasion you may also want to use this on your bust as we are not licensed for you popping out."

I thought for a moment and then held out my hand for the can of spray glue, I didn't know what to expect but I might as well protect myself. I gritted my teeth as I covered my breasts with the sticky substance and felt a mixture of dirty and protected.

"Here's your pad and pen, write the orders clearly enough for the kitchen staff to read. If a man gets handsy with you, tell him to leave, if he doesn't, come back here and we'll keep you safe while I call our security network to come from neighbouring Timberwood and remove him. We used to have in-house security but the bosses figured being part of a network based half a mile away was cheaper."

"What about shoes?" I interrupted.

"Oh god you can't do this job barefoot." Meagan exclaimed, only just noticing my shed footwear from my time dressing myself in a fugue state. "Just put your old shoes back on, the uniform used to be high heels until we started sending photos of our blisters to headquarters every week and now they let us wear whatever shoes we're comfortable in."

It had been 15 minutes since I had been mopping the floor, and in a blur of activity where I had found myself a spectator to my own life I now stood in an empty cafe wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini and my sneakers, awaiting the arrival of customers. I placed my hands at my sides and shuddered at the feeling of my bare arm skin pressing against my mostly bare torso. I found it awkward standing still doing nothing so I put my efforts into putting away my cleaning supplies. By the time I was done my boss was beckoning me over to the door where she had the key in the lock and a queue of customers already forming.