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II.
At the party, I wasn't talking to anybody and Jen was talking to everybody. I stood in the kitchen against the fridge, sipping whiskey purloined from the liquor cabinet in the master bedroom—a bottle worth more than my bank account. No, that was only true pre-inheritance; something I kept forgetting. Remembering it was nausea. Too much to think about, that everything was now reduced to a string of digits on an ATM receipt. Shake it off, bite back the bile—drink the drink. There was no discussion about the morning's events in the sweaty, overpopulated room. The news was the only trace of it, playing on silent when we arrived but turned off an hour in by someone or someone's brother. He put on Stop Making Sense on DVD. Still just ambient noise underneath the throb of the DJ's bass: a shirtless 22 year old streaked with the tattoos of an unfinished liberal arts education. He set up in the living room to rattle the antique furniture, add to the timbre. Just unbelievably bad. Doing long lines of coke off empty LP sleeves in front of everybody, conjuring sickening arrhythmic bursts from the turntables as he mashed Wu-Tang with Madonna. I watched this while Jen whispered in the ear of some guy who might have been her boyfriend: the whole terrible display set against the blue-light background of David Byrne up on the flatscreen, putting his boombox down on that sprawling Hollywood stage. In his billowing gray flannel suit he craned his avian neck to the beat, and I swear, DJ kid, that there was disdain for you laced up in the way he moved. I spent a half an hour crouched in front of the entertainment center replaying “Naive Melody” with my back to everyone else. It didn't matter that I couldn't hear it—the stage swathed in shadows, the switch pulled on that tall bedroom lamp. It was a new Genesis as everything melted into affirmation in the milky yellow light that seeped through the shade. That strange, candle-lit intimacy directed out at the thousands in the crowd (to even more, now, through the membrane of this celluloid reproduction), budded up the skin on my arms with the power it manage to carry, turned all my hair on end. And during the bubbling synth interlude when he began to dance with the lamp, now transfigured into a beautiful woman with model's proportions—towering, rail thin--the motion of his body became alien and hypnotic, something between ballroom and a bull fight, gestures that would be the most graceful thing you laid eyes on in a world with different physics and all I could think the whole time was What could it possible mean to be genuine if not this?