Fingerless Gloves by Nick Orsini Read Free Book Online Page B

together. I would scoff and spit and deny ever knowing her. We were over…never going to date again. I told interested parties that fact over and over again, no matter how much they refused to believe me. The best front I could muster to explain Beth’s weird caring-but-not-really-caring attitude was the assumption that she knew she was guilty for what she did to me. She had to have been motivated by guilt, even after all this time. In my naivety, I thought that everyone who ever cheated on their boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife had to have been eaten alive by guilt. That thought, even as it came together slowly in my brain at that moment, was obscene. Beth Fallow would always be in the picture, no matter how much the landscape of my life would change. My whole self could erode and she’d be the canyon that people passing through on a tour would stop to admire.
    “On the night your best friend is laid up in some hospital bed, you shouldn’t be doing drugs on your own. At least come with me and act social. I’m going to Vin Thomas’ new apartment…he’s having a party. Since you’re already good and lit, all you have to do is sit there and pretend to talk to people. Can you handle that? I’ll drive us.”

Vin Thomas decided, upon our graduating high school, that he wanted to be an artist…a filmmaker to be specific. His father sent him to a big city school where Vin spent his days churning out Super-8 duds and posting black and white photographs on the internet. He grew his hair, started shopping at thrift stores and became another mediocre artist in a system feeding on mediocre artists. Upon graduation, Vin moved back home with his parents who, thinking they’d gotten rid of their only son by sending him to college, began splitting more time between their house in our town and their house in Florida. Gradually, the house in Florida got more and more use. Vin was left home for epic stretches of time…weeks, months. None of us were ever sure what Vin’s dad did, but it was enough that we never really saw him go to or come home from work. He drove a new car, and had a “comfortable-sized” home.
    A home now used to throw art parties. This meant that usually, some noise rock band was being played at maximum volume or old movies (mostly experimental films) were being screened. There was always alcohol to drink and pot to smoke, but never more than 15 uninterested people present. These were backwards house parties populated by those banished to commute to and from the city for jobs in graphic design or journalism or advertising. These were the same wanderers who, at the end of the week, became relegated to the suburbs. If I were to raise my thumb and pointer finger on one hand, that’s how many of Vin’s art parties I had been to. To say that it wasn’t quite my scene was saying too much. Vin was always cordial when he saw me, but never quite broke away from the court he was holding near the couch to ever actually have a conversation with me. I was glad to have Beth in tow because, despite her beauty, she was treated with the exact same chilly indifference by the self-involved crowd of beards and skirts.
    Beth’s car smelled like one of those air fresheners you get at a gas station; an air freshener shaped like a dolphin or a seashell that hangs by an elastic band from the rear-view mirror. The smell is certainly nothing natural, more of a combination of laundry and White Diamonds. The funny thing was, as I scanned the dash for the air freshener, I couldn’t actually find one. It had become the naturally unnatural smell of Beth’s car. The whole ride was like an MTV Party-To-Go CD, with the songs all meant to be different; they blended into one gigantic dance remix. The radio was turned up to maximum on the national top-40 station. The lane lines all came together into one solid strip on the road…like a music teacher’s chalkboard. Beth was talking to me, but I was not anything close to a suitable