A Memory for Michael

The sharp tang of cat pee permeated the air as Mike, in his skinny black jeans, white tennis shoes, and Golden Hook Block Party t-shirt hit the punchline of his joke; Katie erupted in uproarious laughter, clapping and bouncing on the mini-trampoline, an ephemeral smirk crossed Alicia's face like a cirrus cloud passing before the Sun before evaporating into nothingness.

Meaghan, while seated in a corner, belched and broke her ankle - how, we'll never know. Meaghan was always breaking an elbow while tap-dancing down some stairs, or breaking an ankle while performing some mocked interpretive dance on a narrow ledge while pretending to be a Blow-Up sex doll.

I wished that Sara was there as I held my besocked feet and wondered why this basement always smelled like Cinders the cat had pissed on every available surface, and whether I, by spending so much time in this basement that served as a nursery school by day, and as such, bore Felt Effigies of Big Bird and Bert n' Ernie on the wood-paneled walls, and lil' Tyke kitchenettes on the scarred early-mid 80s yellow linoleum floor, was absorbing the aroma - would I always smell like cat pee from then on?

I also wondered why I was about to watch "Cannibal! The Musical!" for the fifth time in two months; Leslie thought about turquoise-colored Doc Martens and Banana Pudding and painting rocks in tartan colors, and Jesus; Tom thought about his future as a comic illustrator.

Emily played with her long braid, a flawlessly executed mask of feigned excitement and anticipation on her face, as Mike, relishing the adoration heaped upon him for telling a joke that upon reflection may have eaten up an entire day of my childhood, repeated, for the sixteenth time in a month, the last line in his twelve-minute long joke, "Fuck you, Clown. Fuck you."

And I died a little bit inside.