The Woodhouse - Wilmington College

Short Story
The Apostle of Saturday Night
by Matthew R.Sexton
Simon sat on the rooftop drinking warm beer; pensive,
dreaming of dharma. A smirk on his big old face, big
old heavy drooping eyelids, belly full of beer, red eyed,
he took in the warm spring breeze as it blew through
the heavy pines and then down along the lonely street
where cars passed. They saw Simon up there and the
poor passer-bys couldn’t help but look down on him from
below.
‘They don’t want me drinking my beer up here’ he
thought as he tipped his can.
And the orange sun kept sinking farther and farther
down those pines.
Simon wondered momentarily about the flow of traffic
on that road. Staring off at its endlessness made him feel
regret. Made him think he could compose a poem with
as much insight jammed into it as one by say, Stephen
Dedalus. He sat for a good minute as the night sky was
enveloped in darkness. The words never came, like
so many words that never came before them, and so
Simon decided it time to abandon the roof and the half
filled warm beer can he’d been grasping on to for far too
long. Downstairs, mass people gathered for a party, and
although Simon was a chosen agoraphobic he knew he
had to mingle if he was ever going to reach the ice cold
beer that awaited him in the fridge.
Of course this meant he’d have to dive head first into
Rainy Night
by Robert Delay
the frying pan. The students remained pious over the
week. They studied in the library, went to class, strived for
excellence. They remained bottled up in their dormitories
like fine, ripe wine until Saturday night when finally the
heat catches up with them and - POP!
As he entered the overcrowded party Simon stepped
on a piggish girl’s feet.
“Ouuuch! Watch where you’re stepping you asshole,”
she snorted.
This confused Simon. Of course he was an asshole.
That was certain. But not for incidentally tromping down
on a poor girls alarmingly large foot; he was an asshole
because he immediately noted the piggish features of
the poor girl. Simon feigned apology, then began making
his way like Moses parting the crowd so he could walk
through to the main room where his beer rested in the
fridge.
‘What a great party,’ thought Simon as he cracked one
open.
As stated before these parties never inspired Simon,
but he couldn’t begrudge the partiers for their search of
ecstatic experience. Once you have one good time you’re
bound to try and duplicate it, and that’s the only thing the
poor party people wanted.
A group of sirens sang along to the music on the
stereo. They drank wine coolers and loved it when fellas
got stuck in a crowd on their way
to talk to them. They giggled away
the night alright, drinking those
wine coolers. The leader of the
sirens was having a rough night as
her left heel had broken earlier in
the night, and now she remained
still, hunched a little to the left.
Just like those sirens everyone
at the party was searching for the
good old ecstatic experience that
night. Simon loved to watch them
search for Saturday night. An old
friend named J.D. passed Simon
by wearing black and drinking Irish
whiskey out of a Solo cup. A pretty
girl named Sasha skated from man
to man searching for her goal for
the night. A guy named Giovanni
was boasting verbosely, reciting
his il catalogo e questo to his
inebriated friends. Everyone was
there, even old George Bacchus
walked by drinking wine, it was his
damn party after all, and he enjoyed
the bliss he’d created. Everyone was
there, and while they all had stories
they dreamt important, sometimes it’s important to sit
some down and remind them that they are not special.
That is what Helen blew through the door to do.
When she entered into the heat of the party everything
changed. All the guys turned their heads, resulting in all
the girls in the party to turn their heads in disgust. Helen
was probably the hottest gone girl on the whole starved
planet. She gave off a different vibe than most. A power
she treasured more than any material artifact the world
could give her. She had the men at that party under her
thumb. They wanted her, and she wanted their attention.
She got what she wanted of course, but most of the time
the guys didn’t because it certainly was not an easy thing
to impress Helen. Many tried to at social functions such as
this, but with a turn of the body Helen freed herself from
such inconvenience. For Helen only desired a man of skill,
particularly in the sport of beer pong. Those wise enough
to know what Helen devoted her attention to assembled
immediately towards the table to take their turn tossing
tiny ping pong balls into Solo cups filled with the honey
of paradise. The first match would be between an oddly
shaped man with his ball cap cocked at an unfitting angle,
and a muscular rich man wearing a designer polo that
read “PARIS” across the front. One of these men would
have the opportunity to impress Helen, who watched the
battle with anticipation.
It would not be Simon who walked home with Helen
that night, he knew that all to well. He could try like all the
other fools. Instead of beer pong practice, perhaps she’d
be enthralled with his words. Yet chances were that the
words wouldn’t come, like so many words that never came
before them. No. Simon watched idly on the other side of
the room, searching his pockets to find where he’d placed
his damn cigarettes… He searched his left pocket…
nothing. His right pocket, nope. Left coat pocket… hmm,
a folded up piece of paper… what could be written…
Ahh, yes, from an earlier class discussion… IN THE
ROOM THE WOMEN COME AND GO… TALKING OF
MICHELANGELO
Simon put the song away for a better party. One where
he would dare to eat a peach. He found his cigarettes in
the right coat pocket, lit one up, and took a long drag off of
it. Instantaneously, Simon noticed the atmosphere of the
party change with the exhale of his smoke.
“GET THE HELL ONTO THE PORCH WITH THAT
CIGARETTE YOU ASSHOLE,” the entire party called out.
Simon feigned another apology and carried off to the
cold porch lamenting that he’d have to miss the beer
pong battle. It was nice on the porch though. Much more
comfortable than the hot party in Hades. Simon looked up
at the sky and took another long drag of his cigarette. By
now the stars would’ve been lighting up the sky had not
the city lights masked them. It upset Simon greatly that at
that moment he wasn’t somewhere where he could get
lost in the endlessness of it all. Inside the party everyone
was having a great time. Simon wished he could enjoy it
as much as they did.
That’s when Simon heard the train. A smirk returned to
his face. He flicked away the cigarette, threw the remains
of his beer into a bush, took a couple steps towards the
sound, and then turned around to take one more glance
inside the party.
When he opened the door he saw that a fist fight had
ensued between the two beer pong opponents. What had
started as a simple game of skill evolved into the Battle
of Troy as the man with the oddly worn cap had ‘Paris’ on
the ground, lighting him up with blows to the head. The
crowd hooted and hollered picking sides. “How absurd,”
Simon thought. Helen’s power radiated.
Simon walked out the door of the party for the last
time, disgusted. The sound of the train came again, this
time nearer. Simon’s walking grew faster as he headed
for the sound. He didn’t really know where it was going.
West? East? Mexico? Ah, who knows? It was important
to get onto that train. The only way he’d ever find true
enlightenment was to abandon the party fully and head
out onto that very train. Simon kept walking, stumbling
here and there because of the drink. His pace quickened
faster as he got closer and closer to the train; it’s sound
reverberating through the pines like cool jazz. Soon
Simon was at the tracks hoping onto the train with ease
as if he’d been hoping trains all his life…
It was a beautiful thing to be speeding away from the
heat of the party.
After awhile even the stars decided to come on out as
the city lights faded away. He sat on the floor of the train
car looking up at them. Finally, the endless possibility
of everything was open to the apostle. Once he was far
enough away, they really lit up the train car revealing to
Simon that he wasn’t alone. Lying on the opposite side
was a weathered old hobo, sleeping angelically. Simon
smiled as if he knew the hobo personally; lovely old
hobo. Soon, it’ll be Sunday morning and that lovely old
hobo will wake up, and Simon will introduce himself. One
apostle will meet the other. He’ll smile his toothless hobo
smile, and Simon we’ll explain everything. The hobo, he’ll
understand.
3rd Place Winner
2009 Bowman
Literary Contest
for Short Fiction -
Revised for
Publication
8
The Woodhouse • Spring 2010
The Woodhouse • Spring 2010
9