American Chordata: Issue One, Spring 2015

“Okay, then. Let’s invite them,” he says, and so we do.
For the special occasion of our first party, we string Christmas
lights up along our ladder and stand it up in the back of the room
near the oven and the fridge, not far from the crack where the
plaster falls. Carson cleans and folds up our bed, leaning the mattress
against the wall. I make several recipes from the 1970s, including
a Watergate salad, which is a mixture of crushed pineapple,
pistachio Jell-O, marshmallows and whipped cream. There are also
pecans sprinkled on top.
Ellen is the first to arrive. For the party, she has added more
feathers to her hair. On the right side, they are small and brown
and neat, much like the original three. On the left are two big black
feathers that look like they have seen rough winds. The white
rachises are bare at some points. I hope that no one else will see
that she picked the feathers off the street.
“I brought you an evil eye,” she says, holding up her token, “to
ward off bad spirits.”
The evil eye is a disc of transparent blue plastic, on top of which
is a watery white circle with another oval of black felt inside.
“I made it myself,” Ellen says.
“It’s beautiful,” Carson says. “Welcome.”
As the party picks up, I stick close to Ellen and Maurice like
we are on our own planet, with a magnetic force that repels intruders.
The rest of the party orbits around us. Someone laughs at the
case of beer that Maurice has brought, because it is of low quality
or because it has been linked to an unfavorable subculture through
corporate marketing strategy. I try to make him feel better but I
don’t know how. “I don’t think people like my salad, either,” I say,
but neither of them responds.
Carson steps in instead, picking up the case of beer. “This is just
what we need,” he says. He places two cups of beer on the wooden
chest and drags it out so it is across from the ladder. Then he places
two more cups on the second step of the ladder, and pulls out three
Ping-Pong balls from a drawer.
Ellen sets down her drink and ruffles the feathers inside her
hair. “This is my favorite game.”
15 • FICTION