Party at the End of Time
by dgk goldberg

BJ, short for Betty Jo, fastened the red velvet choker around her neck and resumed taming her unruly hair with her curling iron. Eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss, she was almost ready. Humming, she sprayed perfume all over herself. The red ribbon was a nice touch; she had read somewhere that during the Reign of Terror women wore red chokers to parties, red ribbons on the spot the blade would strike. Or was that during the restored monarchy after the revolution? She couldn't recall, no matter, she liked the way the ribbon looked.

Sometimes BJ was tired of the ceaseless round of preparing and partying. But there simply wasn't anything else to do; it wasn't like she had a partner. Her feelings roller coastered--tired of parties but maybe I'll meet someone special.

Tonight she was going to a Reign of Terror party. Cautious of her hairstyle she stepped into a full-skirted red satin dress. Still humming, she unfurled a silk fan and flirted with her own reflection. She lit a cigarette and choked on the smoke. She didn't quite have the hang of it, but everyone smoked.

Stubbing out the cigarette she dialed Dana's number, "Hi, I'm going to a great one tonight. Reign of Terror. I hear they've rented a guillotine. I was wondering if you and Bev would like to be my dates?"

Dana responded in a quiet voice, "We've decided to stop going to parties."

"Huh? Wait a minute. Do I have the wrong number?" BJ slipped her feet into high-heeled pumps with paste jewels on the toes as she spoke. "What do you mean, not going to parties? Are you sick? Hey, live to party, die partying and all that."

"We're fine. We just can't keep going that's all. We can't do it anymore." Dana didn't sound fine to BJ. She sounded exhausted.

"Let me talk to Bev, then. I don't get it. " BJ kicked a pile of clothes underneath her bed.

"Bev went to the hardware store--she's doing butch binge shopping. We're in a new house, a bit further out of town. We're re-doing the upstairs bath."

Fine for them BJ thought. They have each other.

"New house? Re-doing the bath? What the hell for? No point in it, now is there?" BJ clutched the telephone tightly. What the hell was wrong with Dana?

"We think there is a point to it. We've decided we want a normal life."

"A normal life? Oh, God, you've gone crazy." BJ started laughing until she nearly choked. "What on earth are you talking about?"

She was speaking to the dial tone. Dana had hung up on her. Sometimes BJ hated the smug domesticity of her coupled friends.

Shrugging she posed before the mirror for a final review of her appearance, then went to the bathroom to test her blood. She slipped her health card into the slot; the machine punched out the time, date, and verification of her blood status. The reading was good, still uninfected. She didn't know why she bothered--no one she knew had the virus. Sticking the card into her black beaded evening bag she tripped out the door. Screw Dana and screw Bev, redoing the bathroom, what was wrong with them? Life is a party. Even if I had a partner, I'd still want to party.

She rushed to the subway entrance. The evening air made her shiver in her low-cut satin gown; she hadn't wanted to crush the full skirt with a coat. She raced down the slippery stairs with the balance of a practiced commuter, barely pausing to slip her ticket into the turnstile, hitting the platform as the train shuddered to a stop.

The train disgorged a crowd in various costumes and stages of inebriation. A man in Klingon make up jostled her. A middle-aged woman dressed like Alice in Wonderland stepped on her foot as she shouldered through the crowd into the jaws of the train. So much for protecting her skirt.

The train lurched forward. Two stops down the lights blinked and flickered off; the train stopped inexplicably. Someone fondled BJ's breasts in the darkness while she clung to the overhead strap. Someone else was hunching against her ass. She giggled, her skirt and petticoats were too pervasive for the idiot to feel anything. The lights returned and the train clattered forward, slower this time, tentatively toward the next stop. BJ studied the blank faces around her; she wondered who had played with her breasts. A small woman in a pink tutu blushed when BJ looked her way.

At her stop, BJ couldn't resist patting the tutu woman's butt as she shouldered her way through the crowd. The platform was crowded; the stairs were littered with papers and broken glass. Grasping the handrail BJ moved up the stairs impatiently. She was ready to party.

Blinking in the neon night, slapped by the cool air, BJ paused in front of the exit to get her bearings. Someone kicked her from behind. "Other people have places to go, bitch." She turned but didn't see who spoke. No matter, she had spotted the entrance to the hotel where the Reign of Terror party was being held. Jaywalking through a snarl of taxis she scrambled up a slight incline and arranged her mouth in a sexy pout as she approached the door.

Several be-wigged women in brocade dresses with panniers were ahead of her. They had to turn sideways to get through the door. Historical accuracy can go a bit too far, BJ thought. The doorman reached down her neckline to tweak a nipple as she brushed by him.

The room was hazy with cigarette smoke. A group of Lafayette look-alikes was swarming the buffet tables piling their plates high. As she ventured toward the bar, she stopped to watch the churning ass of a tall man in a loose white shirt screwing a Marie Antoinette against the wall. She had long legs that she'd wrapped around the man's waist. "Nice ass," BJ thought as the woman screamed "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" in the throes of a fake orgasm. "As if," BJ muttered to herself, "a simple 'oh God' would have been sufficient."

The crowd at the bar was three deep. BJ decided against elbowing her way through and scanned the crowd for a large man to manipulate with judicious use of her helpless female wiles. Stepping carefully lest she plant a high heel on a humping couple or slip in a puddle of puke she maneuvered through the dark. As she moved around a group of people balancing plates of food, she nearly collided with the tall man in the voluminous white shirt. "The face isn't familiar, but I loved the ass," she said, nearly stumbling into him.

He threw back his head and laughed showing a mouth full of movie star teeth. "Great opening line," he commented clutching her elbow and steering her to a corner of the dimly lit room. "What do you follow it with?"

"Whatever you like if you can muscle through this mob and get me a drink." She looked up at him through her lashes.

"Oh, you're just like all the rest--you want me for my size." He laughed and squeezed her shoulder affectionately before turning back toward the melee at the bar. "What do you want?" he yelled over his shoulder.

"White wine, please." BJ answered. The crowd swirled and kaleidoscoped around her. Trysts were arranged, assignations occurred. The heavy cloud of cigarette smoke was infused with the sweet smell of pot. A group of girls from a different party, or at least marching to a different drummer, cut through the crowd in transparent miniskirts and feather headdresses. BJ caught glimpses of vaguely familiar faces, falls of hair or particular strides that struck random chords in her memory. It was hard to keep track of people. So many people, so much partying.

"Here," the man said shoving a wineglass into her hand.

"Thank you so much." BJ gave him a 1000-watt smile. She moved closer. "Fantastic party, isn't?"

"I suppose, if you like parties." he said. "I'm half sick of them."

BJ looked up at him. His face illustrated exhaustion. Tentatively she changed gears, stopped all her flirtatious fluttering. "Sometimes it begins to feel empty. Partying, not having a partner." She tensed her stomach and swallowed; the conversation felt dangerous. "I sometimes feel lonely in the middle of a huge party. Have you ever felt that?"

"Empty," he echoed. "Futile, pointless. You know, it seems years since I actually spoke to a woman. One doesn't seem to need to talk anymore. I suppose there's nothing left to say." He took a long swallow of his drink. "Almost as if conversation belonged to the before time."

BJ noticed the lines etched around his deep-set eyes. "I was a child during the before time, I only vaguely remember it. Most of what I remember I suspect I've made up."

"What do you remember?" He focused on her with a desperate intensity. BJ had the odd sensation that she was getting more attention from him than the woman she'd seen him screwing.

"Living in a house, my mom planting tulips. Bits and pieces of things." She shook her head as if she were trying to banish a nasty wisp of thought. She gulped her wine. "School. I remember liking school." She looked at the gaudy paste jewels on her red satin shoes; she was embarrassed at the disclosure.

"Did you really?" his voice crackled with interest." I used to teach. World history. I don't suppose you're old enough to have taken it."

"No. But you certainly don't look old enough to have had a job back then." BJ put her hand on his forearm. He was terribly attractive. She chastised herself for her discomfort; seduction should feel like familiar ground. Only this wasn't mere seduction. She was interested in this man, she found herself wanting to know things about him. "What was it like, teaching history?"

"I felt a sense of responsibility to the past--as if I were keeping it alive. I used to actually believe that the study of history could . . ." he broke off in the middle of his words and began scanning the crowd. He looked behind BJ, over her head.

She was puzzled; she wasn't accustomed to a man losing interest. This wouldn't do, not at all. She sidled up to him letting her breast brush against his forearm. "What's your favorite kind of party?" She wanted him to stop looking around and to look at her again.

"I've always liked Inquisition themes and Nazi parties as well. But this one will have to do." His answer was quick; other women had asked that question.

"I love all parties. I particularly like Viking ones, love the Inquisition ones." She said, desperate to keep the conversation going. "Have you ever been to a Martyr Burning party? There was a great one three days ago." BJ gnawed the inside of her cheek, he made her nervous, she was saying stupid things.

"You were there? I lit the flames." His voice sounded flat. His eyes were opaque.

"Oh, how exciting." Stop it, you sound like a simpering fool, she told herself. She tapped his arm with her fan to garner his attention. "Are you and Marie a thing, or did you meet here?" Well, that's to the point, she thought. His waning interest was a challenge.

"Oh, her? Met her in the buffet line . . ." He didn't look at BJ. He seemed to be searching for someone in the crowd.

"Obviously I met you in the wrong place," BJ answered her voice light. She followed her words with a tinny artificial giggle. She laughed alone. Suddenly she realized with sick embarrassment that the crowd had quieted. A few whispered conversations replaced the din. Her laughter rose in the emptiness. Her cheeks flamed.

An ominous hush fell upon the frantic horde. No one spoke. A squad of uniformed men burst into the room. "Health cards, health cards," they called in cadence. BJ dug through her beaded bag and held her blood test results at the ready. Her companion reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card. His face impassive, his spine erect he walked toward the Medic police with his card before him in his outstretched hand. After a few steps, he stopped. He turned to BJ and said, "My name is Tim Matthews. I was a history teacher." He resumed his march.

The squad halted as he approached. Wordlessly he offered the card. A lieutenant stepped forward and gave it a cursory glance before handing it over to his commanding officer. With a tight little smile, the CO signaled the squad to break rank. They formed an escort around the man. He was taller than all of the Medics. He looked over at BJ one more time and winked, "Au revoir, Mon Cherie," he called.

The squad goose-stepped to the guillotine. Four people were already in line.

With bile rising in her throat, BJ pushed through the crowd just in time to see the blade slice through the neck of a young girl in white satin. BJ's heartbeat pounded in her ears when saw Tim Matthews. She willed him to turn and look at her one last time. He stared at the blade. She held her clean bill of health like a rosary and turned around. She swallowed her wine in one gulp and quickly lit a cigarette. When she glanced back at the execution site, the headless body of the history teacher was being dragged away.

Numb, she walked through the crowd. "Hey BJ where you goin'?" a voice called. She didn't turn and look. She kept moving to the door, one foot in front of the next until the cold rush of outdoor air enveloped her. She trudged toward the subway and retraced her journey home. She remembered the red and yellow of her mother's tulips. She could not recall her mother's face.

Sloppy, she thought, as she stepped out of her dress. I'm getting sloppy, flirting with a man with bad blood, not thinking to ask to see his card, not caring. I'd have had sex if he'd wanted it and I didn't even want to screw him. I'd just wanted to talk. She ripped the choker from her neck and tossed it across the room; it landed in a pile of abandoned finery, feather boas and slinky evening wear shared floor space with orphaned wineglasses and oil slicks of spilled cosmetics.

The jangle of the phone intruded. She clenched her fists digging viciously into her palms with long polished nails. A voice, inviting her to a Russian Revolutionary Ball later this week. She shook her head no as if she could stop the voice. The phone again, a garbled message about an electric chair and Christmas tree lights. With the assault of each invitation, she felt more alone.

Her parents had left together. She couldn't recall the day. Tim Matthews. A history teacher. She had wanted to talk to him, to know things about him.

She lit a cigarette, coughing and choking. Damn, I'll never get this right. BJ smashed it out angrily. Everyone smoked since the tax was lifted, everyone partied and no one seemed to work, not much, not more than four or five hours, paid in cash then back to a party. The telephone again, damn, no peace.

BJ stomped to the shower and stood under the steam, to get rid of the make-up, the sweat, and the smell of smoke. She recalled Dana's phrase, "A normal life, a normal life." After her shower she pricked her finger and read her blood. Still clean, "Clean today, dead tomorrow," she muttered. Last year that had been a popular toast at parties. She hadn't heard anyone say it for awhile.

She rubbed her skin raw with a towel and dressed in an old pair of jeans. Clean today, dead tomorrow she thought as she rummaged through the debris in her apartment. She packed a few comfortable garments in an old backpack, shoved whatever cash she found into the bottom of the bag. A normal life. A normal life.

Tossing her toothbrush into the bag she paused and looked at the blood test kit squatting beside the sink. No. A normal life or a peaceful death, either one. She left the test kit in its place. She tossed in a red lipstick, the shade of Mom's tulips. Leaving her apartment for the last time, she did not lock the doors. Let anyone that wanted her things scavenge them. BJ had partied for the last time. She was going to plant tulips instead.

She rode the subway to the end of the line and got off at an unmanned station. The platform was empty; only one light burned from the ceiling. The bench in the center was broken, snapped in half. Bits of metal were scattered about. The gate creaked as she opened it and stepped down to the parking lot. A derelict car with a smashed windshield sat near the road. Spray painted on the driver's side door: "Party to Death."

A few street lamps burned like solitary fireflies. She walked past a deserted strip mall, the storefronts' broken-out windows leered at her as she walked purposefully forward into the void. A few of the shops appeared to still be in business.

After what seemed like hours, she came to a highway. No cars passed her for a few miles. BJ walked forward toward the horizon. Not everyone had stayed in the city. Somewhere there would be a small town. Maybe only a day or two walking would get her there. A place where people worked and went home and tried to live normal lives. Someplace where there were no parties and people with bad blood died in their beds with vases of tulips next to them. She knew it must be possible.

Placing one foot in front of the other, BJ shed her old life as she trudged toward the rising sun. Then, as sunlight light spread like shimmering water, she believed she saw red flowers in the grass.

dgk goldberg is a freelance writer living in the southern part of the USA who occasionally wanders pointlessly around the world. She's spent too much time thinking about "outrageous acts" because she's aware that most people who know her view her life as a series of them. From her perspective, however, she leads a very boring, mundane existence punctuated with the odd ice cream sandwich.