Loris sits, a baseball cap backwards, a white v-neck smudged by the ashes of the cigarette he’s dangling in his unaccountably gloved right hand. I am staring at him, but so are the rest of us. We are all on the porch and he is in the path,and we are all facing him whether we choose to or not. He meets our attention with confidence, with exactly the smile you would expect of a 21 year old French kid who has New York City under his thumb. He is holding court, trying to prove that he is not high as fuck, a task made only slightly more difficult by the fact that he is high as fuck. But due process must be followed: “Ask me anything!” he demands through his grin.
Dennis does not deny that he is high as fuck. He starts the prosecution: “Who is your favorite footballer?” He stares at Loris intently. He is convinced this will be a stumper.
“Easy, it’s Evrà.” Dennis shrinks.
“Really? Evrà?” This is Camelle. He is asking because he cares about football, not to play the game.
“Yes, Evrà is good.” With the gloved hand, he dismisses Camelle, dumps more ash on his t-shirt. “Now let’s do capitals. I am good at capitals.”
We cycle through the atlas and sure enough, Loris is good at capitals, but he loses the attention of the crowd. This doesn’t bother him as he is genuinely caught up in an argument over Kuala Lumpur. It’s not his crowd anyway. We are gathered for a barbecue for Dennis’ birthday. It is not Dennis’ birthday, though that only seems to bother Dennis. For everyone else, it is a perfectly satisfactory explanation. Dennis tries to explain to the new arrivals that it is not his birthday, but they wish him a happy one anyway, and he accepts his defeat. After he has gone to lay down, they will sing “Happy Birthday” to him. He will groan “thank you” from the third floor window.
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