Moonshine

by Neema Samawi 

I’ve thought a lot about the way I died. Flashes of it come back to me on nights like this, when jackets pile by the door and voices mingle with the delicate taps of wine bottles placed on countertops. Harvey, the host of tonight’s housewarming, hovers in the foyer and gives tours to new arrivals. His eyes shimmer behind fishbowl glasses, darting between the entrance and the guests collected inside. He shuffles from foot to foot, glances at his phone. The doorbell rings.

Two men appear in the doorway, one in a Ralph Lauren sweater, the other with Stegosaurus spikes for hair. “Should we take off our shoes?” Sweater Guy asks, and Harvey gently requests they do. Timberlands, loafers, and about ten pairs of white sneakers line the entrance. I follow them as they follow Harvey up to his bedroom.

Sweater Guy thumbs the titles along Harvey’s bookcase. “Nice catalogue,” he says. “Hey, should I read Wealth of Nations?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Harvey responds. “It’s fundamental.”

Spiky Hair grunts in agreement. He selects a patterned paperback from the shelf. “Contested Modernity? I had no idea modernity was being contested.”

Harvey laughs—clipped, polite, and forced. It’s the sort of move I would reflexively perform too, this nervous dance of trying to be likable. Lucky me, I don’t have to pretend. I consider staying to watch the scene unfold, decide better of it, and descend the hardwood steps.

Downstairs, strangers huddle around the kitchen island and press against the walls, framed by the primary-color splashes of French art prints. It’s a degree too warm, sheens of sweat lining their upper lips. Two women stand by the counter with tepid smiles. I come close, so close I could touch them. One boasts full brows and long, golden locks. The other has eyes that remind me of pistachios, mottled with splotches of blue and brown and green. I look directly into her eyes. I don’t look away.

Parties used to make me nervous. I used to prepare in front of the bathroom mirror, practicing quippy responses to imaginary small talk, testing the boundaries of eye contact. The ideal intensity, the optimal duration. Now I enjoy parties, crave them even. I stare at people’s eyes for as long and as hard as I please. Eye contact is easy, it turns out, when the other person can’t see you.

“So, how do you know these guys?” Goldilocks asks, swirling a glass of red.

“I met Harvey in a Russian class in college,” Pistachio Eyes says, “and we both ended up in the area.”

“Nice, that’s cool. Where did you go to college?”

Boring. I leave them alone in search of people I could picture being my friends. In the kitchen, they’re discussing geopolitics, the historical context of tensions in the Middle East. In the downstairs bedroom, they debate whether the quality of pop music has degraded with the rise of short-form videos. In the hallway upstairs, two men make snide comments about some woman’s outfit. I tap their wrists and light little bursts of heat, and they yelp from the shock. “What the hell was that?!” I smile to myself and slide out of the room. My one party trick.

My existence, if you could call it that, is defined by limitations. Bounded by this house, by my lack of a body. I look forward to these nights, times when this place is teeming with twenty-somethings, all trying, to varying degrees, to have fun. To keep myself entertained, I find ways to participate. There was the Western-themed birthday party, decals of cowboy hats studding the walls. One guy kept interrupting with semi-tangential facts about himself, so I blasted him with warmth until he waddled out, mortified by the sweat marks darkening his button-down. Another time, they shut off all the lights, lined the halls with glow-sticks, and played ravey remixes of early-2000s throwbacks, but no one was dancing. I flooded the room with a draft, prompting them to move, to generate body heat.

The routine is always the same: I listen to gossip, anecdotes, snarky back-and-forths. When the conversations stagnate, I simply go elsewhere. I don’t have to excuse myself. I don’t have to make a smooth exit. It might seem like a small consolation, a minor upside to this bleak reality. But my God, what a relief.

*

I’ve thought a lot about the way I died, even when I’d rather not. Tonight I make it about an hour before the memories resurface. Always during these parties, I find myself revisiting that night, over and over, searching for clues. For the answer to the question: why am I still here? No one sat me down and explained the rules. No one explained the parameters by which I might achieve resolution.

I visited this house for the first time three years ago. It had different occupants back then, a rowdy trio of boys who all hailed from the same fraternity. They ran the place like their old frat house, floors sticky and nightclub-crowded, guys in muscle tanks and girls with exposed midriffs. Meanwhile, I was four months post-grad, working my first corporate job. I’d left behind my two best friends in Ann Arbor, both of whom had landed research positions on campus. I missed the built-in community of college, the way friendships could be fostered in the common room if you simply sat on the worn-out dorm furniture for long enough. I missed the comfort of driving home on the weekends. Starting over in this new city, I had an influx of income but no one I could call a friend. Instead I had roommates, coworkers, acquaintances.

I’d been invited that night by another new hire, a friend of a friend of the hosts. When I arrived, I scanned the kitchen for her perky blond ponytail and waded through packed clusters of people. I couldn’t stop fidgeting with my phone and the straps of my slip dress. Occasionally I stared at Tarantino posters Scotch-taped to the wall.

A woman clutched her cropped denim jacket as she spoke to a small circle of people. The jacket clashed with her shapeless maxi-dress, but I liked her cat-eye glasses. I nudged in closer, and the group shuffled to make room. “Where did you get those—”

“God, Midwesterners are the worst,” she said. The ambient chatter, as usual, had swallowed my words.

Laughter rippled throughout the circle. “What do you mean, they’re so nice!’ someone protested.

“Yeah, to your face. And then they’re secretly judging you the whole time.”

Their knowing nods made me curdle. Better not to mention where I was from.

If Glasses Girl had heard me, would she have been suspicious of my comment? Would she have wondered what mean-spirited thoughts were lurking beneath? Then again, I had been judging her outfit. Maybe she had a point.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I spun around to face my coworker, cheeks tinted pink, a whisper of liner on her lids. “Hey! You made it!” She pulled back, assessing me. “Love your dress. So gorg.”

“Thanks.” I scrambled to return the compliment. “Cute socks.”

“Oh, these old things?” She flexed her ankle to reveal frilly, rose-dotted fabric. “They’re so faded. I should probably retire them.”

“No, no, they’re lovely,” I insisted.

“Thanks. Well anyway, I’m glad you could make it!”

She vanished into the crowd. I felt punctured by a sense of failure. I’d assumed we would spend more time chatting, get to know each other better, then split off and reconvene later in the night. I’d assumed this invitation was an offering for friendship, the first in a series of future interactions. Maybe she’d only invited me to be nice.

I trudged upstairs to the rooftop, where a handful of people had migrated. Cigarette smoke clouded the dense August air. I felt the urge to check my phone—no new messages. Earlier that day, I’d researched the trendiest restaurants and cocktail bars and texted recent acquaintances to make plans, people I’d met at happy hour the previous week in some industrial bar downtown where the music’s heavy bassline had trembled over our conversations, and though I couldn’t make out their words, their faces had conveyed cordiality and warmth. And so I drafted up these messages, casual requests to grab coffee, then reread them multiple times, debating whether to hit send. Worried if I did, I might come off too strong; worried if I didn’t, I would never see these people again. In those days my friendlessness stretched out before me, vast and ocean-like, and threatened to consume me whole. And so I flailed, directionless, in search of a life raft.

A tall man with sad eyes hung out in the corner with two others. He glanced over at me and we happened to make eye contact. I looked away. A minute later, he broke off from the group and strutted toward me. My stomach did acrobatics.

“Hey. You drinking? Try this.”

He handed me a can and I popped it open. Watermelon-lime flavor. It tasted exactly how I expected, like liquified Jolly Rancher.

“Thanks.” I introduced myself, held out my hand, and immediately regretted the formality of the gesture.

“I’m Chet.” He went in for a fist-bump; I hesitated, then pressed my knuckles against his. “So, what do you do in the city?”

“I work for a marketing agency,” I said. I hated giving this answer. This answer described me so poorly as a person, I felt the need to elaborate. Really I wanted to be a poet, or own a small business selling polymer clay figures, but I didn’t say that. I feared I might launch into too many details and come off as self-absorbed. “What about you?”

He scrunched his eyebrows. “Nah, I meant like, what do you like to do? Like, for fun?”

“Oh. Sorry. It seems all anyone wants to talk about is work.” I racked my brain for recreational activities. “Um…I like rock climbing?”

This was not true. One of my roommates had dragged me to the rock climbing gym exactly twice and I’d hated it both times. Tragically, we discovered about one month into living together that we didn’t like any of the same things. Anyway, I couldn’t come up with a single activity I did for fun anymore, aside from scroll on my phone and watch period dramas. Navigating a new social scene and working nine-to-five already left me too exhausted for my old hobbies.

Chet’s sad eyes widened. “For real? Let me see your calluses.”

“I don’t have any,” I said, and hid my hands behind my back. “I’m, uh, just getting into it.”

“That’s cool.” A few feet away, a group of people burst into laughter. He looked over at them with longing, the way a housebound dog might watch his dog friends play outside. “I’m gonna grab a beer downstairs. See you around.”

And just like that, I was standing alone again.

I downed the rest of my seltzer, waited an appropriate amount of time, and retreated inside in search of another drink.

*

The furniture has moved around since that night, but the energy remains the same, as people trip over sentences and fawn over new friends. It radiates off of Harvey’s face, the way he mirrors expressions and nods to show he’s listening, the hesitation before he speaks, as if he can somehow summon the perfect words for this particular interaction.

I like Harvey so far, based on the few glimpses I’ve had of his personality. Whenever he starts talking about something he loves, like his favorite Sundance films or the US Open, his eyes widen and he speaks faster, the sentences compressing into one long run-on thought. He quickly becomes apologetic for taking up so much space, then deflects the attention back on the other person. A move I’m intimately familiar with.

But I have yet to find anyone tonight whose company I think I’d enjoy. Even Harvey is iffy—our interests don’t really overlap, though we’re both agreeable enough that I think we’d get along. Maybe not best friend material, but definitely warm acquaintances.

One of the previous residents, Laurie, had a soft, sweet voice and a love of 19th century literature. I would imagine us poring over Sense and Sensibility and Jane Eyre, holding small, cozy book club meetings in local coffee shops. I would show her how to shape clay into smiling spotted mushrooms, or a tiny walrus donning a tophat, and she would show me how to knit sweaters with drapey sleeves and vibrant zigzag patterns. We would lounge indoors on the weekends, express our innermost thoughts while Bridgerton played in the background. A pure fantasy, I knew, but sometimes I needed the escape.

*

After Chet walked away, I wandered down to the living room and joined a rapid-fire game of stack cup. Ten of us surrounded a fold-out table, watermarked by the residue of beer cans. The round concluded when a stocky guy in ripped jeans chugged the last cup. I lifted my phone from the table. Still no messages.

I played another round, then another. My bounces landed each time. The alcohol hadn’t hit yet, so I kept going, even when I should’ve known better. Historically I’d been much more responsible, stopping well before I entered dizziness or blackout territory. But I knew, from the few parties I’d attended in college, how useful drinking was, how it could set in motion the most static of situations. And at this point I wanted something, anything, to happen, so this whole experience wouldn’t feel like a huge waste of time. A new contact in my phone, a moment of laughter, anything.

I should’ve just gone home. And yet I did this so often, forcing my way through social events, holding out for the night to fulfill its promise.

We took a break from playing when Ripped Jeans came back with a tray of shots. My throat puckered at the high proof, cheap liquor burning through me. We all reacted the same, trying not to gag, our faces pinched in pain. Maybe I imagined it, but the shared discomfort seemed to bond us, however briefly.

The next time we played, my bounces veered off the table. Ripped Jeans stacked me mercilessly, yelling obscenities during my turns, but the others cheered me on. They turned my name into a chant, crescendoing right as I averted the losing cup. They patted me on the back, slathered me in sloppy high-fives.

“I’d like to thank my fans,” I said, slurring my words into a crushed can. “Thanks for believing in me. I’d like to thank my mom. Also, the Lord.”

I’d gone from stark-sober to slippery drunk in the span of minutes. It was so fun to blurt out the silly things that popped in my head as they appeared. Why did I always keep myself so contained?

The group partook in another round of shots and soon after dispersed throughout the house. In the kitchen I swayed to EDM squeaking through a portable speaker. The tall guy from before—Chet?—reappeared behind the kitchen island.

“That’s not how you dance to this kind of music.”

I crossed my arms and stuck out my tongue. “And who made you dancing police?”

“Well it’s my house, so my rules.”

I shrugged, did a pirouette in further defiance. “I didn’t know you lived here.” Stomach sloshing with liquid bravery, I added, “Prove it.”

The corners of his mouth curled conspiratorially. He opened the fridge and slid out a large Mason jar. Clear fluid undulated inside.

“Moonshine.” He poured me a drink. “Homemade. I would know, because I live here.” He poured himself some too and we cheersed like old friends.

It tasted the way acetone smelled. One swallow and I wanted to throw it up.

“You don’t have to drink that whole thing,” he said, a note of apology folded into his laughter. “This isn’t really authentic Moonshine. Mostly just a mix of hard liquors.”

I nodded, knowing in the sober, shut-off part of my brain that I should heed his words. But he slipped out of the room and I drank and drank and drank, as if our flimsy connection hinged on this Solo cup, and once I finished he would come back and talk to me. Besides, I was still riding down the waxy slide of euphoria.

Until I wasn’t, and I was stumbling, for the final time, toward the bathroom door.

*

I’ve thought a lot about the way I died. How unlike me it was. I knew better than to drink so recklessly. In the aftermath, I overheard Chet’s housemates, as they Lysoled away the stench. What kind of person locks themselves in the bathroom and blacks out? Can you believe she killed herself binge-drinking? But I didn’t die of binge-drinking. I died of shyness. I died of a need to be uninhibited.

What would Harvey and his housemates do if they knew? Try to break the lease, take legal action? Can you sue for ghosts?

Chet and his friends moved out shortly after my death. After Chet, before Harvey, the house was occupied by three young women who had all gone to Swarthmore together. I learned their routines, their private ambitions, their idiosyncrasies. One would eat Raisin Bran without milk for dinner. One would lip sync dramatically to power pop ballads in the mirror. One girl—Laurie, the one I would later imagine as my friend—would open her laptop, start a show on Netflix, and read a book instead. I spent the most time with Laurie, sitting on the edge of her bed and watching television while she read, pretending we were so close, we didn’t even need to speak. She had a habit of reading a few pages, then pausing to look up, as if processing the words. She liked murder mysteries and jasmine tea and chocolate-covered almonds, which she would grab fistfuls of and shove into her mouth. On Tuesday nights she would call her sister in Chicago and swap life updates, embarrassing stories. By the end of her lease, I knew her with an intimacy reserved for siblings, best friends, cohabitating lovers.

*

As the housewarming winds down, a swarm of people linger on the rooftop. They draw their cardigans against the wind and talk at oscillating volumes, and in the dark their eyes are hazy and hard to decipher. Gossamer clouds obscure the moon, refracting fuzzy spokes of light.

A guy in a tattered flannel barges through the door clutching a grease-stained bag. Others approach, whooping and tearing through the paper for food. Apparently the spread of Brie and crudités downstairs had left something to be desired. One guy holds a French fry between his fingers and fakes taking a long drag. They look like they’re having a good time. I tell myself I’m having a good time too, content to observe and not participate.

Harvey joins his housemates and they pass around shots in celebration of a successful event. He exchanges banter with guests, visibly fatigued from playing host, his eyes watery and faded. I imagine he’s expended enough energy to sleep for twelve hours straight, and it will probably be months before he hosts something again.

On the outskirts of the crowd, a woman shrugs a sweater over her gauzy blouse. She stares in my direction. She stares through me, not at me, but still I jolt with hope. She reminds me of someone. She reminds me of Laurie.

This isn’t Laurie, not quite, but there’s a softness to her eyes, a fullness to her cheeks that reminds me of her. She shivers from the cold and glances at the exit, then checks the time on her phone. Stay, I want to tell her. I stroke her shoulders with tendrils of warmth. Confused, she peeks behind her, then settles into it, muscles relaxing.

I lure her forward with more heat. As the night comes to a close, she shuffles toward the crowd, joining right as they clink glasses. I watch, as if separated by a pane of glass, as she takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and throws back a shot.

 

Neema Samawi is a Syrian-American artist and fiction writer. She grew up near Chicago and completed her Bachelor’s at Washington University in St. Louis. She currently lives in Washington, DC with her partner and an abundance of plants.