SHORT STORIES

I detest birthday parties. The times are past when we all just got drunk or stoned and danced to wild music. Nowadays it’s purely obligatory. Must we? Should we? Can we? We went, hoping only to eat that proverbial piece of cake, have a coffee, and wish them well.

To my astonishment, the room, or rather, the floor, was full. Perfectly composed young folk, handshakes, names strung together like beads, already forgotten.

I stepped carefully past half-naked children and half naked mothers feeding them with professionally cultivated calm, until I managed to anchor myself in a corner of the couch, probably the seat reserved for newcomers.

Martin was there. Hair immaculately shaved, tiny pumped-up muscles, the usual too-small polo shirt. Recently separated from his wife and two children, he was now enthusiastically embracing bachelor life, telling me how refreshing it was to have no alcohol in his new home. That helped me relax a little.

K sat to my left, on the other side of Martin, her eyes rolling around the room. I looked too. Some had relaxed so completely they’d tied themselves into yoga knots. Naturally. I would have done the same. The hyper-awareness was contagious. Young men had fallen into trances, smiling serenely in full Padmasana. All I wanted was a strong coffee.

And then, to my horror, my disdain, it began to unwind.

Could we create a circle?

A large, steaming pot was placed ceremoniously on the floor. Now or never, I thought. I looked at K. Never. This was ceremonial entrapment.

As if we had never before been to a cacao birthday party, it was explained. In detail. For beginners. Fair-trade calabashes were handed out as if they were hot eggs. Inexperienced, shiny guitars were clutched tightly, as if they might escape. I knew this was going to hurt.

This was Never.

Our host began filling the assorted mugs as if pouring molten gold. We were asked to pass them around the circle. To my relief, the circle finally filled, painfully.

We sang. Eyes open. We sang. Eyes closed. We sang for someone we loved. We sang in whispers, all in an Indio language I had never sung before. Then we prayed. Quite a bit. Baggy pants, the obvious leader, the clan guru, helped us pray for the indigenous tribes who had risked their lives harvesting for us, for the shipping agents, and for all the logistics that had brought us to this enlightened moment.

By that time, the cacao was cold.