House of Balloons Part III: BEN (1st draft)

My throat felt raw. My stomach hollow. My legs, like Jell-O. The room wasn’t spinning but it did kind of feel as if it was at an angle.
Tearing off a few squares of tissue paper, the cheap green kind that I had told Pete not to buy but which he had gone ahead and bought anyway, I wiped my chin and my nose. Threw the soiled paper into the toilet and flushed. I watched as the small green ball swirled around the toilet bowel with the yellowish brown chunky soup looking barf and disappeared.
Placing my palm flat against the wall, I used it to steady myself. Took a second to regain my composure. Deep breaths, Ben. Deep breaths.
It took a minute but the room finally stopped bobbing up and down like a swimming pool floater long enough for me to walk back to the bedroom.
She was sitting up in bed when I got there. She was wearing one of my t-shirts. The black “I’m So UG” one. She had already claimed it as a souvenir. Damned if I was going to let her take it though. Even if she did say that to get it back I would have to undress her myself.
She was poking at my laptop. The Weeknd coming out of its most of the time adequate speakers. As much as it hurt my face to smile I still some how managed to. She liked The Weeknd.
“Well some one drank way too much last night.” She said looking up from the laptop.
“Maybe just a little bit.” I croaked holding up my thumb and index finger, about an inch of space between them.
“Awwww, does someone need a hug?”
Man did she have that sarcasm shit down pat.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. Aimed my gaze in her direction.
“Would you?”
She pointed at the door.
“Shower’s that way. Take one and maybe we’ll talk about.”
“Will you be joining me?”
She tossed my phone into my lap.
“Patricia tried calling you.”
Now that caught me off guard.
“Did you answer it?”
She scoffed.
“What am I, an idiot? No. I think you should call her back though; 6 missed calls.”
6 missed calls? She must really have something to say. After last night though, I’m not sure I wanted to hear what she did have to say. As angry as I was though, I had to call her. I just had to. I picked up the phone.
“Ben?”
I looked over at Sharon. Waited.
“Are you going to tell her?”
I opened up my “Outgoing Calls”. Patricia’s was the last number dialed. I shrugged.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Pressing the “call” button I put the phone up to my ear.




A lot of people call me a shutterbug. On account of the fact that I take pictures of just about everything. It doesn’t really matter of what or of who or of where; somehow I still manage to get the lens to scratch below the surface and unearth something that one might not normally see with the naked eye. Or so I've been told. A little pretentious sounding isn’t it? Though to be quite honest, (and there is not a scrap of arrogance attached to this statement) there is a bearing of truth to that statement.
To me, a picture is not just a picture but a story. And above all, above everything else, I love to tell stories. And since life is just a series of pictures strung together, thousands upon thousands of stories, who am I not to carry a camera around trying to capture as much of it as I can? And who are you Mr. Bouncer Sir to try and deny me that? Huh? Can you answer me that?
I didn’t say any of this to the bouncer, of course. The six foot four, built like a wrestler, bald headed, badass looking, “I eat shit like you for breakfast” muthafucker of a bouncer. Instead I genially lifted the strap over my head and handed the bouncer my camera. After patting me down, finding my wallet and my two years past expiration date phone, the bouncer told me to come and pick my camera when I was leaving.
Welcome to Karma.



What sound does a camera phone make when it’s taking a picture? Don’t know? Well, whatever it is, that’s the sound that Sharon’s phone made as it took our picture. We had finally established (albeit with a whole lot of convincing on my part) that there was nothing going on between me and Patricia and had quickly moved to getting on with our night without her. I mean, if Patricia wasn’t going to give me the time of day (or in this case night), why should I give her any? And the way I saw it, Patricia had already taken enough advantage of me for one night as it was. Granted, I had let her but that didn’t diminish from the fact that she had.
We were still sitted at our spot by the door. Sharon halfway in my lap. Six empty shot glasses on the table in front of us. Our lips centimeters apart. Our conversation playful, even a little flirtatious. Sharon had that look in her eyes. Like she wanted me to kiss her. And God knows I wanted to. But not here. Not now. Not when Patricia could see us. I had managed to convince Sharon that there was nothing going on between Patricia and I (even if just barely) but I’m just not sure whether I had quite managed to convince myself of that.
I sat back. Put some distance between Sharon’s lips and mine. If Sharon read into this any, she didn’t let on but kept on talking. I’m not even sure what she was talking about. Something about orangutans and cheeseburgers. Don’t ask me what the connection was because I have no friggin’ idea.
“Wanna get out of here?”
“Huh?”
“I said do you wanna get out of here?”
I gave Sharon a look.
She laughed.
“Not like that. It’s getting late and you seem to be the get-all-broody kind of drunk. Let’s get you home.”
I smiled. Or at least tried to. She was probably right. I let her know as much.
“Where’s Patricia?”
Sharon shook her head.
“No idea. Though I did see her go outside a little while ago. Let’s go out and I’ll try calling her from there. Joey is over there. Lemme go get him.”
Getting up, Sharon walked over to where Joey was, still cornered by that Barbra chick, although never too far from her DJ boyfriend’s watchful eye.
A minute later Sharon returned with Joey and we headed down stairs.
The scene that met us was an explosive one if there ever was one.
Patricia was outside all right. Surrounded by eight maybe nine boda boda riders tugging and pulling at her. Pointing fingers, faces contorted in anger, voices raised…they were quickly developing into a mob. And she was pointing and cursing right back at them.
Pushing my way through them and getting to Patricia; I hugged her against me and pushing away hands demanded to know what was going on.
She owed them money. All of them? No, three of them. Then why were they all as if they were going to beat her? She was abusing them, denying that she owed them anything.
Patricia pushed against my grip towards the pack of ravenous ruffians.
“Fucking ass holes! I paid you your money; I paid you your money! Why are you trying to cheat me? Ass holes! Fuck you!”
She spat.
I struggled to keep a hold of her because I knew that if I let her go, that would be it.
“Boss, you see? These people just want their money and she’s abusing them for no reason.”
I shook Patricia to get her attention.
“Patricia, shut...the fuck…up! You’re only making things worse.”
She calmed down, if only somewhat.
I turned to the boda boda rider who had positioned himself as their unofficial spokesman.
“How much are they demanding?”
“Twenty K. Ten to him, five to him and five to him.”
He pointed to each of them.
Ignoring Patricia’s protests I pulled out my wallet, took out a twenty thousand shilling note and handed it over. As soon as the money exchanged hands the crowd began to thin. And within a minute Patricia, Joey, Sharon and I were alone.
I let out a relieved sigh, that was close.
Patricia freed herself from my grip.
“You shouldn’t have paid them. They’re just a bunch of idiots trying to fucking cheat me out of a few shillings. And you let them.”
She sounded disgusted with me.
“He was trying to help.” Sharon said, stepping in to defend me. “And he did. You should be thanking him.”
“Thanking him my ass. What he did was stupid.”
She’s drunk, I told myself. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.
I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand.
“Let’s just get out of here, okay? It’s been a long night.”
I reached for Patricia’s hand. She snatched it away.
“I’m not going anywhere except back inside for another drink.”
I reached for her hand again; this time got it.
“Patricia…let’s go home.”
She looked down at my hand gripping hers and then up at me.
“You’re not my boyfriend Ben. Let go of me.”
I held her gaze…
…And let go.
What could I do?
Smoothing down her dress and finger combing her hair while muttering under her breath, Patricia walked back into the bar.
I watched her go, hoping that she would look back. If even just for a second.
She didn’t.
Sharon placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Come on Ben, let’s go. Like you said, ‘It’s been a long night’.”

House of Balloons Part II (1st Draft)

Part II
Sharon

Patricia wouldn’t stop going on about him. It was always Ben this and Ben that. Ben said this and Ben did that. And oh yeah, did I tell you how when I met him he had dreadlocks? He looks good now but you should have seen him then. Sure, I was with Stefan at the time and so I couldn’t do anything but now…who knows? She gushed about him so much that when I finally did meet him I was more than a little disappointed. I mean he was cool and all but he wasn’t all that. And sure I could see why she might want to bed him, empty pockets and all, but still, like really?
I met them outside of the entrance of Karma. You know, that bar in Kisimenti that for some reason or another is one of the prime spots in the city for those people who have more of a taste for how should I put it…white meat. Present company excluded of course. I like my meat dark and tough. So why do I go there then? Well, partly because of the music but mostly because it’s close to home. That’s what I tell people anyway.
Patricia and Ben had just come from Dashiki’s art exhibition. Well not just; according to Patricia they had gone out for Ethiopian after the less than stellar exhibition. God knows she sure as hell wasn’t wasting any time in milking the guy for all the thousands of shillings he had.
Initially, I had wanted to go with them, for the exhibition that is, not the Ethiopian (yuck!) but unlike some people (I won’t mention any names), I actually have to work for a living. And so Patricia and I agreed to link up afterwards. Have a night out. Invite a couple of boys along for company as well. But knowing Patricia, the boy she started the night with (i.e. Ben) would not be the same boy she ended it with (random white guy).
I looked Ben over. He was obviously into her. When he looked at her, he had that look in his eyes. You know, the look guys get when they think that maybe, just maybe this was a girl that they could love. Boy was he in for a surprise. And to be quite honest, I kind of felt a little sorry for him. He had no idea what he was in for.
Seeing as Patricia had meant for this to be a double date kind of thingy I invited Joey to keep me company. God knows how much I hate third wheel status. Although truth be told, that wasn’t the only reason why I called him but I’ll get to that later.
Joey is an old friend. And unlike Patricia, when I say “An old friend” I mean exactly that. No lips or tongues or fingers in private places. Joey and I had gone to Uni together. Had been course mates. He was one of the first friends I made after I moved back from Malawi.
After school Joey had gone the bankers route while I had gone rogue and gone the Self employed private consulters route. Something, I have since been made to understand, most people don’t do until they are well, well into their careers. But then, I was number 3 in my class while Joey had been some where between mediocre and “Did he even really graduate?” Thing is, I was naturally already ahead of the curve; I could afford to skip a few steps. And so Joey was still wearing the shirt and tie of the corporate slave when he came to meet me. Or us. Or whatever.
Neither of them knew that I knew but Patricia and Joey had slept together not too long before. This little reunion was my own delicious little way of finding out how guilty they would act around me. If at all.
Their greetings were marked with uncertain words and hesitant handshakes. I almost laughed. This was going to be one interesting night, I remarked to myself.
Trying to cover up her, what I took to be, discomfort as much as possible, Patricia introduced me to Ben. I could feel her eyes on me as she watched for my reaction. She wanted me to be impressed. I, however, wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction. I smiled, wanly, and held out my hand. Ben, taking it said something about it being really nice to meet me. No surprises there. Even after he let go of my hand I could still feel him giving me the twice over with his eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he liked what he saw. I know his eyes must have lingered around my pierced navel, juss like every other guy’s did. Knowing myself, I stopped my line of thinking before it went too far…
Boy, was this going to be an interesting night.

***
Three drinks in and I was finally starting to warm up to him. His was the kind of cool that grew on you. That pulled you in slowly. Without you even realizing it.
Patricia had done what she usually does when she drinks and had more or less bailed on us. Leaving me alone with Ben. Joey was around somewhere but he had his own issues. Some chick named Barbra who just wouldn’t leave him alone. Which could have caused problems considering how her boyfriend was the DJ that night. Thank God it didn’t. I guess he (the DJ boyfriend) knew how she is and had resigned himself to just making sure she didn’t leave with anyone.
Sometimes, I wonder why people put up with so much bullshit. I mean, she’s obviously not that into you dude, why put yourself through all that aggravation? And by “dude” I’m not only referring to the DJ boyfriend but also to Ben. Who, even though it was pretty clear that Patricia was up to her own shit, kept on following her around the bar trying to get her attention. She blew him off every single time. Which, personally, I found kind of messed up. Considering how much she had been going on about him and stuff. But then the thing is, she’s like that. Fickle. Capricious. Especially when she had some liquor in her. Which from what I knew was like most of the time anyway. But then according to Patricia, Ben had known her for as long as, if not longer, than I have. Meaning he knew all of that. Why he stuck around was beyond me. He could have gotten almost any girl he wanted, why Patricia?
I watched as Ben, shoulders slumped; glass in hand, walked back towards me and the table we had commandeered. Before he could say anything, however, I took the glass from his hand, empty if I remember properly, put it on the table and then taking Ben’s hand in mine told him to come and dance with me.
I don’t remember what song was playing but I do remember that it was one that we could dance to. The floor was teeming with moving bodies. Some on beat but many were not. Mostly couples. The funniest to watch were the interracials. The black girl winding with the white guy looking like he was having a mild seizure, arms shaking, feet skittering all over the floor looking like they were about to shoot out from underneath him.
It was Ben who pointed them out, though he made it a point not to point. I knew the girl. Her name was Chantal. Well, not really. Really it was Santa. But then you can’t really have a name like Santa when you’re trying to hook a white guy…you just wouldn’t hear the end of it. And so she had gone with Chantal. I knew the guy too. His name was Devon. From Massachusetts. Med student specializing in tropical diseases. The way he was ploughing through them I wouldn’t be surprised if he had caught a few. He had been with Patricia like the weekend before.
We had fun. Ben and I. I don’t know whether if it was the alcohol or whether he actually enjoyed my company but somehow I managed to get him to stop thinking about Patricia. To stop talking about her as well. And well, just dance. As for Patricia? She was dancing too. And drinking. Every time I got a glimpse of her she had a different bottle in her hand. And a different guy pulling her by the other. If it bothered Ben he sure as hell didn’t let it show. He seemed to be completely focused on me. And to be honest, it didn’t feel half bad. I was starting to get why Patricia claimed to be so enamored with him.
After getting another round of drinks Ben and I found somewhere to sit. A cushioned sofa that had it been in the right corner would have been perfect for making out on but seeing as it wasn’t (in the right corner that is) it was perfect for getting to know each other. And so we talked. A lot. Me more about myself than he about him. It was actually kind of refreshing. Having a guy not trying to paw me up but who seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. I told him about where I was from, where I had grown up, why I had grown up there, where I worked, how I knew Patricia…he let me talk until it seemed like my tongue dried up and rolled into the back of my head.
“Can I ask you something?”
That was me. I had told Ben so much and yet I still knew next to nothing about him. Not that my question was particularly illuminating. I was just a little curious. Well, maybe a lot curious.
Ben told me to go ahead, “What’s up?”
I took a sip of my drink. Smirnoff Red Ice. Black was way too strong for my blood. Especially in the heels I was wearing. Placed the bottle back down on the table in front of us.
“What’s up with you and Patricia?”
Ben gave me a look that said, did you really have to go there…? We were having such a good time too.
Instead of answering though, Ben pointed. Yes, actually pointed. I followed his hand. Patricia was winding on top of one of one of the big bass speakers. Where the paid go-go dancers often danced. I watched as some random guy climbed up on top of the speaker and started grinding her from the back.
Ben looked from me to Patricia then back to me…
“What do you think?”