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’.”