House of Balloons Part IV: BETRICIA (1st Draft)

She picked up after the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
She sounded groggy, like the sound of the phone had woken her up.
“Hi, were you sleeping?”
Patricia muffled a yawn.
“No, just a little tired. Long night and all. You were there.”
“Yeah, I was.” Ben Agreed. For the most part anyway. “Please come and open for me, I’m at the door.”
There was a sharp intake of breath and then-
“Ok, lemme come.”
She hung up.
Ben stuffed his phone into his pocket. Crossed his arms. Tapped his foot. Uncrossed them again. Shoved his hands into his back pockets. Took them out again. Pulled out his phone. Checked the time. Pulled at his ear. Licked his lips. Cleared his throat. Scratched his head. Sniffed his fingers. Wiped them on his jeans- too much hair oil. He thought about leaving but it was too late. Patricia was already at the door. Ben heard the key in the lock. One turn, two turns and the door was open. Patricia stepped back to let him in. Ben gave her a hug. Not too long but long enough. Slipped off his shoes as she locked the door behind him. A quick look around the room though and Ben wished that he had left them on.
The door opened up onto the sitting room but it didn’t look like a lot of sitting had been done there.
There were no chairs for starters. And there were bottles everywhere. Club, Nile, Pilsner, Smirnoff, Uganda Waragi, Johnny Walker, Bond 7…if you could drink it, it was probably there. Standing up right, lying on their sides, broken and strewn across the floor…there were empty take away boxes, oil stained paper plates with the scraps of yesterday’s and the day before’s and the day before that’s suppers, lunches and breakfasts. Torn pages from note books and novels and textbooks and instruction manuals. Candy wrappers and electricity bills and dirty t-shirts and broken DVD’s…the room looked like the inside of a dumpster.
Patricia followed Ben’s gaze.
“I had a party.” She said as a way of explanation.
“What? When was this? And how come you didn’t invite me?”
“About a week ago.”
Ben took another look around the room.
“And you haven’t cleaned up yet?”
Ben knew he sounded judgmental but he didn’t really care. Maybe she needed somebody to get all judgmental on her. Maybe it would do her some good.
“Fuck off Ben. I’ll clean up when I’m good and ready.”
But then…maybe not.
Seeing Ben’s expression Patricia laughed.
“Holy shit, you are such a girl! I’m kidding! You know how lazy I am. I’ll get the lady who cleans to come sometime this week.”
Seeing how a week had already passed with no sign of this lady that cleans, Ben found the prospect of her turning up in the following week highly suspect. Not that he told Patricia that.
“You wanna drink?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Ben nodded. “Water would be great.”
“Coming right up.”
She had that secret smile of hers. He didn’t know what she was up to but Ben hoped it didn’t involve an itsy bitsy face towel and her dripping wet body like the last time.
Ben watched as she walked towards the kitchen. Her hips sashaying.
“Make yourself at home.” she threw over her shoulder.
On ginger feet Ben tip-toed to the bedroom, careful not to step on any broken glass and trying his utmost to avoid as many beer sticky spots on the linoleum floor as possible.
The bedroom wasn’t any better than the sitting room. Clothes and rubbish and three day old food thrown anywhere and everywhere. Not to mention the smell. A nasty cocktail of sweat and booze and sex and latex. With just the right amount of rotting food to make your stomach flop around once or twice before settling.
Ben sat down on the unmade bed and waited. Looked around for Patricia’s laptop but couldn’t spot it.
Patricia walked in a moment later, handing Ben a coffee mug, sitting down next to him and sipping from one of her own. The smell got him before the mug got to his lips. He looked over at her.
“What is this?”
“You asked for a drink so I got you a drink.”
Ben shook his head.
“No…you offered me one and I asked for water. It’s like two o’clock Patricia, how can you start drinking at this time?”
“Easy,” Patricia shrugged taking another sip from her mug, “I never stopped.”
Ben sighed. Set his mug down on the ground next to a lavender pair of lace knickers.
“I don’t like you when you drink, Patricia.”
Patricia smirked.
“You’re like the only one. I hear I’m pretty loose when I drink. You should definitely take advantage, other guys do.”
Ben shook his head again.
“Are you even listening to yourself?”
Another sip from her mug. This one long. She then bent over to pick up Ben’s abandoned mug and up ended it into hers.
“I try my best not to. Plausible deniability and all of that. Blame it on the alcohol and all of that.”
“Did you come home with anyone last night?”
That gave her a pause.
Patricia looked down at her mug. Stared into it. Held it with both hands as she would if it had tea or coffee in it and it was a cold, cold night.
“You said you wanted to talk to me Patricia. Talk.”
Patricia didn’t answer. Instead she swirled the drink in her hand, splashing a little onto her interlocked fingers but not really caring.
“Patricia,”
Patricia looked up. There were tears in her eyes. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She didn’t have to say anything though; Ben knew the answer to his question.
She had.
She had come home with someone. Queue slight flutter of the heart. His name was Barry. Twin brother Larry. They were from Glasgow. Though Larry lived in Lisbon and Barry lived in Barstow. They worked with Invisible Children. Well Barry did at least and were down from Gulu for the weekend. Barry was blonde with the kind of eyes that you could get lost in, as the saying goes. Green with specks of gold and brown. He looked like a fucking movie star. And he fucked like one too.
Not that Patricia told Ben any of this. There was no reason why she had to. Like she had bluntly pointed out the night before, Ben wasn’t her boyfriend. Not even close. Nor was he her brother, her cousin or any other person she may be accountable to.
But still, Ben persisted.
“You did, didn’t you?”
Because even though Ben already knew the answer, he wanted to hear her say it. He needed to hear her say it. And he didn’t even know why. Maybe hearing the actual words would make it real. More real in any case. Not merely something imagined.
Sniffling, Patricia detached one hand from the waist of her mug, wiped her eyes with the heel of her free palm and stood up.
“You know what? This was a mistake. I think you should leave.”
Ben scoffed and stood up as well.
“Sure, kick me out as soon as things get a little too real for you.”
Patricia snapped.
“What the fuck do you want from me Ben? What the do you want me to say? That I fucked some guy that I just met? Well guess what, I did. And he was rough too. But that’s ok because someone like me would like it rough. Isn’t it? Even if the condom did break and now I’m scared shitless cos’ I think I might have caught something. Or given him something. Who the fuck knows with the kind of life I lead, right…? Right? Are you happy now?”
Patricia stormed towards the kitchen. She needed another drink. Where did she leave that bottle?
Ben followed her.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And you know what really pisses me off?”
Patricia banged cupboards and drawers and refrigerator and freezer doors…no dice.
“You trying to make me look like the fucked up one yet the truth is you’re just as fucked up as I am.”
Where the fuck was that bottle? She was sure there had been some left. And she had left it right here. Right fucking here.
“Patricia, what are you talking about?”
“I saw you Ben. I fucking saw you. You and that dick riding bitch Sharon. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“We danced and talked and drank Patricia. That’s it. I don’t know what you think you saw but-“
“You LEFT with her.”
“Uh…yeah, because Joey had a car and I didn’t. He gave us a lift.”
“So are you saying you didn’t go home with her?”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. Shit.
“Nothing happened Patricia. It was late and we didn’t want to put Joey through too much trouble. It was easier for her to just sleep over and leave in the morning.”
Although failing to find what she had been looking for, Patricia did manage to find a close second. Two fingers of Gilbey’s at the bottom of a dust coated half stashed behind the gas cooker. It looked like it had been there a while. Not that Patricia cared. Pulling it out, she unscrewed the cap and upended it into her mug.
“Do you really expect me to believe that?”
She took a sip.
Ben eyed Patricia precariously.
“Do you really think you need to be drinking that?”
“Fuck off Ben.”
“Why do you have such a hard time trusting people Patricia?”
Another sip.
“Because people always give me reasons not to.”
“Have I?”
“Last night you did.”
“Are you serious? You’re going to try and put last night on me? You’re the one who bailed on us Patricia. You’re the one who went and fucked some guy you just met. Not me. And your words by the way, not mine. And as much as you want to believe the worst of me yet I’ve never given you any reason to, I did not sleep with Sharon.”
Wait. What? Patricia had been certain that Ben had but now…she wasn’t so sure.
“Why should I believe you Ben? We both know she’s a whole lot hotter than me.”
Ben sighed. He was tired. He had a monstrous hangover and he wanted to go home.
“Because I like you Patricia. Do you really not know that…? Though to be quite honest, right now, I kind of wish I didn’t.”
Patricia didn’t say anything. Ben started rubbing his neck again.
“I thought I could do this Patricia, I really did. But you’re right, this…was a mistake. I should leave.”
Ben turned to go.
“Ben…wait.”
Ben stopped.
Setting down her mug Patricia walked up to him. Slipped her hands into his. She believed him. She did. And now that she did she knew that it would be a mistake to let him leave.
“I’m sorry ok…? I fucked up. I’m fucked up. I know that. Can’t we just forget about last night? Forget about this…and start over? Go grab a cup of coffee like a couple of normal people? No booze, no loud music, no late nights…just us?”
Ben had that sad look in his eyes again. That mixture of resignation and regret.
Leaning in he kissed her on the lips. She tasted of booze and morning breath. Of angst and agony.
The kiss was light and sexless. Like he was kissing his sister. After a moment Ben broke it, pulling back.
“No Patricia, we can’t. You made sure of that.”
She held his gaze…
…and let go.
What could she do?
Ben leaned in again and kissed her on the forehead.
Goodbye…
Slipping on his shoes he opened the door.
Patricia watched him, hoping that he would look back. If even just for a second.
He didn’t.
Patricia watched as Ben walked out the door, carefully closing it behind him.
Crumpling to the floor, Patricia burst into tears.



Patricia stayed there like that on the floor for sometime. That sticky, brownish-red once creamish-white dustbin of a floor. Ben’s words replaying in her head again and again. Her own as well. She was fucked up, wasn’t she? Mucho fucked up. And who would want to be with some one like that? Ben sure as hell hadn’t. Well, he had but she had somehow managed to screw that up. Just like she always did. That was her MO. Find something good and screw it up. But something had to give. Something had to change. Right…now. No mucking about.
Patricia had no idea how long she stayed there like that but it felt like hours. It felt like minutes. It felt like a fleeting memory. It felt like she had never known anything else…
But however long it had been (or however short) when she did manage to put her feet underneath her she felt the better for it. She felt lighter. She felt charged. She felt like she had just woken up from a dream that had lasted two life times and she had two life times worth of living to do.
Patricia looked around. What she saw appalled her. It was like she was seeing the room for the very first time. She lived in a pigsty. The realization shocked her. No wonder Ben had been so quick to leave. Any false move and someone ran the risk of either slicing their face open or catching TB. Hell, probably both. And with that, Patricia made a decision.
She started with the bottles. It took a while but after shuttling back and forth between what was supposed to be the sitting room and the kitchen, Patricia managed to fill two crates and one rather hefty Tusky’s bag full of bottles.
Then on came the slippers and out came the broom. Sliced open foot was not something she looked forward to hence the protective gear.
Between the shards of broken bottle, German scripted papers, useless DVD’s, (she managed to save a few foot stamped UMEME bills) Soaked, dried and re-soaked text books and countless other scraps of trash, Patricia managed to fill two more Tusky bags.
Next came the sticky sticky. Blue basin, White Nomi, red rag and a hard half hour of bending, scrubbing and chipped nail polish.
Patricia couldn’t remember the last time she had done so much work. And it oddly felt good. After doing a little filing, some piling and quite a bit of shelving (she hadn’t realized she had quite so many books and DVD’s), Patricia took a step back to examine her handy work. It looked like a different house. At least the living room did anyway. The room looked like it could actually be lived in. All it needed was some chairs. There were those wicker ones with the African print cushions that she had seen some time back…she would have to find out how much those were. Hopefully not too much.
Patricia smiled to herself. There was hope for her yet. Grabbing her towel from the bedroom she headed for the bathroom. The bathroom would definitely have to be next. It was in a state she dared not think about.
After returning from her shower (God bless the man who had invented it) Patricia found the legend “4 missed calls” scrawled across the screen of her phone. Her heart skipped. Maybe it was Ben. Maybe he had a change of heart. If she could get him back here, back to the flat so he could see what she had done, she would be able to change his mind for sure. But it wasn’t Ben. It was a number she didn’t recognize. Patricia had become wary of those but thinking “What the hell.” She decided to call back.
It was Larry. The twin. How had he gotten her number? She had given it to him. Didn’t she remember? Uh, no, but that was ok. What was up? Barry was on his way back to Gulu but he, Larry, was still in town for a couple of days. He was going to grab a drink and needed some company. Was she doing anything?
She shouldn’t. She knew that. She should change into sweats, make herself a cup of coffee and open that Sookie Stackhouse novel she had been telling herself she was going to read for the past three months. That would be the wise thing to do. The sagacious thing to do…
But it was Larry. The twin. How could she pass up on that much beautiful? That would be bordering on the criminal. And what was the big deal anyway? A drink was just a drink, right…?
Right.
Patricia’s eyes scanned her row of hangers. She was already thinking of what to wear. Back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth, back forth…got it.
Patricia breathed into the phone.
“Give me half an hour.”

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?”

House of Balloons Part I (1st Draft)

PART I
PATRICIA

I’m not beautiful. Never will be. I know that. And anyone who ever tries to tell me otherwise is a liar. Either trying to be emotionally supportive or (which is more often the case) trying to fuck me. And so when Ben told me that he thought that I was beautiful I scoffed and told him that no, I wasn’t and would he please stop trying to flatter me? It wasn’t going to work. Instead of answering though, Ben lifted his camera and took my picture.
Click.
He carried that thing around everywhere. Took pictures of absolutely everything. Believed that life was too precious not to try and capture every moment possible.
“But if you’re so busy trying to capture every moment of life possible, wont you miss out on actually living it?” I had asked him once. But instead of answering my question, Ben had simply raised his camera and taken another picture.
Click.
The camera was a Nikon D1500. His pride and joy. He always bragged about how it was the single most expensive thing he owned. And at 2.3 million shillings that seemed kind of sad. Why? Because that meant no car, no house, no…well, you get what I’m getting at. He didn’t have that much money. And although I wouldn’t say that I’m a gold digger per se, the fact is, I don’t have the patience, the financial freedom or the goodwill to be messin’ around wit’ no broke nigga…
But by God was he cute. Ben, I mean. And charming. And not in the, “I want to turn you into my human pretzel” kind of way either. There was something different about him. Something different about the way he looked at me. Said my name. Took me by the hand and led me through a crowd of people. Placed his hand on the small of my back and pulled me closer to him as we walked down the street in search of a boda-boda back to my place. He was not at all like the other guys. When he looked at me it felt as if he saw me. Really saw me. I was not an object to him. An opportunity to stay up all night trying out all the things he had always wanted to do but no other girl would let him do. I was not the three drinks past drunk girl in the scuffed and muddy heels and slutty dress who was always looking for the next drink and/or the next fuck. To him I was special. To him I was one of a kind. To him I was what he called “A good person”. And to be quite honest; I didn’t get it.
Click.
“Ben, stop it.”
He lowered the camera.
“Stop what?”
“You know I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“Well that’s just too bad,” Ben said raising the camera again. “Because Jimmy loves taking it.”
Click.
Jimmy is what he calls his camera. Yes, he named his camera. And yes, I know- a total geek, right?
Now, I know God may not have blessed me with the most angelic of faces but he did bless me with a lot of style, a whole lot of charm and one hell of a body.
“All curves, thick thighs and things poking out in all the right places.” As Roland had once put it; one hand on my ass while the other was busy trying to find its way up under my blouse.
Roland is my ex-boyfriend by the way. He was Italian. Well, I guess he still is considering he’s not pushing up daisies in some Italian cemetery somewhere but still alive and fucking.
Roland liked putting it in my ass. Yup, you heard right. And before you think me out of my mind for letting him, know that I thought the fucker was out of his mind the first time he asked me for it. But you know some things...you get used to. Some things you have to. I wouldn’t have been able to make rent other wise. And so at least the chicken skin was good for something. He kept my wardrobe fresh, my fridge stocked, my bills paid and in return…I let him fuck me in the ass. I would laugh if it wasn’t so sad that it made me want to cry.
He dumped me the day he left for the airport. Said it was for the best. Said that such a relationship was just not sustainable.
Well, it would be if he took me with him, I had argued. The expression that had flashed across his face as I said this made it pretty clear that the idea had not once crossed his mind.
Fucker.
Did I mention that he banged my best friend? Yes, my best friend. Although, to be fair, Claudia was not my best friend because we were particularly close but rather because she lived right next door.
The night before he left too. Slipped out of bed with me and crawled into bed with that bitch. And was still back in time to get some of that good morning sex he was so fucking fond of.
How did I find out? Claudia. She rubbed my nose in it too. This, of course, was after she found out that she was preggers with Roland’s baby. Now, although Roland was a lot of things including an ass fucker and a cheat he, oddly enough, was not one to abandon his seed. He flew Claudia out to Italy virtually days after he found out…
I hope you enjoy your ass pounding as best you can you back stabbing bitch.
Click.
It was getting late. The sun already beginning its descent towards a shimmering and pastel powdered horizon.
There was another click. And then another. Each one now accompanied by a bright flash. Ben, thank God, was not taking pictures of me but of the various canvases that hung on the walls around the gallery.
We were at an art exhibition. “From Fusion 2 Forever” or some shit like that. It was mostly amateurish canvases and lame catch phrase t-shirts. A 3 out of 10 if you asked me. Yup, that bad. To be quite honest, I had only gone because the exhibiting artist was a friend of mine. Well, more of an acquaintance really. Dashiki Jones. Duh-Shee-Kee Jooones. That’s what he called himself anyway. I’m not even sure he if knew what a dashiki was.
In any case, his real name was Semanda Tony. And like me, Dashiki Jones had made a career out of exploiting who we liked to call the chicken skins. Dashiki did it with horrible oil canvases, sloppily done t-shirts and a mop of dirty dreadlocks while I did it with very high heels, an abundance of cocktail dresses and a passing knowledge of the German language. As far as teams go, we were second to none. We had been at it for years. Way before Roland. Even before Stefan. Stefan was Austrian. The reason I had gone out of my way to learn German in the first place. Lots to say there but not much I really want to.
The exhibition had attracted quite a few of our friends of the Caucasian persuasion. But then again, that was kind of the point. I even knew some of them. A few of them had even seen me naked. That, however, did not stop me from introducing Ben to each and every one of them as my boyfriend. Why? Well, why not? I mean the guy is tall, dark and handsome. Plus he has an accent. Who says only men are entitled to having a little arm candy?
As Ben took snapshots of the paintings (I’m guessing more for documentations sake than for any real love of the pieces themselves) I poked through a pile of t-shirts looking for at least one that looked half way decent. It took me a while but I finally found one. It was a black tank top that had the phrase “I Ride Boda-Boda” stenciled across it with a rudimentary picture of a boda-boda rider next to it. Taking the tank top out of the pile I unfolded it and threw it over my head and on top of the tank I was already wearing. I walked over to Ben, tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned struck a pose.
“So what do you think?”
Click.
A moment later Ben handed me the camera.
“I think you look great but don’t take my word for it, take a look for yourself.”
I did. Shrugged. It actually didn’t look that bad. Fit pretty well too. And coupled with the bra I was wearing, made my boobs look especially big. I wanted it. Screw the fact that each shirt was going for at least 20k and that I had less than half of that jingling around the bottom of my purse.
“So?” Ben asked, waiting for my verdict.
I smiled up at him.
“I like it.”
I took his hand. Ran my thumb over his knuckles and then the back of his hand.
“Please get it for me?”
Queue eyelash bat.
”I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
The look that Ben gave me told me that we both knew that was a lie but that he liked me enough to let the little fib slide.
I grabbed his other hand and wrapped both of his arms around my waist. I moved closer to him until our fronts were touching.
“Please?”
I knew that if he opened his wallet for this, he would probably open it for something else. And chances are I wouldn’t have to open my legs either.
“You really want it don’t you?”
I nodded.
“I really do.”
Ben held me at arms length.
“Well it does look really good on you.”
I did a little curtsey, “Danke.”, and threw Ben a cheeky grin.
Ben cupped the side of my face with one of his hands. Smiled down at me.
“Alright.”
I studied his face.
“You mean I can get it?”
Ben nodded. His smile seemed a little forced and his eyes a little sad but still he said, “You can get it.”
As I jumped into his arms and thanked him with a peck on the cheek, I couldn’t stop from thinking that I had Ben right where I wanted him.