Cave People

Brad turned his car onto a side street when the traffic picked up on the main road. We were about a mile away from the park where the fireworks would be launched later that evening. It was the Fourth of July in Seattle. I was sitting next to Brad in the front. Charles was sitting behind me, and Gillian was sitting next to Charles, though they were just friends. We were all friends, in fact, because we had attended one school or another a long time ago, back when modems screamed into telephone lines. We hadn’t been to the park in years. I thought it would be nice to go. I thought so because there was something missing in our lives. Or maybe it was only mine. An ambient sadness had emerged and clouded everything. Loneliness was getting more resilient. We always spent our free time at Brad’s. At Brad’s or in bars. We never talked about work. We hadn’t gone outside on the Fourth of July in years. People were now crowding the sidewalks, spilling into the side street. And all of them were moving in the same direction—towards the park. It was different. It was enough for Brad to say, “Guess we’re going back to my place.”

“You should be able to find a place to park,” I said. “It’s still early.”

Brad didn’t reply.

“If you take a right up here,” I added, “I can show you a few streets where I’ve had luck.”

Right was east. The sun never sets in the east. The sun right now was a giant ball of orange screaming for attention. Brad gave it this. Brad turned left.

“I’m not walking,” he said.

“It’s not far,” I said. “And you walk all the time.”

“What’s the point of having a car if I still have to walk everywhere?” Brad asked, his voice rising.

The car picked up speed. We were advancing through several side streets rather quickly now. It was somewhat thrilling.

“By the time we get there, I’ll have to pee,” Brad went on. “And you know there’s only one porta-pot, so I will be waiting in line for twenty minutes, dying to piss. And someone will break into the car, knowing we parked far away. Some watchful neighborhood thief. And for what? Fireworks? Just some pretty lights in the sky? Are we so easily amused, like cave people?”

“I think it’s streaming online,” Charles said.

“There you go,” Brad said. “We can watch it on the couch.”

“Wait, so we’re not going to the park?” Gillian asked.

“Not today,” Brad said.

“Should we buy more beer?” Charles asked.

“Sure,” Brad said. “We can stock up for the night.” Brad glanced at me. “That’s another thing, Nate. We can’t drink in the park.”

“So we’re really not going?” Gillian asked again.

I turned to her and said, “We can go to the roof. Brad’s building has a good view.”

“You know there will be a shit-ton of people up there too,” Brad said.

“It wouldn’t hurt to look.”

“No, it wouldn’t. But let’s all watch the stream. If we’re going to act like cave people, let’s stick to our cave. We can hang out and listen to music, and we can tune in right when the fireworks launch. It’ll be more relaxing this way.”

I liked how Brad put it. He always had a way of framing things, that was certain. Plus, the roof was still an option, with enough convincing. I would accept Brad’s position, then, but that meant he’d have to accept mine. There was no going at it alone. It was everyone or no one. That was how we staved off the loneliness.

The grocery store was packed. Yet it was so well stocked that we bought two bags of buns and two packs of hot dogs, even though we had already eaten dinner, and a 24-pack of dogshit ale. I told Brad that we should get the 12-pack of craft beers, arguing that we drink two dogshit ales for every one craft beer, so we might as well enjoy the flavor and overall richness of the brew. But he said that it’ll be just like at a show, like one of the many shows we go to, to drink dogshit ale. He was being festive, I could see, so I gave in. Gillian bought a family-size pack of chips, which included a small bag of every national brand, because it had something for everyone, she explained. Charles bought two gallons of vanilla ice cream and a jar of sweet relish. According to him, neither had high-fructose corn syrup. I was surprised that Charles had remembered me complaining about that once. Now I wished I could give him something in return, some token of acknowledgement. I’d have to think about it, I told myself. It would be my sub-occupation for the evening.

We entered Brad’s apartment like we had never been inside. Perhaps this was the shock of returning so quickly. Nobody turned on the lights as we put the groceries away. The sun was setting right into Brad’s living room, and it’d be a few more hours until it disappeared completely.

Each of us drank an entire dogshit in the kitchen, as if we were pregaming the couch. Then we sat in front of the television. As I lay on the cushions, I feared how the night would go. The goblin video was already starting. Men dressed in goblin costumes played ferocious heavy metal, screaming. It was Brad’s form of hypnosis.

“Where’s the stream?” I asked, raising my voice over the goblins, over mayhem.

“Huh?” Brad said, turning to me.

“The fireworks stream,” I clarified. “Search it up so that we’re ready for when it starts.”

“Yeah, one second.”

It was a goblin second. Which meant that it lasted five minutes. That was what time generally felt like at Brad’s, I realized. Slow time was punishment for acquiescence. Fast time, on the other hand, was the cost of joy. Yet only one was a sign of true living.

Brad typed on a keyboard to control the television, which was actually a monitor connected to a computer. He entered several search terms and browsed several websites, all of which led nowhere.

“We’ll look for it later,” he said.

“The roof’s not a bad option now,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, contorting his voice into a clown’s. “But then I’d have to put on shoes and go down the hall and walk up the stairs and it’ll be packed and I don’t want to know who my neighbors are because then I’d have to say hi to them and shit.”

I looked over to Charles at the far end of the couch, which was in a different time zone, and waited for him to chime in. He ate an entire bowl of ice cream and said, “What? I could’ve sworn there was a stream.”

“We’ll look for it later,” Brad said. Then he turned to Gillian, who was typing on her phone. She kept at it long enough for Brad to say, “Gil-l-l-l-lian, it’s your turn to choose a video-o-o-o.”

She remained quiet until she finished typing. Then she said, “Sorry. Tommy is texting me.”

“How is Tommy?” Brad asked.

“He’s good,” Gillian said. “He said that the yacht is really crowded, but everyone has been nice. He said that the sound system is better than what he had expected.”

“When does his band start playing?” Brad asked.

“Soon,” Gillian said. “It’s an all-night thing.” She leaned to the side, looking past Brad to me. “Nate,” she said. “I asked Tommy if he could video call us when the fireworks start. He said that he has a good view, even on the lower deck.”

“What about the roof?” I asked.

“I’m just saying that if we don’t make it up there, Tommy will help us out,” she said.

The conspiracy was unfolding. The lake is at the south end of the park. The fireworks would be launched over the lake. Brad had almost taken us to the lake. We had almost changed colors under the light of fireworks. Gillian didn’t need this light. She had Tommy. The light over Tommy would become a light that cloaked her, kept her warm—a Tommy-borne light. She didn’t need the roof.

“Have you guys heard this song?” Gillian asked, taking the keyboard from Brad. As she typed, Brad pulled a vape pen out of his pocket and took a long drag, vaporizing the room. He then passed the vape pen to Gillian, who did the same.

A woman wearing a coconut bra and a straw skirt appeared on the TV. A tribe of men stood behind her, carrying torches.

“Is that the ‘Island Girl’ song?” Charles asked. “They play it all the fucking time at work.” He then began to sing in a high-pitch voice: “Imma, Imma, Imma island girl, island girl. Where life’s a whirl, a real twirl.”

In the video, “twirl” activates the tribesmen to spin their torches like a drill team.

Improbably, we watched ten videos by the “Island Girl” artist. It was an entire album’s worth of music.

I got up to grab another dogshit ale. I drank one in the kitchen and took one back with me to the couch. I was mildly buzzed. The sun was finally starting to tone it down. It would be night soon. And soon I would press the others to go upstairs. If we couldn’t be under the light, then we could be level with it, seeing it eye to eye. Not firework-hued, but firework-adjacent. There was something in this concept. Ambient sadness requires an outside lens to gaze inward. To dispel it, that is. The adjacent is part of the essential. I would use this concept to convince the others to come up with me.

Or go alone?

What if I went to the lake on my own on a sunny day? My car would get broken into. My bag would be stolen while I was out swimming. My sunscreen would be applied inadequately. My skin would burn. I’d become a fool.

What was I now?

Safe. Safety is misery. No. That’s not quite true.

“Charles, do you want to play Race Saga?” I asked.

“Oh my god, I love Race Saga!” he said.

“Do you want to play it?”

“We could…” He peered down the century of cushions at Brad and Gillian. “What do you guys think?”

“Sure,” Gillian said.

“I could always play Race Saga,” Brad said.

We played Race Saga.

The sun grew quiet and meaningless. Only the glow of animated race courses lit the room. We felt it on us. Charles didn’t win a single race. Brad won every time, even when I rammed my car into his. Brad loves driving. It’s the parking he hates.

“Man, how did you get so good?” Charles asked Brad.

Brad grinned and shrugged. “Boredom,” he said.

You take a left out of Brad’s to walk to the stairs. The stairs require a code to enter, not to exit. The roof requires a code. On the roof, people ask you where you live. Which unit. People say that they’ve never seen you. A guest. A guest is what I am when I hang out with Brad.

“Should we play another round?” I asked.

“I think I need a break,” Charles said. He went to the kitchen and scooped himself another bowl of ice cream.

Fireworks are not ice cream. You can’t spoon them up and eat them. Fireworks are not dogshit ale. You can’t swallow them from a can. You can’t put your mouth on fireworks up in the sky at night. Once the mouth has been thwarted, then, the sublime emerges.

“When should we go on the roof?” I asked everyone.

“Never,” Brad said.

“I can see if someone’s streaming it on the city forum,” Charles said.

“Let me text Tommy and ask him to get his phone ready for us,” Gillian said.

“It’s not that far from here,” I said. “You take a left out of Brad’s to walk to the stairs. Then you go up two floors to the roof.”

“There’s no bathroom up there,” Brad said.

“Use your own bathroom if you have to go.”

“Or I could just stay here. Also, you can’t vape up there.”

“You can’t vape in here either.”

“But nobody knows,” Brad said with a grin.

The room went silent. Gillian loaded another video by the “Island Girl” artist. “Have you guys heard this song?” she asked. The “Island Girl” was wearing a helmet in a race car.

“No,” Brad said. “Crank that shit up.”

The “Island Girl” sang while driving around a track in a stadium. The tribesmen held torches in the stands.

No, that wasn’t quite right. The tribesmen were fans. In t-shirts and shorts. Holding signs.

“You know I could beat that bitch in a race,” Brad said.

“Apparently people in the racing community really love her,” Gillian said. “This song is supposed to be their anthem.”

“I found a stream!” Charles yelled from across time. Forty feet above this couch, the stream would be unnecessary. “There’s a dude on the east side of the lake who’s shooting drone footage.”

Charles showed everyone his phone. Hundreds of people sat on the south lawn. Boats crowded the lake. The image didn’t move, only the figures in it. We had been so close.

“The drone can’t fly over the lake,” he said, “so the dude’s only shooting from his balcony.”

Tommy is with Gillian. Gillian is with us. He would be beneath the fireworks. His phone would be beneath the fireworks. The entire screen would change colors. Gillian would hold the fireworks in her hands. We would huddle around her phone like cave people. Brad would be sincere.

“Did Tommy reply?” I asked Gillian.

She glanced down. “No, not yet. I’m sure he’s really busy.”

Tommy would touch Gillian later tonight with hands that had been lit by fireworks. He would play music that rippled into fireworks.

Gillian played the racing community’s anthem five more times. The “Island Girl” was now the “Racing Girl.” Tommy’s music would ripple into fireworks. Brad circled the small perimeter between the couch and the TV. He was beating the “Racing Girl” in a race. Every time Gillian reloaded the video, Brad was beating the “Racing Girl” in a race.

“Hey,” I said to Gillian. “You should play Tommy’s new album. Didn’t he just release one not too long ago?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Gillian said. “And, yeah, sure. I could do that.” She turned to Brad and Charles. “You guys have heard the album, right?”

“Let’s play another round of Race Saga!” Brad said, ignoring the question. He sat back down.

“Yes!” Charles said. “And I will beat your ass this time!”

“Okay,” Gillian said. “Let’s do that.” She turned to me. “I can send you the link.”

“Of course.”

We played another round of Race Saga. Brad won every race.

I drank a dogshit ale in the kitchen. The “Island Girl” was now the “Racing Girl.” Cave people could rise from the soil and become floating angels. Cave people could become roof people.

I had to piss so badly, so suddenly, that I ran out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. I was everything that Brad feared.

There was little time left.

“Let’s go to the roof,” I said once I was back in the kitchen.

Gillian looked at me and then to Brad and Charles. Brad and Charles were racing. “Tommy still hasn’t replied,” she said.

“Brad, what’s the code to the doors?” I asked.

“Hell if I know,” he said, staring at the TV. “I just use my phone to swipe.”

Brad would be in the bathroom. When asked. I would be from Unit 621. When asked. Brad would be returning from the bathroom any minute now. When asked.

“Give me your phone,” I said.

“I can put the stream that Charles found on the TV, if it means so much to you.”

“Oh!” Gillian said. “Tommy replied! He said that he can video call us in a few minutes, during his break.”

“I’m going to the roof,” I said. “Can you let me borrow your phone, Brad? I promise I won’t lose it.”

Brad looked at me and then back at the TV. “Goddamnit, Charles!”

“Distracted driving kills,” Charles said, laughing.

High-fructose corn syrup kills. Alcohol kills. Vape residue kills. Sitting on Brad’s couch kills.

“Goddamnit,” Brad said.

“I can go with you, Nate, if you want,” Gillian said.

“Stay here,” Brad said. “It’ll be embarrassing to go up there. Everyone will know you’re up there for the light show, like some basic bitch. People will see you. They’ll know that you’re so easily amused. You won’t be anonymous anymore. When you come here again, people will recognize you, and then they’ll recognize me. I won’t be free to roam the building without being bothered.”

“I won’t be long,” I said. “And it will be dark up there. And I will be leaning against the railing. So nobody will get a good look at me. And even if they do, they’ll forget.”

Brad handed the keyboard to Charles. “Pull up the stream,” he said.

Gillian held up her phone. On the screen was the crooked image of a yacht window, through which we could see red flashes. The fireworks had begun.

Brad sat on the couch. Charles sat on the couch. Gillian sat on the couch. Tommy stood in the yacht. I stood in the kitchen. Every door in Brad’s building was locked. Except the exits. Any door that isn’t locked is an exit.

“Be back in a bit,” I said.

“Where are you going?” Brad asked.

“Out.”

“Want me to come with?” Gillian asked.

“No, that’s okay.”

“You can’t go anywhere without the code,” Brad said.

“I can leave the building.”

“What? Leave?”

“Yes. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Just stay here. Charles has the stream up on the TV.”

Cave people cannot be roof people. Cave people can be outside, though. And far enough away from their cave, they can be people. There is no door on a cave. Merely walk through the threshold. Exit out. Exit in. Only the dark core of the interior separates from the bright outside. Where you lie is what you are. Tommy plays yacht rock.

I am in love with fireworks. That is what I wanted to say. They take up so much space in the sky that thousands of people feel them at once. I find that lovely. I am amazed that people invented fireworks. They are like birds. So simple, so natural. It’s like they aren’t real because they are so pleasing.

When I stood on the street, I looked up at the sky, which was screaming. From every rooftop, from every city block, fireworks blasted the air. When I walked, I was stepping through fireworks. I was shaded by fireworks. I saw many people looking up. I looked up too. I began to cry. My crying felt nice. I was also slightly embarrassed. I didn’t stop it. Fireworks drenched in tears. Fireworks rolling down my cheeks. I had walked out of Brad’s apartment and into my soul. My soul is other people. My soul is other people lit up by fireworks. For thirty minutes I truly believed this.

Then the air quieted down. Whoever was out on the street began to walk back inside. I had to do the same. There had been lake fireworks and street fireworks. Tommy was lake fireworks. I was street fireworks. There was a word I would say when I returned to Brad. How was it? Amazing. We saw it on TV.

I didn’t return to Brad’s. Not for a while, at least. I didn’t hate Brad. Instead, I wanted to tell him so badly, you’re free to roam. You’re free to roam, Brad. You’re free to roam. You’re free to roam.

See how I’m still not back yet?