Mr. 8

Chapter 17: The First Time

The first time Denton met Linda was at a loft party in Brooklyn. 

His freshman roommate from Cornell had invited him to the housewarming for his new condo. Denton had managed to ignore Richard Blakeley's email, but was unable to say no to him on the phone.

"C'mon," he had urged. "It's only a two hour drive. If you need a place to crash, I've always got a couch for you."

"It's just that I have to present my thesis outline next week and I still have a lot of work to do." Denton had actually met with his advisor about it the week before.

"It's one night. Loosen up a bit. I bet you haven't been to a party all semester."

He hadn't, but that was hardly the point. Back in Ithaca, Denton had barely tolerated Richard. When Richard pledged a fraternity and moved out of the dorm, Denton had breathed a sigh of relief. But for years afterward, whenever they bumped into each other on campus, Richard always acted as if they were the best of friends. The keyword being: "acted." He had the smarminess of a practiced politician and exuded artificiality through his pores.

"It just won't be the same without the old Dentster."

Alone, in his small one room apartment, Denton cringed. He was positive the only reason he was being invited was so Richard could rub his face in his success. While Denton had gone on to pursue his Doctorate at Princeton, Richard had landed a job at a brokerage in Manhattan and was making a killing in the tech boom.

Denton had hated himself for agreeing to go.

The rain that had been persistent all day had stopped by the time he arrived at the address on the small, torn scrap of notepaper. The streets were slick and plastered with autumn leaves, even though there were no trees in sight. Outside the old industrial building, a group of people milled around the entrance, smoking cigarettes and feebly trying to hide the drinks in their hands. The instant the car's engine cut out, he could feel the thumping bass of techno music.

Like a trail of breadcrumbs, Denton followed the scattered guests up the stairs to the third story and down the hall, until he found Richard Blakeley's loft. The door was wide open, and out of it wafted the combined stench of tobacco, marijuana, and sweat. He only had time to briefly wonder why no one had called the cops, when he saw a neighboring door open and a man and a woman came out carrying a bucket of ice and a giant bottle of vodka. Who would complain when they were all invited?

The couple passed straight by him holding the bottle up as if it were a sacred talisman. The crowd parted before the holy offering. Denton followed, taking advantage of the gap left in their wake.

As he entered the loft, he was thankful he hadn't entertained the thought of sleeping there. He didn't know what couch Richard was talking about on the phone, because there were none in sight. The only furniture he could see was a table that a DJ had set up shop on. People filled the entire yawning space of the open room. Most of them stood around screaming in conversation. Some were trying to dance and Denton could see their heads bobbing above the rest of the crowd. Richard hadn't bought an apartment as much as a disco. The room was oven hot, especially after the cold air out on the street. His blocking pair turned towards the center and met up with friends, leaving Denton stranded in the sea of bodies. Barely visible through the veil of people, Richard was by the windows holding court. Denton decided to make his way over to him. Once he made an appearance, he could leave. The misplaced sense of obligation he felt would be paid. Although, he wondered why he had bothered coming at all. Richard would never have known if he had stayed home. There were far too many other guests for him to notice the absence of the Dentster.