I’m not sure how long this guy has been pointing a sword at this other guy’s throat, but he really seems ready to let him have it. He is showcasing the blade for all to see. Not so long ago, the sword was calibrated to its surrounding decor on a shelf inside the house. It seems to have taken on value in its new location.
Eyes are pinballing from the one guy to the other guy to the sword, but not one of you is willing to do anything about it.
What was once a child’s birthday party has telescoped into an unrecognizable assembly. A kingdom of bouncy castles now capsized, if only in spirit. They still work perfectly fine, and they’ll always be deeply cherished, regardless of how vigorously the children slam themselves against their walls. We’re all bouncy-castle enthusiasts here.
And within that kingdom of bouncy castles, sliders slide down the slide just like in the royal assembly line of the regal chain whence they came, this time in the hands of young heirs without airs. The sliders are mashed into oblivion on the lawn as you all register what’s in front of you.
This usefully useless celebration has gone wrong all due to one true-or-false move. Whether this guy deserves to get what’s coming to him remains unclear. And whether he has backup in the form of henchmen or henchwomen or henchpeople outfitted with equally sharp objects also remains unclear.
Note the woman with a casserole in her hands attempting to sidestep the two men in question, the glass container’s heat animating her fingers and her feet.
“Coming in hot,” she mumbles, at last reaching a table to rest it on.
“I’m not scared,” says the guy with the sword. “You might be scared, but I’m not.”
I hear a growl, but there’s no dog in sight. The growl is coming from either the man with the sword at his neck or the woman with a casserole at the ready. Everybody ignores it all the same.
What follows is a record of occurrences that exists only to shame everyone involved, including me. A shame catalog created less to set things straight and more to pollute the neighborhood with its awful offal.
The idea was to resemble a person who might get invited here. This is my second time following someone. It’s the off-season, and I take what types of jobs feel correct at the time they are presented to me.
Then the man with the sword brings his second hand up slowly to support his hand already holding the sword, looking to make one final and rather eternal move. His victim preemptively falls over while the man lifts up his sword high into the air, bringing it down to gently benight the man on both shoulders. Like we’re in medieval times.
He helps the man back onto his feet and starts throwing poses for the crowd.
You all thumb over your shoulders in their direction like: Get a load of this guy and Is that supposed to be his idea of a joke? Meanwhile I’m thinking, Not bad. He got me. Should I applaud or what? Seems like we can’t simply be released back into the party as if nothing happened. But all you legitimate partygoers are over it or still in shock or embarrassingly invigorated by the display because you’re all looking for excitement in whatever ways you can find it. How should I know? So it does not take long for the snacks and juice boxes and party favors to be smuggled into plain sight. You and the rest of the attendees consort with cupcakes and tally presents like you’re sneaky. When really you’re full of it. Every single one of you. This whole place should be closed for business.
“Take him downtown. Book him!” a girl shouts from a bouncy-castle window.
But it’s present time. It’s time for presents. And who am I to dispute that? These presents say everything there is to say about you and your kind. I spy something wiggling between two chairs and try not to think about whether that something is a snake or a gift or a gift snake.
The person I’m following isn’t around. I let myself into the house to check there.
Invasive baby’s breath lines the front walk. Inside, there’s more of the same symbolism: recessed lights, sunken living room, split level. An upright piano the only upright company in the place. But I guess you already know what it looks like. You already know the woman hosting this party. How she capped her house key with a plastic cover that’s in the shape of a little house. How she framed an illustration of a toilet in the bathroom directly above the very same fixture. No telling what else you know.
Harsh sunlight appears in a square on the floor for two seconds or less, forced out into the open by what must be strong winds before being pulled back into a cloud wall. The scene reminds me of what I’m missing and gives my blotched vision a goal, however dim the possibility of its return. However dim the possibility of this room in its lack of return.
Choosing to hover inside means an admission of defeat. Defeat not just for my assignment but also for refusing to surrender to the mystery that is holding conversations with fellow humans or being assessed on my appearance, knowing full well you’d disapprove of what your results would conclude. Which is all true.
I scan the rest of the living room. There’s only a boy crossing his eyes in the corner.
“Have you seen—”
“Shh. You’ll make me lose my concentration,” he says, maintaining his cross-eyed stare.
I want to install a revolving door in here, to radically alter this vaguely threatening environment, but I guess we covered that already. Can’t say it enough, though.
You probably also know that the person I’m following had a secret identity. She lived a double life once. But she faked her own death, so she’s now back down to one life. She pledged an oath to never take on another secret identity again and signed the documents in triplicate. I’d like to make her wear a name tag to hold her accountable. You might also know that she was finished, at least in this community, but that now she might not be so much finished after all.
If it makes any difference, I overhear you telling another partygoer that you draw a bath every night to help you relax, and I don’t call you out on your lie despite the files of photographs zipped into a folder on my laptop proving otherwise.
I’ll be the first to admit that my assignment is getting away from me. The party is fraught with happiness. You all certainly know how to look the other way when you need to.
I might not have kept tabs on the person I’m supposed to be following very well, but tomorrow is trash day. The streets will run with clues. I’ll be left in the custody of more evidence than I know what to do with. Any evidence that will take me. Any evidence that will take me and hold me and keep me there. 
Claire Hopple is the author of six books. Her fiction has appeared in Wigleaf, Forever Magazine, Cleveland Review of Books, Peach Mag, and others. She lives in Asheville, North Carolina.
Illustration: Rae Buleri
