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EXISTENTIALISM ON “PRAM” NIGHT; a semiautobiographical short story in one chapter, titled this way to avoid copyright issues and to express my own sentiments on that very lovely end of the year dance which people decry as the best thing ever.
Sometime after the fall you realize that the most interesting emotions of the human mind shall never be quantified, nor described in a coherent manner. As I sit here I gaze at the back of this girl, who is wearing a tye-dyed shirt over a striped long sleeve shirt with her light brown hair tied up in a ponytail. It is obvious that she is a middle schooler; high school has this magical effect on tween girls – backpacks become giant handbags, GAP Kids becomes Abercrombie & Fitch. Naturally, I tried to envision what the girl, who most likely is entering, or already in, the most awkward transition phase of her life, would look like had she been at pram (as I had just finished all of my classwork, and the ice coffee I bought to make sure I didn’t look like a person who was leeching off of the coffee shop’s facilities, and now was bored out of the my mind, trying not to fall asleep, an act which would be very inappropriate in a public establishment).
Her curly hair would probably be permed straight, simply to follow the golden rule that one is not allowed to look the same at pram as in day-to-day life. She would also be wearing heels that would probably elevate her to my height. Finally my mother arrives and I can leave.
I’m lucky enough to catch to catch a glimpse of a pram “couple” while walking back to the car. The boy is wearing a completely black suit, or probably a rented tuxedo (“Look mom, I’ll probably want to dress like that”). His date is an awkward complement; she is taller than he is, and is wearing pink heels with a black dress (I bet middle schoolers would look this awkward… why would a middle schooler be going to pram in the first place?)
“Is Kenneth driving you home tonight?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I reply to my mother.
“Remember to thank him.”
“He’s my good friend though.”
“It doesn’t matter; thank him anyways for these gestures of kindness will always be remembered.”
Reducto absurdism. The concept keeps popping into my mind despite having only a vague idea of what it actually means. It’s probably one of those concepts which people label to everything. The whole concept of pram and formal high school dances in general might as well be a form of reducto absurdism.
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Ten minutes before I leave to meet up with Kenneth now. That song is playing in the background, and instead of actually finishing changing, I’m looking up a Wikipedia article on the 2001 Nisqually Earthquake, a magnitude 6.8 quake that struck ten years, and three months ago; its epicenter in Washington (state). I was in grade two back then; I remember that day, about half my class was absent. There were only twelve of us. We were sitting in a circle or something when the quake struck. Since we were so far away from the epicenter, all that happened was that some books fell off the shelves. Beyond that, I don’t really remember that much.
As I sit here, partially dressed in my suit, I realize how all the events of the past and present are connected (“Time present and time past are perhaps time future”). I want to relieve my childhood days, those carefree days where I was actually happy most of the time. The sense of nostalgia I get from reminiscing on past days is not enough; the nostalgia always comes with a cold depression, which like the winters of the West Coast, is relentless and uninviting.
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I’m actually surprisingly pleased with how my suit choice turned out. I look decently formal, except that my hair could be neater (I disdain using any sort of hair gel). I’m wearing my new tie for the first time; I bought it in Japan over the summer. Though I’m not wearing the new suit I also bought over the summer, but just one of my father’s old suits, there is this air of professionality around me as I wait for my friend, myself looking grossly out of place, wearing a suit in the middle of a local park.
Perhaps everything will end like a magnificent symphony, with a succession of twenty or more loud chords followed by a damped ring that seems to reverberate for years. I wonder what the end will be like – will the sky split apart? Would the world implode only to once again find itself reformed, with everything back in its ordered place. If that were to happen, everything would change. I thought everything would change three years ago, when my world was turned around as I opened the current chapter of my life. No, that was a false hope; all the romanticism quickly drained following the start of the new chapter: I was still the same person, a person with a passiveness and shyness that, if were afflicted upon the majority the population, would halt all activity. Some days I wish I could triumphantly declare that I am finally not who I have been for most of my life; that day would be my rebirth…
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The idea of being a third wheel sounded ludicrous, when one of my friends used it to describe me upon telling him that my pram group consisted only of three people: Kenneth, his date, and me. I’ve never heard of anything having three steering wheels anyways. I guess he probably referred to three tires. All that reminds me of is that Mr. Bean episode where he knocks over a three wheeled minivan while driving. Anyways, when we arrived at the house of Kenneth’s date, the concept of my being a third wheel seemed reasonable.
“Do you want me to come out too?”
“No thanks,” he replied, as he walked out of the car, trying to put his suit jacket as he walked towards the door.
After picking up his date, we drive back to the school to take pre-dance photos.
“Hey, should I come out this time?”
“Sure, I guess you can come watch.”
Perhaps I will always be alone, I think, as I sit on this bench at school writing while waiting for him to finish. Perhaps I am born to solo my way through life. Suddenly an image comes up; I’m walking along the coast. I’m not exactly sure where this place is; but it is somewhere on the south-central coast of California. The time is somewhere in late August, a few days before I leave for Evanston. The sunset paints a gradient of red-orange across the horizon and cloudless sky. A cliff, followed by a sharp drop of about fifty meters and one meter of rocky beach is directly in front of me; I am alone, there is nobody on the beach or around me. When I gaze into the endless expanse of ocean laid out before me, I feel at peace. I will always be alone.
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The dinner was uneventful. We were already running slightly late, so we didn’t have that much time to talk or to have dessert (I was pretty much full after my main course anyways). We entered an upscale hotel and ate in the semi-fancy restaurant located on the first floor. For most of the time, I watched those two talk about recent happenings and relate parts of their respective life stories. The highlight of the dinner was the water: it was the first time that I had ever tasted Fiji Artisan Water. Ever since coming to California, I had wondered if the taste of that water would justify the increased cost. It tasted no different from regular bottled water. Other than that disappointment, I started at the empty seat (we were a party of three, and were seated a table for four) and regretted not asking a girl to prom; but, I am meant to solo.
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The entrance to the dance floor is surrounded by plastic flowers and balloons. Loud music blares; most of the songs are popular hip-hop and dance songs. The floor shakes from the reverberation from the bass. A disco ball which spits out flashes of rainbow and a string of clear Christmas lights strung out along the wall are the only forms of light. As I near the dance floor, a twisted smile emerges on my face, along with the chills. The dance floor is almost exactly as I had envisioned it be in my previous piece (about Winter Formal): couples dancing awkwardly, a throng of probably drunk boys and their dates suggestively dancing, guys who went stag lined the areas around the edges of the dance floors.
I climb to the stairs to the relatively uncrowded second floor. What a waste of money. The floor still shakes from the bass. It’s a good thing I brought a pen instead of a pencil, or I’d never be able to read what I’m writing. I pass a few drunken boys, who are violently hugging each other. I think I’ve heard this song. Screams emerge from the dance floor. Time to go.
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Some random techno songs plays; I think I’ve heard it before on a Youtube video. I still have a twisted smile on my face. A guy passes me, already dancing despite being about ten meters from the dance floor, follow by his date, who is nervously holding on with an awkward smile. Some antisocial guy I know tries to dance, resulting in nothing more than a facepalm by me. I find Kenneth again. I move my mouth to create this illusion that I’m actually trying to say something but the loud music completely drowns out my voice. “Like a G6” plays and I realize how empty the venue actually is, and how awkward everyone is and how small the “vortex” of freak dancing couples actually is. I walk through the vortex in order to get myself into the mood to dance, but to no avail.
In this boisterous environment all the images I engrained in my head through the evening, of peaceful walks by the seaside, shatter. A new mood encompasses me. I’m still waiting for the Rebecca Black song to play. I’ve started to catch the fever now; I feel a slight urge to actually dance, though it will take a few more good techno songs before I actually will.
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I walk on over to the bar, where there are three different types of drink on the counter: Coke, Diet Coke, and Sprite (I think).
“Hey, do you think anyone has spiked these drinks?” I ask the bartender.
“Dude, are you kidding me?”
“No, I don’t want something to… uh… happen to me; something bad, you know.”
“Nah man, you’re fine. Nobody’s gonna do anything like that.” I notice that some of the drinks have an abnormally large number of bubbles in them. Either way, even if I were to be afflicted with anything it would only help me get into the mood to dance.
I take some water, probably the most inconspicuous drink, and begin to drink it. I’m already nearly in the mood to go crazy, so why not expedite the process with whatever extra’s in my drink. The DJ just combined two songs, of course, two horrible hip-hop songs, but nonetheless, I think it’s a pretty interesting move.
Soloing is awesome. I know many of the people at this dance. Like a spirit, I float freely from one group to another, not chained to another group or another person. I meet a few Asian girls I know who are trying to dance, either by themselves or with each other. Maybe I’ll dance with them later. The next minute, I’m sitting with some Korean guys I know as “Party in the U.S.A” plays. Then I travel into the middle of the vortex, where I see my friend, who is grinding with his date. “This is all so crazy,” sings Miley Cyrus.
A friend of mine, who went with a group but didn’t have a date, pulls me into the center of the group. The music is still beating on, as my arms and legs start moving. I’ve caught the fever. Dancing into the night; the disco ball reflects flashes of light all around the room, I don’t understand the lyrics of this song, the temperature is too high, sweat and perfume mix to give this rancid smell, but I don’t care, as I dance into the night…
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“When the sun came up,
We were sleeping in,
Sunk inside our blankets,
Sprawled across the bed…”
No, but really. It’s about noon and I’m still tired, and I’m alone, on my bed, listening to the sound of nothing, wanting to go back to sleep. I think about the events that happened last night. Now that makes me sink back into my blanket, head covered in disgust. What did happen last night? I don’t really remember too much after I caught the paranoia…
I started dancing and sweating like mad like everyone else. Following a deliberation of about ten minutes, a childish urge overcame me, as I proceeded to write words on tablecloths using Coca Cola stains. I sang a song on the Karaoke, and then proceeded to sing something completely inappropriate following that song. I saw a few people I knew; I wasn’t sure if I was friends with them or not nor if I wanted to get in the way of their very romantic conversation so I just walked by them, not noticing or caring if they also saw me or not, but I think they might have seen me.
I had actually danced with someone, the first time in nearly four years. I saw people whom I never expected to do crazy, unexpected things, do unexpected things. For a while, I was simply near the middle of a throng of dancing people. But I didn’t enjoy pram, at least not to the degree some of my friends did.
Sometime last time, after I couldn’t bear the heat of the dance floor anymore, I walked outside, to an area which was desolate except for one couple who was making out, and stared at the sky, a cloudless expanse of darkness. I saw what appeared to be glowing specks of light I thought were stars. However, I didn’t have my glasses, so those specks of light I saw may have just been figments of my imaginations, but I called them stars. Either way, you can’t see stars that well in Orange County anyways due to all the light and air pollution. You’d have to go out to the countryside.
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It’s the night, and while I should be studying for my Chemistry test, I take a walk outside and stare at the sky, again, another cloudless expanse of darkness. Same result; I forgot to bring my glasses and all I see are specks of light that I presume to be stars.
If I’m to be alone forever, at least I’ll be able to wander alone, out into a place where nothing else human exists, and look up at the sky. Maybe then I’ll truly be able to see stars. They will shine down upon me, and tell me that everything in life will be okay, to just follow fate, to let fate guide me wherever it pleases, and to just accept it. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet.
“Sing me something soft,
Sad and delicate,
Or loud and out of key,
Sing me anything.”
Author’s Note.
When writing about events that actually happen to you, you have this dilemma over how much privacy to give to those involved. In this case, I’ve tried to be as general as possible to conceal individual names; I apologize if you blatantly recognize yourself in the story, but I’m not sure others would be able to anyways. I just tried to objectively write about the events which happened around me.
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