Sam finds this and we all go for the closing.
Derek and I arrive about thirty minutes before it's supposed to be over and eat the last of the free cheese. Sam's running late, though he lives the closest. Chris and Marah come full from homemade dinner. Tony's coming from his lab happy hour and is drunk when he gets there. I go straight for the wine, drink glass after glass of free champagne, eat free almond cookies, walk around with the cookie box and the plastic wine glass looking at the pictures with everyone.
We see Ginsberg's doodles and ee cummings's perverse sketches. We see Sylvia Plath's solemn self-portrait and Tennessee Williams's perverse Henry Darger-esque watercolors. We see John Ashbury's collages and Charles Bukowski's perverse depiction of DH Lawrence. Sam and I find a drawing we want to get tattooed.
We are the only people under thirty here and we are all conspicuously sticking together. An older woman asks if I work for the gallery. "No." Oh, well then you must be students. "No." Brow knit. Pause. Looks at all of us. Then what brought you here? "We're writers," I say. She nods. Oh.
When things wind down we hover around the refreshments. Derek and Tony create unintentional distractions while Sam and I steal three bottles of booze. An extremely high old man calls Sam "oriental," then sexually harasses Marah before telling her she looks like his niece. We grab our loot and scram.
We are the Loud Ones on the 66. We stumble back to Derek's and drink and dance. More friends come. This is the party, but we don't know that so we go to the Pill, where things are not as good. Fun is an elusive mistress.