Nomads of Sunrise and Eyes Like Stars

We barrel out into the morning light. Spilling out of the little club's doors. Splitting off in different directions. Nomads scattering at dawn.

"That was a bitchin' place to live", Emily drawls. Already the maze-like interior, low-ceilinged and mysterious, is fading from our memories.

We head up the street, in search of breakfast or housing or the next party, just drifting toward the next adventure. It's just Emily and me right now, but we know the rest of them will find us, or we'll find them, or we'll all arrive at the same place pretty soon. It's like we are magnetically attracted to parties. There's no planning, no timetable. It's just "I'll see you there", wherever there may turn out to be. Saturday is every day.

My pocket practically vibrates - it's holding a hundred bucks and it's my turn to buy the drugs. There are eight of us, but Jenna and Flora probably won't want any. But I still might need to find a good deal to stock up for 6 on a hundred dollars.

We head up the street. It's early, but people are up. The night birds are stumbling into the light, heading homeward for some sleep or sniffing out the next happening. The responsibles are making breakfast or doing chores or whatever it is they do.

We walk next to the haunted mansion. It's not really haunted, but if you call it that, everyone knows what house you mean. It's an incredible three-story Gothic house, like it was ripped from antebellum New Orleans. It looks like a movie set or a carnival ride, and it's the most desirable place in town to live.

Today, it seems there's an open space in the mansion. There are hundreds of people lined up outside, inside, on its balconies and staircases, holding rental applications and lining up to impress whoever owns the place. 300 people applying for one room in the best party house there is. The current occupants of the house, hungover and sleepy, mill about, walking up and down the line of new possible roommates.

Emily points up at the second floor and says "Isn't that that girl Holly?", and I go into a daze. "That girl Holly" is my long lost one... my past love faded away... my "what ever happened to?" I've been looking, but not really looking, for her for a long time. Wondering.

And it is her, swaying and weaving blearily through the crowd. Last night must have been a good party here too. She's dressed like a 1950's Playboy magazine housewife, with a white robe and a cigarette and something tied up in her hair. I call out her name, but there's a din from the huge crowd, and she can't hear.

I move closer, my eyes on her, yelling "Holly! Holly!", but she still doesn't hear. I don't know what I want. Reconciliation? Anger? Just acknowledgement that we knew each other once, that we meant something to each other? I don't know what I'll get, but it doesn't matter. Something in me just yearns for contact.

Finally I'm standing on the street right below the balcony Holly's on. She stands woozily, looking out over the scene. Something catches her eye, and she stoops down to pick up a piece of trash, or throw it down to a lower level so it's not near her anymore. And she catches my eye. She stops. Her head physically wobbles, and her star-blue eyes lock into mine, spinning like pinwheels. The world fades away and all we can do is look at each other.