published in Volume 5, Issue 4 on December 1st, 1998Reyes is sitting on the couch. It's maybe three in the morning. I don't know where he found the globe, but he keeps spinning it back and forth. "Hey Turner," he says. "Greece is the size of Arkansas."
Most everyone has gone home, and the house has that sour post-party smell. Like air from an old basketball. I feel like I might puke.
"Reyes, put that globe down and go home," I say.
"France is the size of Texas," he tells me.
Earlier, the kitchen had been full of girls. "What about Reyes?" one of them had said. Girls are always saying this. They all like him because he's funny and smart as hell. But he doesn't understand.
Early on in the night, he went into the kitchen and started drawing pictures. He handed a picture to one of the girls. "This is what your vagina looks like," he said. The girl thought this was really funny. She pointed at the picture. "What's this?" "That's called a pudenda," he said.
So that was the big joke. "How's your pudenda?" the girls would say to each other. They were really drunk. One of the girls found some watercolors and painted the picture orange.
The girls went home later. One of them went home with that moron Stanton. I was there on the porch when he started talking to her. "You have the most amazing eyes," he had said.
She acted like this was some special secret. She said: "Really?"
Reyes never takes girls home, because he doesn't understand them. Girls never sit in the kitchen and say "What about Turner?" but still sometimes I get lucky.
Reyes needs to understand this.
But he just keeps spinning that globe. "Ireland is the size of West Virginia."
"Reyes, the party died a long time ago."
He pretends he doesn't hear me, that globe still cradled in his lap.