An old short story from 2019
Originally posted to Substack 3/7/2023.
No one at the party understood why their host was running around locking all the doors and windows. Rather, they didn’t care. Most of them had known Anatole for years and waved it off as just another quirk. “That guy’s always doing something wacky,” one of them said, “like when he bought that crate of fresh lobsters and just decided the whole office was going to have a lobster bake for lunch.” Several of them nodded to that and clicked their tongues.
“Yeah” another shouted, “he also had some designers come in and deck the who
le place out like a bazaar, with hookahs and everything.” Smiles beamed on their faces.
“The old man’s wild,” a third said while swirling around their Moscow mule. “He’s always doing something spontaneous but he also treats us so well, especially with the money. Anywhere else, I’d be making absolute shit but at this paycheck, I’ll take the eccentricities.” The rest kept nodding and clicking, while the third respondent looked out the window and sighed. “How many days has it been raining, anyways?” About a month straight.
As the party kept buzzing and more friends and employees funneled in, Anatole still ran around checking locks. At one point he went down into the basement and brought up a box to the middle of the living room. After setting it down, he took out a marker and scrawled DON’T LOOK while putting a finger to his lips for a shush. Oh that Anatole, they all laughed.
Everything went on like this for over an hour. As the party swelled to over sixty people inside the house, he would keep reappearing with less and less clothes until he was only wearing a bathrobe and some silk boxers. Once five o’ clock rolled about, the first words anyone heard him say all day came out. “If you all could, please come to the living room. I would like to make a speech.” And in they all gathered: some relations (mostly close cousins), a good number of friends, most of his employees, and some sycophants mixed in. Once there, Anatole brought the mystery box in front of him and opened the lid. Inside it, visible to those closest to him, were many small silver flasks. He then cleared his throat and made a grand gesture. “To all my beloved friends, family, and associates, I bid you both welcome and a hearty thank you for coming here during this dreary day amongst this monsoon season to celebrate with me my 54th birthday. As many of you know, this is also the first birthday I’ve had since Devlin passed away in January due to a surprise heart attack. Normally he was the one to throw these kinds of parties but because he’s no longer around, I figured I’d give it a go in his honor. So, in dedication to my late husband, I’d like to ask you all to join me in a memorial toast.”
He then picked a flask from the box and motioned for someone to take the rest, then pass them around the room and into the hall. When he saw them take the flasks, he shook his and continued.
“It’s my honest belief that the rain we’ve had for the last seven weeks – mid-May I believe – is because the sky’s crying at the loss of Devlin. In your hands is the cure to all this suffering and misery. This is holy water, my friends, and I ask that you all join me in dousing ourselves to cleanse our souls of what burdens them. Splash yourselves in it! Splash those around you with it! Cleanse your souls and bring forth happiness, prosperity, and an end to this goddamn rain!” As he said all this, the party snickered until the word ‘prosperity’ came up. Maybe we ought to give this a try, they thought.
After he finished speaking, Anatole opened his flask and nodded that they should follow. He then raised it up and dumped it all over, shaking his head as if under a refreshing shower. He even flung some on guests standing nearby. Everyone else laughed and they carried through on his lead. All through the room, people doused themselves with gusto and flung throughout the house the holy water provided by Anatole Debrisi, one of the richest men in Connellsburg. They all kept laughing as the holy water drained within minutes. As they stopped laughing and splashing, several of them began sniffing.
“Is this gasoline?” one asked.
“Smells like ethanol,” said another.
“No, it’s like glass cleaner…” said a third.
The crowd started murmuring as Anatole stood there silently in his robe, dripping wet and stone-faced. Out of the group, someone ask him, “How about that toast?”
Fidgeting with his hands, he puckered his lips and let out some air. “Certainly.” A click was heard. Before they could guess the sound, the lighter hit the floor and Anatole went up in flames.
---
Three hours later, the fire marshal told the local news only this: “Thank God for this rain. If it weren’t for that, we’d have trouble identifying some of the remains.”
Comments