The Passenger

So here I am, near the window, watching all the people at this party, and making snarky judgements. I feel like Iggy Pop. "I am the Passenger, and I ride and I ride." echoes through my head. More beardy twats, in skinny jeans and beanies seem to be everywhere. Probably full of smug trendy left-wing political opinions too. Fuckwits read Chomsky, and seem to think that somehow they've been gifted with some profound insight into the nature of the way world works, which mostly consists of the revelation that America is the source of all evil. I'm better than them. Of course America's evil. But it's less evil than practically everybody else.


This is however,a good vantage to check out the sizeable female contingent tonight. I step outside onto Cheryl's balcony, light a cigarette, and lean back. It's easy here. I can see tonight, that there's a sizeable turnout. I look to my right. There, a short, cute girl with a pretty face giggles at one of her friend's jokes. I find those kind of girls fun. They're none too dangerous, and easy enough to approach. I ponder whether to go over, or keep looking. A gorgeous, long-legged statuesque creature moves gracefully through the crowd. Trouble with the truly beautiful girls is that, nearly ninety per cent of the time, they realise just how gorgeous they are. Surprisingly, they're also easy enough to approach, simply because they're not used to it. But they're not dangerous. You won't be trapped.

Yes, truly beautiful girls are impossible to fall in love with. It's like admiring the Taj Mahal. Sure, a gorgeous edifice. But is there any hope it will someday belong to you? Hence, it's not the really gorgeous girls one has to be wary of. If one plays his cards right, one can get a friend, potentially with benefits, an ideal relationship from my perspective.

I'm having a conversation at this point with an imaginary feminist who lives in my head. She probably moved there during a history lecture last year. Surely, she comments, what I'm doing is objectification of women, reducing them to a commodity, as opposed to the real, flesh and blood, human beings they are?

Valid point.
But surely commodification has been universal in human society from the dawn of our species, instead of merely being a product of present-day consumer capitalism. Hell, in feudal society, a woman was essentially a chattel. And even men commodify themselves all the time now. A politician, for example, is essentially selling himself or herself as a product.

True, my inner feminist says, but surely women have suffered harder from being viewed as commodities than men? And in this right, why I am I looking at them and assigning them values based on my arbitary preferences as opposed to their intrinsic worth as human beings?

Oh for fuck's sake. I temporarily smother my inner feminist, and carry on with my activities. And for sure, I am commodifying these girls. But I see myself as a connoisseur, rather than some leering pervert. If you're going to objectify people, may as well make them works of art, a Caravaggio, or a Rembrandt, as opposed to some piece of meat you finish with and discard. Hence why I've been on good terms with every girl I've ever slept with.

"SUP BRO!"
It's at this point a hand slaps me on the back, hard. I turn around, to look into the face of Kirk Douglas, our resident Marxist intellectual. Yes, his parents named him Kirk Douglas. Bitterly ironic, in hindsight, since he grew into a scrawny, dialectic spouting youth with a decided acne problem, which he refers to as the 'insurgency'. I turn and offer him the traditional handshake of two young men in early 21st century New Zealand, a fumbling, throttled gesture which seems to be some lame attempt to copy some kind of American frat-house greeting sign. "How's it been, man?" I ask. "Reasonably good. All things understood, my prognosis for the nocturnal hours at this juncture is that they will be most fortunate for our interests." Translate. "Having a good time then?"

"Unquestionably"
Kirk has a weary, sarcastic, languid manner about him. There's something of Humphrey Bogart in the way he carries himself. Pity that he sounds instead like Sir Humphrey Appleby from Yes Minister instead, whenever he opens his mouth.Sometimes, I think, girls would be all over Kirk, if they could understand anything that came out of his mouth. Or if he didn't harangue them about the need to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with all progressive forces against the imperialist forces of finance capital.

I stand around, holding my drink, smoking my cigarette, joking with Kirk for a while. As he prepares to lecture me about the impending sale of New Zealand by the Key Government to nefarious foreign interests, something grabs my attention.

Could it be? Nah. Not here. She wouldn't be here. I'm sure no one knows her. This isn't the first time I've thought a complete stranger was her, owing to a similarity in hairstyle, or a similar manner of walking. Yes, there is no way the mysterious girl with black shoulder-length hair, wearing her perennial red coat, with her back to me is her. Now, when she turns around, all my fears will be allayed.

"Basically, as our sovereignty is gradually eroded, we stand to become increasingly rootless, severed from any authentic experience"
"uh-huh"

Fuck's sake, Kirk. Go talk to that blonde over there. She's been trying to make eye contact with you all evening. Give her a Red revolution, if you know what I mean.

Yes. The mystery girl is turning around. I ready myself to heave a huge sigh of relief. Only to feel my intestines seize up, and my blood run cold. There she is, in all her painful glory.



Oh shit. HER. But...here? Why now? Oh fuck. But there she is, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, both male and female. Or perhaps not. Maybe she's just friends with one person there, and is part of the group. Why do I attribute such supernatural powers to one person. Fuck. Jesus. She hasn't seen me. Must escape. Kirk realises I'm distracted.
"Yo, you following me as to the decline of the welfare state in the last quarter of the 20th century?"
"Yeah...I'm sorry man."
Bring him close. I hiss. "SHE's here!"
"Oh. Sorry, yes I can see why your limbs appear to be moving involuntarily, and your eyes appear extremely agitated."
"MUST escape!"

Thankfully, I see a face in which I can find a temporary refuge. The cutie who was entertaining her friend has made her way over to the balcony. If I somehow end up going home with this one, it will reduce the chances of me bumping into yes, well, HER tonight. i seriously have no contingency plan, other than gritting my teeth and hoping she never sees me. If she says hi, we might have another wonderful, life-changing, conversation, and I'll be back where I started. I buck myself up, and prepare to work on cutie.