Author and Columnist
09.21.24
-Rainer Maria Rilke
To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
Witches Ball
I offer Amber the choice between a free community dinner in Red Hook, followed by our biweekly Queer Board Game Night, or going to the Witches Ball. Without apparent hesitation, they choose the Witches Ball, which I have never done, but have seen advertised for years. It espouses a ritual fire performance followed by a drag show, with cocktails and dancing interspersed. There is also the Night Market, whose wares I imagine but do not know. I had waited until the last hour before advance admission closed to ensure we were in the mood for it.
A minute after I bought the tickets, Amber says they are tired and don't necessarily want to go. I tell them this would have been better to know before I had given the event a nonrefundable $42, then joke I will have to go on my own and find some goth to pretend to be my girlfriend. To me, this is a joke, as I might as well say I will pop over to Fairyland to fool around with Titania. To Amber, it is a threat, and I immediately apologize. They were already in a souring mood, and this did not improve it. They say they forgive me, then sound as though they do not.
I would have rather wasted the admission than had an unpleasant night with Amber.
Later, they will say they were not selecting this event as much as asking for more information and that my paying admission was premature—though I did ask twice before doing so. They knew what a community dinner and board game night entailed, but they were mostly uninformed about a Witches Ball. I sent them a link to it, but this was not enough.
I do not want this to skunk the night. I want to dance with my wife, ply them with watered-down drinks with spooky names, and otherwise make the most of a warm September evening.
I do not have much clothing appropriate to the occasion, so I wear solid black. That's sufficient to demonstrate my bona fides. Amber follows suit, adding the witch hat they bought in Salem.
When we arrive, Amber reiterates that they are tired, which signals to me that they want to be home, but this isn't what they've said. It is my interpretation of what could be a neutral statement about how they feel. Their autism can make them blunt and sensitive.
In their tiredness, they mostly sit in a chair as far from the music as they can get and still be within the bounds of the patio, scrolling on Reddit. I try to engage them, but they say they are doing what they want to be doing. As the only option is loading them back into the car and driving them home before any of the entertainment begins, I try to believe them.
I get them a Shirley Temple as some consolation, as the bar does not serve root beer, their preference.
If Amber said, "Hey, this is too much for me. We don't have to go home--though we could--but I can't handle this experience any longer. Sorry," I would have been okay with that because then I wouldn't have to worry that they were miserable. I want to accommodate their autism when possible, so we should have known this night might be overwhelming. While the music isn't blaring, neither is it sedate. Nothing about this is as subtle as it could be.
I have a rescuer mentality that I've been trying hard to get over when it comes to my immediate family. I have seen Amber not get priority in what they are feeling, and then I feel guilty I have not been able to give them this. I wish they would directly express what they want or if they're uncomfortable because otherwise, I keep checking in on them, which detracts from my fun and irritates them.
It is unclear why I paid $21 to sit on the porch. People who did not pay admission walk through Waryas Park. I am sure the vendors do not mind the extra traffic. When the fire show begins, it is not as though anyone roams the crowd to see that we all have the highlighter star on our hands, which I received upon telling a man I had paid admission.
I feel energized in a way that I don't usually. I feed on this and know winter looms, even on nights that are comfortable enough that they don't need the hoodie I brought.
Soon after arriving, seeing nothing yet going on except people in black clothing milling about, I suggest I get my DSLR and try to take some good pictures while I have a sliver of daylight.
"Maybe don't do that," Amber suggests.
"Why?"
"I don't know. It's weird. People might not want you to."
I cock my head, not sure where this is coming from. I ask if I am taking pictures of anyone close-up--even though I prefer them natural to posed--and want to bring out the best in them; I am not photographing them because they are odd but because it makes for a worthwhile subject. Given the lavish strangeness of some of the costumes, they want to be seen--and are in a public place.
Indeed, everyone I approach is only too thrilled to have their picture taken, though they assume I am doing this in some official capacity. I give them my old business cards and assure them this is just recreational, which disappoints them. They all want to be in the newspaper.
A woman walks by with a hollow book. I see her open it for someone with an empty smile. They take a little red stick from it. I assume it is some witchy thing like a bone or tiny spell. She then turns to us and opens the book. We take one of each, red and green. I realize almost at once it is a joint. Amber and I look awkward enough that she asks if we don't want those, explaining she is the weed-tender tonight. We place them back in the book. Tonight will not be the night we try cannabis for the first time.
I dance near Amber, trying to induce them, but they seem to tolerate me at best and return to scrolling on their phone. I am not ignorant that they are doing this to better cope with being in a place with so many stimuli, and they affirm that they are still having fun.
I cannot make them dance with me when they cannot handle the sensation, as this will only make it worse. I want them to love dancing with me and not feel obligated. Still, I am not going to inhibit dancing in one of the few places it is encouraged (I acknowledge that a few others are dancing, but no one thinks it is weird I am).
One of the booths has human bones for sale, the vendor assures me all legally acquired antiquities and medical specimens. I pick up a tea-colored femur, testing its weight. It could support a human being, but it could not support the argument that I purchase it. What would I do with a human bone on my mantle but assure I did not have overnight guests?
There are skulls--animal and human--as well as vials containing translucent animals with bright purple bones. The woman explains the chemical process of this specific blanching but I forget it almost as quickly.
I see a spiderweb necklace with glowing green gems and immediately ask if it is made of uranium glass. The vendor is delighted I noticed this and points out it is an antique. I am not sure how many modern people work in the medium of very slightly radioactive glass.
Amber hesitates to express that they want any of the wares but lingers over a stitched bag with a pun on cations, which I didn't know was an actual positively charged ion and not just a chubby kitty. I purchase it for them, provoking a genuine smile.
I have grown uncomfortable with how often I deflect to humor when it comes to affection. I want sincerity, and I tell Amber I love them without turning it into a joke. They look panicky and say it made them sad. I become concerned and ask why it would do that. They revise that it made them emotional.
Amber is a creature of their schedule. When it hits 8 PM, they wander from the activity before them to field their nightly phone call with their mother, something they started doing during COVID lockdowns. They will forego showering so they can take this call. If my mother tried to call me at a fixed time every night, I would beg her not to. I will often text our group chat but do not ask me to take your call unless it cannot be conveyed in a few exchanges.
Typically, Amber wants to be in bed by 9:30 and asleep before 10, no matter what else is going on, and they will become irritable when that doesn't happen, reminding the air it is past their bedtime. I take these remarks as criticism, as though I am bothering them by making them socialize past dark, but this is not their intention.
At 8PM sharp, Amber's phone rings, and they walk away from the Ball for twenty minutes.
I feel as though I am an inconvenience, but hold onto the fact that Amber chose this, even if they regretted doing it before we were half a mile from our home. I wished to attend, but I would not have been disappointed to play board games with people who appreciate us--as the queer people do. It is lower stakes, and the games end before 8PM.
Coley is at the Witches Ball alone, an act of bravery beyond me. I have always been sorry that our friendship is not stronger, but I can at least be content that we have something like a friendship. We are glad to see one another, and she occasionally texts me accidentally when she means to send a message to her ex-husband. It will have to be enough.
When the fire dancers emerge, Amber pays attention. By this point, I have established myself as the Guy with the Camera and am interested in seeing if I can capture worthwhile pictures as people breathe fire, do splits on a bed of nails, or pierce their breasts with hat pins. The finale is disturbing, something between the rape and murder of a mermaid with flames interspersed, presided over by a tiny clown woman in giant platform shoes, her bare breasts leaking thin rivers of blood, holding a fishing net.
At first, I make my perch near Amber but decide I need a better angle more than they need me near them.
After the ritual show ends, Amber says they want to go home. They didn't realize how late the drag show would be, and it is already well past their bedtime. I have made them suffer enough, and I have seen drag shows before. I can imagine what happens after ten.
last watched: Futurama
reading: Absolution