Page 86 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Of course, it should have been normal. It should always be normal.

However, my experience with the world had left me with the belief that people everywhere were committed to tribalism.

My vacation was leading me to rethink my views of the world.

But there, a half-hour drive outside of a small Texas town, in a gated suburban neighborhood, behind a beautiful, sprawling brick home with a giant saltwater pool in the backyard, these people had found their diverse community. A community where people could simply be themselves. I’ll accept you; you accept me. It was overwhelming.

Alex introduced me around—not to everyone, as there were far too many people—but he introduced me to a Hispanic couple, a man and woman, who owned the beautiful home. As the hosts, they’d set up grills around the pool area, a safe distance from the water, for guests to grill any food they had chosen to bring. Coolers full of every drink imaginable—alcoholic and not—lined the back of the house. The hosts had set up what looked like a giant round griddle—which I later learned was called a “comal”—and were cooking food as quickly as people could eat it.

Balls of dough made on the spot with masa flour, water, and salt, were quickly flattened out with a tortilla press and cooked in under a minute on the griddle. They were then filled with shaved meats, chunks of meat, peppers, onions, vegetables I’d never even heard of, drizzled with red and green salsas, cilantro, diced onions, and crema. No one bothered with plates. As soon as one of the tacos was handed to them, they ate it right there beside the comal, then, laughing, held their hands out for another.

Another couple was operating a table full of blenders. Chunks of freshly chopped fruit, water, salt, lime juice, and sugar were blended to make agua frescas for anyone interested. Some drank them as is; others added their choice of alcohol. Watermelon, pineapple, and strawberry seemed to be the preferred flavors.

Sodas and beers and wines and other spirits were liberally consumed, though laughter, not angry, drunken outbursts, was the result. Music played loudly and people danced as the sun went down and Christmas lights that had been strung up in the backyard twinkled above us. A bonfire was lit, which led to more raucous, but appropriate, dancing. Alex and I laughed and ate and drank—though we both avoided alcohol—rushing from one group to another, not wanting to miss any of the festivities.

Late in the evening, as the sky turned velvety black and the stars twinkled down from above—the stars really are big and bright deep in the heart of Texas—the music was shut off. One of the attendees, a man who couldn’t have been much older than me, brought out a guitar. A game began where he would play a song and someone was chosen at random by a spinning bottle. Instead of having to kiss the person it landed on, the person it pointed at had to sing along.

Some of the partygoers, though highly intoxicated, sang along well to the songs the man played on his guitar. Some were dreadful, but the crowd cheered them on the most, bolstering their confidence, encouraging them to sing simply for the joy of singing. I cheered along with the crowd loudly, joyful from the happy and carefree vibe.

It had never occurred to me that the bottle might actually stop spinning and have its mouth point at me. Of course, it did happen, and I found that I had never experienced a fear so profound in my life. I knew the song, You Really Got A Hold On Me, that the man started playing on his guitar, but I couldn’t make myself sing. The crowd began to cheer, realizing how terrified I was, but I simply could not make myself sing.

So, as a true friend would do, Alex began singing for me. Loudly enough to draw attention to himself and to make the crowd forget that I had actually been the chosen singer, Alex sang the song. He wasn’t half bad. Alex himself would tell anyone that he would never have a career in music, but for a backyard cookout, his singing was perfect. The crowd cheered for him, encouraging his singing. I cheered simply because I was grateful he had taken the attention from me.

When the song was over, and he was given his applause, Alex comically stood and bowed, as though he had been the best singer all night. Which only made the crowd laugh and hoot louder. As soon as it was polite, the two of us ducked away from the group of people surrounding the man and his guitar, not wanting to risk being chosen again. We could listen from a distance.

Do you have your phone? Alex had asked as we walked away, along the pool’s edge.

Yes, I said, pulling it from my pocket to show him. It’s right here.

Alex took it from me with a nod, pulled his from his pocket, and laid them both on a table nearby.

Why did you need my—

The next thing I knew, Alex had wrapped his arms around me. And then we were both falling back into the pool.

Salt water rushed up around us, filled my ears, jetted up my nose, and blinded me. Fortunately, salt water doesn’t burn the way that chlorinated water does, so being pulled into the pool was shocking, but not painful. Grasping at the water, as though I would find purchase, I flapped my arms and kicked my legs, fighting for the surface.

Laughing and coughing the water from my throat, I spun at the water’s surface, looking for Alex. He was already floating there, kicking his legs and flapping his arms lazily, smiling wickedly at me. I cleared my throat, coughing and laughing still, glaring at him.

That’s for forcing me to sing, he said.

I didn’t make you! I laughed, still sputtering water.

Someone had to come to your rescue, Frenchie.

Someone still does! To protect me from you!

Laughing, the two of us swam to the stairs and climbed from the pool, our clothes stuck to our flesh, dripping water like drowned rats. The crowd cheered and laughed, seeing that we were okay. So, Alex and I gave them another bow.

“How can people party for this long?” I asked, smiling down at the backyard.

Alex and I were lying on the hill behind the house, looking down on the remaining partygoers who were dancing, drinking, and enjoying the mercifully cool night. Midnight had come and gone, and many of the people had followed, but the party had not died off by more than half. Once we had climbed from the pool and bowed graciously for our audience, Alex and I had climbed the grassy hill to lay down and dry off. We didn’t want to soak and potentially destroy any of the furniture that belonged to our hosts.

So, we laid on the hill as the night wore on, and even as our clothes dried, scratchy with salt against our flesh, we continued to lay there.

“This has been a perfect day,” I said.

I wasn’t not talking to Alex, but I wasn’t talking to him, either. Looking up at the stars stuck in the inky, viscous swamp of the universe, I found that’s who I was addressing. The Universe.