Stevie and Mike
by Stevie Sigan
It
was a rainy day. Nothing new for a day
in Syracuse, New York. I lugged a
camera, tripod and lights back to the equipment room from my car, all
appendages tucked safe and snug and dry in their cases while water dripped from
my hair into a puddle at my feet, as I waited for everything to be checked in
by the student working behind the desk. Then, shoes squeaking, I trudged upstairs to the editing suites to spend
my rainy Sunday afternoon enclosed in a soundproof box of a room behind three
computer screens, logging and capturing footage for a production assignment.
A
private hallway lined with twelve doors, segregated by program: Avid and Final
Maker Pro. This is, essentially, the
edit suites. Each room is stocked with
a computer, and one, two or three monitors, keyboards, mics and a
large-formatted book specially designed by the student employees of “the
Suites” to answer your every editing question (or at least attempt to in order
to keep you away from bothering the limited staff for as long as possible).
That
afternoon I signed in at the front desk. My best friend’s boyfriend, Pete, was working. They had just started dating and I hadn’t met him but for a few
occasions so we talked a bit. While we
were talking, another guy walked up. Now, this guy happened to be a long-time distant crush of mine…. I’d
seen him around the suites before, around campus, but we had never met. One of those types you gaze at from afar and
want so badly to meet if you could only find the rhyme or reason to make the
meeting happen in a natural sort of way. So, Pete and I spoke and I watched my crush out of the corner of my eye
as we talked… and prolonged the conversation hoping he might join in. Sure enough, in due time, Pete introduced me
to my boyfriend that day. Ironically,
my best friend and Pete broke up later that week, but anytime she mentions him
in any kind of negative light I remind her that he was good for at least one
reason: Mike.
Four
hours later, eyes spinning, tired and hungry, I was heading out from my four
hours of labor. Pete stopped me on the
way out and pointed over to Mike.
“He’s
having a sausage party next weekend,” he said.
Totally
confused and presuming I was about to be part of some weird dare or joke, I
simply conceded.
“Okay…”. I continued walking.
Pete
stopped me. “No, really, he’s having a sausage party,” he continued. “Do you want to come?”
I
glanced up at Mike, who was now smirking. “It’s true,” he said. “I
am. I am having a sausage party,” were
his first words to me.
“And…
what’s a sausage party?” I asked, inevitably, strange thoughts formulating in
my head. Some kind of guys-only get
together? I was a bit dazed as I racked
my brain for some dirty reference I didn’t know…
“Well,
it’s a party where we cook sausage,” he continued. “People come over and eat it, we play music and we dance.”
Still
in disbelief, I turned back to Pete. “For real? This is a real thing?”
“Oh
yeah. The last one was great.”
“The
house smelled like meat for days,” Mike added. “You should come.”
He
gave me his number and address, and I told him, still hesitant, that I might
stop by.
I
pondered this sausage party for a week, questioning the legitimacy of the
event. My roommates thought it was a
bit bogus, but I convinced one good friend to go with me despite the
unknown. But come Saturday, something
came up and my friend backed out. I
didn’t push it, and I was too skeptical to show up to a ‘sausage party’
alone. So, I didn’t go.
A
week later I found myself in the editing suites again, trying to read this guy
further. A few days later, the
same. And again, the same. Mixed signals, mixed smiles, mixed words… I
agonized over all of them for a week or two—pining for him, then stopping myself
due to his lack of making a move. I
figured it must have been a joke—the sausage party. But then he’d say something to make me think otherwise again… I
finally got my act together one day and asked him out to dinner to find out for
sure one way or the other whether he was interested. He was.
He
told me that night that he thought I wasn’t interested when I didn’t show up at the party. That he had been waiting for me to come all night.
“I
didn’t think it was a real thing—a sausage party,” I told him. “It’s a bit
strange, you know.”
“Yeah,
I was thinking that might have had something to do with it,” he said.
Our
first date was at a Middle Eastern restaurant just off-campus that same night. We’ve been together ever since. I’m still waiting for him to throw me a
sausage party.
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