Chapter 13: The Island of the Outcast
Friday, May 15, 2015
The bass boomed through the chassis of Jake's old Honda Civic, rattling the passenger seat. The music was generic EDM from 2015, playing at such a loud volume that the door speakers buzzed and distorted, but Jake didn't seem to care.
"It's going to be crazy, bro!" he shouted over the music, tapping the steering wheel to the beat. "Sigma Chi parties are on another level!"
Michael simply nodded, his face intermittently lit up by passing streetlights. He was looking out the window. He carried his own six-pack of cold beer resting between his feet. Your entrance ticket and your survival kit.
He'd spent the whole week stuck in his studio, staring at the Ableton screen, feeling paralyzed by his options. Jake's call hadn't been an invitation, it had been a rescue. He needed to turn off his brain, and the best way to do that was to drown him in noise.
The car turned into a quiet, tree-lined street, but the tranquility was instantly broken. Two houses away, a two-story house seemed to be about to explode. Music could be heard from the corner, and dozens of people were sprawled across the front lawn, dark silhouettes in the porch light.
"Dude, yes," Jake said, his eyes shining with excitement as he parked the car.
Michael took his six-pack. For him, there was no emotion. It was a calculated move. He was going to apply a social anesthetic.
They walked toward the house. The smell of spilled beer and cheap weed hit Michael before he even stepped on the first step. The front door was open, a tide of people coming and going.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the heat and noise hit him like a physical blow. It was a sea of sweaty bodies, screaming to be heard over a hip-hop beat that made their teeth vibrate.
Jake saw someone across the room. "Hey, Thompson!" he shouted, and without a second word, he plunged into the crowd, disappearing instantly.
Michael was left alone at the entrance. But he didn't feel out of place or anxious. He had been to hundreds of parties like this in his other life, in his world of 2025. It was a familiar landscape, almost predictable.
What I felt was a total disconnection. The energy in the room was a frenzy of teenage and college euphoria. He, with his twenty-two-year-old mind, couldn't tune into that frequency. It was simply not yet in the mood.
He observed the scene with the calmness of an anthropologist. He saw a group of boys in a corner, baseball caps turned backwards, screaming as they watched a game on TV. He saw a group of girls laughing out loud, taking selfies with their iPhones 5.
'Okay, first step,' he thought, his mind shifting to a practical mode. 'I need to get on his level.'
He pushed his way through the crowd with a calmness that made him almost invisible. He ignored the shouting conversations and exaggerated dances. Their objective was clear: the kitchen.
The kitchen was the chaotic epicenter of the party. A barrel of beer dripped in one corner, surrounded by a sticky puddle. The countertop was covered in cheap liquor bottles and red plastic cups.
He found a small space, put down his six-pack and opened a beer for himself. He drank it quickly, in five or six long gulps, without tasting it. The liquid was bitter, but it was cold. He opened a second one.
With his second beer in hand, he felt more anchored. He was no longer a mere observer; now he was a participant, even if he was passive.
He walked out of the kitchen and found a spot against a wall in the living room, a spot from which he could see everything without being in the middle of the chaos. While he was drinking, someone recognized him from the Burger Barn, or perhaps from school.
"Hey, Gray!" shouted a burly boy in a fraternity T-shirt. "We need a partner for beer pong! Brad's team is tearing us apart!"
Michael looked at the ping pong table in the center of the room, surrounded by a screaming crowd. He shrugged. 'Why not?'
He joined the table. The boy, whose name was Brad, looked at him with a condescending smile. "Good luck, rookie."
Michael said nothing. He picked up the ping pong ball, which was wet with beer. He weighed it. He calculated the trajectory, the arc, the weight of the liquid in the red glass at the end of the table. Launched.
Swish. The ball landed perfectly in the glass.
The crowd shouted. His teammate patted him on the back. Brad had to drink.
The game continued. Michael was in the area. The alcohol, instead of clouding his judgment, had silenced the background noise in his mind, allowing him to focus on the physical task. He hit three shots in a row.
They won the game. And the next. And the next.
By midnight, it was more than "in the mood." The alcohol, the shots he had had to take because of his teammate's missed shots, the adrenaline of the competition... Everything had worked. I didn't think about Ableton anymore. I didn't think about the System. He didn't think about his parents. His brain was pleasantly silent.
He had won. He had been patted on the back by strangers who now called him "boss." He had accomplished his mission. But now, the noise of the party, the shouts of "again!", were no longer a distraction. They were a nuisance.
He withdrew from the table, letting someone else take his place. He grabbed the three beers he had left from his six-pack, which were now lukewarm. He needed a quiet place to enjoy the buzz he had managed to create.
He pushed through the crowd and saw a sliding glass door leading into a dark backyard. It was perfect. He opened the door and walked out, leaving the chaos and heat behind, soaking in the cool night air.
…..
Michael stepped out into the backyard and the cool night air was an instant relief. The noise of the party died down, turning into a dull pulse on the other side of the glass wall. The smell of spilled beer and sweat was replaced by the aroma of freshly cut grass and the smoke of a cigarette from someone in the distance.
The courtyard wasn't empty, but the energy was completely different. Small groups of two or three people were scattered across the lawn, talking quietly, their faces lit up by the glow of their phones. It was quieter. It was better.
With the three beers he had left in his hand, Michael walked along the edge of the patio, looking for a place where he could sit and not be disturbed. He saw a couple kissing under a tree and strayed. He saw a group of frat boys arguing loudly about a football game and rolled his eyes.
And then, in the darkest corner of the yard, far from the light that poured from the house, he saw a group somewhat apart. They were three boys. They were sitting on concrete steps that didn't seem to lead anywhere, perhaps to a blocked basement. They were on their own island, oblivious to the rest of the party.
One was skinny and hunched over a sketchbook, even in the dim light. Another kept moving, his knees bouncing as he stared at his phone. The third was a large, almost intimidating silhouette that was just sitting there, motionless, watching nothingness.
Michael felt a pull of recognition. They weren't like the people inside. They weren't trying to impress anyone. They were just... Existing. In his alcohol-induced state of relaxation, he was drawn to its silence.
He staggered slightly, not drunk, but loose enough that he didn't care about social norms. The three boys looked up as he approached, their hushed conversations silenced. They looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and caution. The School Glasses Boy. The Zombie.
Michael said nothing. He did not ask for permission. He simply sat on the step next to them, leaving a respectful space. He left the cardboard six-pack on the concrete with a thud.
The silence was lengthened. You could hear the thump-thump-thump of the bass from the house and the chirping of crickets in the garden. Michael opened one of his beers. The psssht was the only sound. He took a long drink, the warm liquid no longer mattering.
After a moment, he broke the silence. He turned to the boy with the notebook and offered him one of the cans he had left. "Do you want to?"
The three boys looked at each other. The boy in the notebook, the one who seemed to be the leader, shook his head. "Uh, no, thank you, dude. We are minors."
Michael stared at him for a second. Then a genuine, low, hoarse laugh came from his chest. It was the first time he had really laughed all night.
"Old man, me too," he said, taking another sip of his own beer. "It's not like the guy at the door is asking for identification."
The joke broke the tension. The boy with the sketchbook smiled a little. "Good point."
Michael felt comfortable. The light from the party coming out of the house bothered his eyes a little, which were already tired from the nights of work and the hours in front of the laptop. Out of pure habit, he took his dark glasses out of his hoodie pocket and put them on.
As soon as he did, the boy with the notebook narrowed his eyes.
"Wait a second," he said, his voice a mixture of surprise and recognition. "I know you. You are... You're the boy with the school glasses. The one who is always in the last row."
The boy who didn't stop moving looked up from his phone, his eyes widened. "Of course! The Zombie! The one who sleeps in Mr. Harrison's history class. Dude, you're a legend!"
Michael couldn't help but smile. So he had a reputation. "Really? Is that what they call me? 'El Chico Gafas' and 'El Zombi'?"
"Yes," said the third boy, the big guy. It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was surprisingly deep and calm. "More or less."
"Great," Michael said, amused. He took another drink of beer. The night had become much more interesting. "Well, whatever. I'm Michael. But you can call me Mike."
The atmosphere changed instantly. The mystery had been dispelled. He was no longer a school enigma; it was just a guy named Mike who had offered them a beer.
"Gen," said the boy in the notebook, closing it. "I am Leo."
"I'm Sam," the boy said nervously, putting his phone away. "Do you like Call of Duty? Because your vibe is very Ghost from Modern Warfare 2. Super quiet but you kind of know what you're doing, you know?"
Michael smiled. "I like Call of Duty."
"And he's Nate," Leo said, pointing to the big guy, who only lifted his chin in greeting.
Michael nodded to each. He leaned back on the steps, feeling, for the first time, as if he wasn't acting. He looked at his beer, then at them.
"Well, since they don't want beer," he said. "Do you want to talk about how absolutely bad the music you're putting inside is?"
Leo laughed. "Dude, I thought you'd never ask."
…..
Michael laughed, a genuine laugh that seemed to surprise the other three. He leaned forward and took his last beer from the carton.
"Dude, it's terrible," Michael said, taking a drink. "Seriously. It sounds like someone put a 'Greatest Hits of 2010' playlist on random and forgot about it."
"Exactly!" jumped Sam, the boy who kept moving. His voice was quick and enthusiastic, as if he'd been waiting for someone to say that all night.
"It's not even good hip-hop! It's just... noise to get people drunk. There's nothing. Where are the lyrics? Where is the soul?"
Leo, the one with the sketchbook, nodded, his expression that of a severe critic. "Everything is superficial. It's music for people who don't want to think. It's background noise."
Michael took another swig of beer. It was the first real conversation he had with someone his age at this school. Era... different.
"Wow," he said. "I thought it was the only weirdo who didn't like it."
"You're not the only one," Leo said. "You're just the only one who admits it. Most people here would hear a truck engine if it had a good beat in the background."
Michael smiled. "What do you hear, then?"
"Everything, brother," Leo said. "Old stuff, I guess. Punk, alternative rock. The Ramones. Nirvana. Something with guitars that sound real, you know? Something that means something."
"I listen to a lot of video game soundtracks," Sam added, his voice speeding even faster. "People scoff, but I swear to you that the music in Halo or Final Fantasy is a thousand times more complex than anything they're putting in there. It's epic, you know?"
Michael stood still. Sam's comment hit him with unexpected force. In his other life, he had had this same conversation.
'Halo. Martin O'Donnell. Michael Salvatori.'
"You're right," Michael said, his voice calm, but loaded with a conviction that surprised Sam. "The Halo soundtrack is a masterpiece. It's orchestral. It's the soul of that game."
Sam almost fell off the steps. "Really? Do you really believe it? Nobody says that! I thought I was the only one!"
"Why not? It's good music," Michael said with a shrug. "Good music is good music. It doesn't matter where it comes from."
The three of them looked at Nate, the quiet big guy who hadn't said anything. He just stared at the garden, as if he were in his own world.
"What about you, Nate? What do you like?" asked Michael.
Nate seemed surprised to be asked. He thought about it for a second, as if the answer was complicated. "Metal," he said quietly.
Leo and Sam laughed. "Don't let his poker face fool you, Mike," Leo said. "He's a metalhead at heart. He loves the heaviest and fastest thing you can find. Slayer, Panther... that kind of thing."
"Interesting," Michael said. And he meant it. Nate's calm outside was in stark contrast to the chaotic music he liked. He found it fascinating.
The conversation paused for a moment. Michael finished his last beer. The buzzing in his head was nice, comfortable. He felt looser.
Leo closed his sketchbook and put it in his backpack. "Well, this beer is fine," he said, "but it sucks. Do you really want something?"
He pulled out a small, badly rolled joint from behind his ear. "I brought it just in case. The party sucks, but not this."
Michael smiled. "You're a prepared man, Leo."
Leo turned it on. He took a puff and passed it to Michael. Michael accepted it without hesitation, took a deep breath, and then passed it on to Sam.
They passed the joint in comfortable silence, the smoke rising to the stars. Now they were united by a small teenage crime. The smell of grass mixed with the smell of mowed grass.
"Then," Michael said after a puff, the smoke making his voice a little deeper, "talking about things that suck... am I the only one who thinks Mr. Harrison is an idiot?"
Sam snorted, nearly choking on the smoke. "Dude, it's the worst! The way he speaks... and his breath! It literally smells like old coffee and death."
They began to talk about school. It was an easy conversation.
They complained about the teachers. Leo talked about art class, how the teacher wouldn't let him draw what he wanted. Sam talked about the computer club, which was still using Stone Age computers. Nate even spoke up, complaining about the football coach.
Michael, for the first time, participated. "History class is a joke," he said. "The guy only reads from the textbook. We could do the same at home and save ourselves the trip."
"I know!" said Sam. "But then, who would see 'Glasses Boy' sleep in the back row?"
Michael laughed. "Hey, it's a lot of work to be awake for that."
They talked about movies. From comics. Nate turned out to be a huge Batman fan, and he and Michael had a brief but intense discussion about whether Rocksteady's Arkham Asylum was the best comic book game of all time.
The night was advancing. The party inside seemed to be waning. The air became colder.
Michael realized that they had been talking for... how long? An hour? Two?
I was in a dark corner of a backyard, at a party I didn't want to go to, a little drunk and a little high, talking about Batman and smelly teachers. Era... different.
He looked at the three boys. Leo, the cynical artist. Sam, the hyperactive geek. Nate, the quiet giant. They were outcasts. They clearly didn't fit in with the crowd inside. Just like him.
'Okay,' Michael thought. 'These guys aren't that idiots.' He liked them. It wasn't a deep, life-changing connection, it wasn't his 2025 friends. But they were... something. Something better than the empty noise of the living room.
He didn't feel like a ghost. He felt like a boy, sitting on some steps, talking to other boys. And for now, that was more than enough.
The conversation continued, flowing effortlessly into the cool night. The beers had run out and the joint had been reduced to a cigarette butt that Leo extinguished against the concrete. The group remained in a comfortable silence, the bass of the party inside was still rumbling, a distant thunder that no longer mattered to them.
Sam was explaining to Michael why The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time had the best soundtrack of all time. Michael was about to refute him with Final Fantasy VII, when a loud noise interrupted the calm.
"There you are!" shouted a voice from the courtyard door.
Michael's head turned. It was Jake. He was leaning against the doorframe, visibly drunk, with his hair tousled and a silly smile on his face. "I've been looking for you everywhere, brother! What are you doing here in the dark?"
The bubble of tranquility was instantly broken. Leo, Sam, and Nate tensed up a bit. Jake was part of the world they were hiding from: the noise, the popular people, the chaotic energy of the party.
Michael sighed. The pleasant hum of alcohol and weed in his head was clouded by reality. The night was over.
"I was getting some air," Michael said, standing up with a slight effort. His body felt heavy.
"Well, you've had enough!" laughed Jake. "The party is dying. Come on, I'll take you home. Besides, I think Thompson is going to throw up in my car and I need a witness."
Michael looked at his new acquaintances, who were still sitting on the steps, watching the interaction in silence. He felt strangely reluctant to leave.
"Well," Michael said, turning to them. "I guess I have to go."
"Sure, friend. No problem," Leo said, raising his hand in farewell.
"It was good to talk to you, Mike," Sam added. Nate just nodded, as always.
"Great," Michael said. "Well, I'll see you later."
"Take care, Zombie," Leo said, with a half-smile.
Michael smiled back. "So do you."
He turned around and followed Jake back to the hell of the house. The smell of stale beer and sweat hit him again. Jake put an arm around her shoulders, yelling something about a girl he'd met. Michael nodded, not listening, as they made their way to the front door.
They went out into the cool street of the early morning. The air was cold and helped clear his head a little. As they walked to Jake's Honda, Michael looked back for a second.
He saw the house, noisy and chaotic. And in the darkness of the courtyard, barely visible, he saw the three silhouettes of Leo, Sam, and Nate, still on the steps, already immersed again in their own conversation.
Jake opened the car door and the smell of rancid vomit almost knocked him down. Thompson had kept his promise. "Shit, Brad!" shouted Jake.
Michael climbed into the passenger seat, holding his breath. As Jake argued with his drunken friend in the back seat, Michael rested his head on the cold window.
The car started and drove away from the party.
Michael thought about the night. He compared this party to the last one, Clara's. That night had been intense, physical, an escape through sensory overload. It had been a liberation, but it had left him feeling just as empty as before.
Tonight, nothing had happened. He had not "laid." I hadn't done anything "cool." I hadn't won any games of beer pong that mattered.
Simply... had spoken. He had shared a joint with some boys he probably wouldn't see again. They talk about Batman. Of teachers who sucked. From Halo.
It wasn't a life-changing connection. They were not his friends of 2025. They were just weird kids on some steps.
But for the first time since he'd arrived in this universe, he hadn't felt like a twenty-two-year-old pretending to be a teenager. He had felt like a sixteen-year-old boy, hanging out.
As the car drove through the sleepy suburban streets, a slight, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his face. The night had not been an escape from the noise. It had been an escape into a different noise. A noise that, strangely, felt much more like the silence I'd been looking for.
- - - - - - - - -
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Mike.
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