Mr. Madrigal
Originally published in the Eureka College Literary Magazine, Impressions (2014)
I hate people. Well, more specifically, I hate some people. Most specifically, I hate Oasis Tansington. So, when I have the opportunity to push her down the nineteen wooden stairs at the Hightowers’ party, it was a pretty easy decision.
I count nine solid thumps as she finally comes to rest on the bottom level. Just about a thump for every two stairs. Relax, she only ended up with a few bruises, and I sacrificed my drink in the process.
“Oh my god! Are you alright?” says about two-thirds of the guests as they run to help Oasis. The other third hate her, too, and is pleased.
“Oasis, I am so sorry!” I said as I went down to her. I made no thumps.
“What the hell happened?” She was disgusted as she successfully brushed the dust and unsuccessfully brushed the alcohol from her dress.
“I’m really sorry. I was walking towards the steps and I tripped on the carpet and fell into you. Are you alright?”
“Well, yeah.”
The guests disperse to the corners of the house. Oasis remains seated. I bend down:
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Appearances.
“No, you’ve done enough. Thanks.”
I walk down the hall, through the kitchen and into the dining room. On the far end of the ten-seat table is a makeshift bar. I ask the bartender –Mr. Madrigal, a man I have never seen before—for a replacement drink.
“That’ll be five dollars,” he says robotically.
“No, you don’t understand. I dropped mine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but we can’t be giving free alcohol to everyone who drops a drink.”
I try explaining to him the unlikelihood of my circumstance, and that the “we” he spoke of would very much be fine if they gave replacement drinks to every person who found themselves in my circumstance. These parties at the Hightowers’s only happen once a month. I can’t fathom that many people drop their drink down a flight of stairs. Even fewer the number who lose their drink after pushing someone else down a flight of stairs.
I want to tell him that last part. I really do. He hates Oasis Tansington, too. At least I assume he does. I imagine us bonding over the fact that I had the gall to shove her sorry ass down a flight of stairs in the name of karmic realignment. He would congratulate me with a fresh new drink. Maybe even a free one next time. If things went really well, maybe a standing order. But he explains to me that I had technically not fallen down the stairs. Oasis had.
“So you’re saying that if I had been the one to catapult down the stairs, you’d give me a replacement drink?”
“Possibly,” Mr. Madrigal said with fleeting smirk, “depends on the damage.”
This gets me thinking about what exactly constitutes five dollars’ worth of “damage.” A bruise? A cut? A shattered pelvis? And had I caused five dollars’ worth of damage to Oasis Tansington? Because in losing my drink, she had done five dollars’ worth of damage to me.
Mr. Madrigal chimes back in, “Did you want me to get you another drink, sir?”
“Not for five dollars. How cheap are these people that they bring guests to their house and make us buy our own drinks?” I respond.
“Exceptionally so, sir. Exceptionally so.”
With that, Mr. Madrigal excuses himself. After a few minutes pass with no one willing to approach me, I begin longing for Mr. Madrigal’s company. I wander around the Hightowers’s home, doing little more than acknowledging the guests with nods of the head. I ask around for Mr. Madrigal with little luck. Some of the guests have no idea who I am talking about, while some give halfhearted directional gestures that he was somewhere in that direction of the house. I return to the dining room, deciding that I will pour my own drink.
I take my drink upstairs and find Oasis sitting in one the nineteenth century chairs that sat opposite the stairs. I sit down next to her, but she just sighs, gets up, and returns downstairs. I think about pushing her again, but see Mr. Madrigal emerge from one of the rooms:
“Where did you get your drink, sir?”
“Relax. I made it myself. And don’t worry, I paid for it.”
“I’m certainly glad to hear that, sir. I truly am,” he says with a respectful smile. “Shall we return downstairs to the party so we don’t offend the host?”
“Sure,” I say as I finish my drink. Mr. Madrigal reaches out his hand and takes the empty glass from me and sets his other hand on my shoulder.
“Do watch your step, sir. You’ve had an extra drink, and it’s a long way down.”