The room had been silent since I’d arrived. Not in the narcissistic ways where one automatically assumes it’s something someone’s wearing or the appearance of an unknown or unwanted stranger, but in the peculiar way where everyone in the room has clearly made a silent rule that everyone should be silent, and therefore keep to protocol. This, of course, was not the type of place that would give social reassurance to such a rule, or even provide a necessary reason. It was simply just something that was to be abided, or otherwise enforced amongst this type of crowd. And like all good rules, it would take a moment’s time to figure out.

    Then, perhaps, if I hadn’t been dressed in my best Lady Liberty outfit for this Androgynous show at Amanda Palmer’s Boston residence at the Cloud Club, I wouldn’t have thought something oddly menacing about the type of quiet disclosure that was arresting the people of this room. Still, between the pretty, silk-dressed lady boys and the army-clad, tuxedo-dressed women, I felt like an anomaly in the room. Was there such a thing as a sense of humor here?

    As I stood there, quite unsure of the type of place I was in and what I was doing there, a loud applause erupted over the room. Amanda Palmer walked on stage in her silver, street performing statue costume, her breasts being bared for the whole world to see with small writing circling around each individual tit. The writings could not make an eye’s interpretation, though, most likely a statement about naturalism or feminist’s theory on the freedom of being an exhibitionist. Along with that, her statement on the human statue had become a declarative in itself and temporarily validated all social correctness in dressing as one. Certainly this had happened on purpose, I thought. A sort of fucked up fate. Well, maybe not. But after shocking myself into a small heart attack, I knew I’d have to meet her.

I made my way to a section of the front row, putting special attention towards being polite to my fellow Androgynous peers as I pushed them to the side. A new respect had been shown towards my own choice on the human statue, and naturally, I had a special inclination to return that. I pardoned myself a couple times during each uncomfortable squeeze through the tight crowd, and decided that I had become an acceptable outsider. A person of interest who was suspect for relishing in his own sick, sense of humor, but, at least to those concerned, in comfortable restraint.

Amanda sat down at her piano and began playing her Beach Boy-esq, abortion satire “Oasis” and the crowd began to cling on to every word. Tears filled the audience as they shouted and screamed the lyrics “the barbarian raped me.” It was as if a congregation of closeted Amanda Palmer fans had found their place of worship, and she would speak the truth until it made everyone squirm with pure, unabridged confession. Why speak in tongues, when you could sing to this? It suddenly all made sense. Doors closed, emotions flooded, and for a quick second, I wished Ben Folds had been there, if not for his usually cheery, calming effect.

    Then after a couple of Dresden Doll covers she started to look around the room. While asking the mixing engineer to bring the vocals up, we suddenly exchanged a glance that altered perception in every sense of the term. It certainly wasn’t eternity, but it might as well have been. And somewhere between those three to five seconds, from one fucked up street performing statue to the other, there was an understanding in the universe.  At once, everything had changed. The tint of the room, the sounds of the crowd, even the convincingly dead, usually quiet, phantom-like lady boys in the corner rejoiced (or perhaps, for a second, they showed their judgmental appreciation of the music). 

Her performance ended, though, after our holy moment’s passing I couldn’t say for the life of me what she actually played. Not that it would ever matter. Her music would not be the subject of any conversation that might pass between the both of us, and I knew it. As these thoughts circulated, I came out of my head to see Amanda staring right at me. Staring right at me while talking to a man dressed as Alice In Wonderland. It was the moment to put my foot forward. To let her know who I was.

    “Matt,” I said, offering my nervous, shaking hand.

    “Amanda,” she said while looking in my eyes between a quick pause.

    “I have to say coming to an Androgynous party dressed as Lady Liberty is something I never would have thought of. Tell me, where did you get the idea?” she asked.

    The room grew silent once again, its expectations now on another act, and we were not to be any exception to the silent rule. I whispered in her ear.

    “Come into the kitchen with me, and I’ll tell you.”

    She followed me as I lead the way down the spiral staircase into the kitchen, making small talk about the street artwork on the wall, and being careful not to fuck up my words. This was a fragile moment with a timetable, and the right things would need to be said. I offered her a seat across from me in the kitchen.

    “Well, Amanda. I actually do this for a living. You see, to me there is nothing greater then the art of street theater. And you know, there’s something about playing the character of such a national symbol that is ultimately, very rewarding. Really, I can’t think of a single character that evokes more emotion then her. It’s like Lady Liberty is equal parts protagonist, equal parts antagonist. Getting to the core of that, you know, finding who she is, that’s what keeps me going,” I said.

    I landed something, though I wasn’t sure. She thought for a second.

    “I couldn’t agree more. I’ve never played Lady Liberty, but I know what it’s like to play the tortured intellectual. The woman begging to stand for something, and be totally and completely unsure of what that may be. Just like America,” she said. “Yeah, Just like America.”

    “Exactly how I feel,” I said.

    “Not to mention there is something about street performance that is undeniably real. Knowing it’s just you and the crowd. Knowing that anyone can take anything away from you whenever they want.”

    “I know what you mean. Like this time someone stole my sign from me.” 

    “You used props?” she asked, an air of suspicion in her midst.

    I was unsure whether to divulge all information relating to my Lady Liberty costume. Like the fact that I actually worked for a tax company who paid me to wave and dance for pedestrians and passing cars while holding a sign that endorsed them.

    “Well, I mean…” I trailed.

    The moment of unfamiliarity had come, and I was sure she was finding me for the imposter I was.

    “What I mean is, I hold a torch up that people often confuse for a sign,” I said.

    She looked at me for a second, followed by a small laugh.

    “Real street performers don’t use props,” she said with a cut.

    “Real street performers don’t use costumes either,” I said, giving one right back at her. “But I’m sure this is just a point of artistic difference we’re just going to have to disagree upon. I mean, the singing and dancing homeless people, now those are the real street performers. They put it in day in and day out.” I said. “Be a homeless person for a couple months, then tell me you understand street theater.”

    Amanda Palmer didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. Perhaps it was the most enlightening, insightful piece of acting advice she’d ever been given. It was hard to tell with her absence of eyebrows.

    “I’ve never met anyone like you,” she said.

    “I know you haven’t,” I said, my confidence moving forward.

    “This is exactly why I perform naked most of the time. Like, what you just said, I couldn’t have said it better.”

     I wanted to kiss her at that moment. Tell her about every human connection I’d ever made, and how they still would never measure up to this one. Two statues. Two Lovers. Two kinds of perceptions that had crossed each other’s paths, and met discreetly in her kitchen. There had only been a couple moments of extenuation with her, and compared to most, I could chalk that up to perfection.

    I excused myself to the referigerator where I had placed my thirty pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I offered her one, and she politely refused. I took my keys out and popped the side of it for a “shotgun”. I wasn’t sure if that was the politically correct move in this type of environment, but in light of such a celebratory event, it felt like the right thing to do. But when I looked back to the table, Amanda had gone. Well, holy fucking shit. Had I blown something?

    I ran upstairs to the room where a new silence had resurfaced, this time for a new singer dressed as a giant turkey. I wasn't sure how a turkey fit the codes of being androgynous, but then I guessed I'd never really known the gender of any turkey I'd run across in my days, and so, perhaps, I thought this seemed as good an androgynous definition as any I'd  ever seen. But this had not been the point. No, Amanda had disappeared somewhere. Left me for what seemed like punishment for a quick sampling of my Pabst Blue Ribbon. And as fast as that androgynous wild turkey could gobble, I saw her in the arms of another man. Actually, to be more specific, in the arms of writer Neil Gaiman, the man I’d recognized as Alice In Wonderland. So that’s who that was. Jesus Christ, I thought. How the fuck was I supposed to compete with that guy? The man had written Coraline. Fucking Graphic novelist extraordinaire. I simply had no chance. I was no competition. How had I not seen this? It was an ill, sickening feeling that came over me followed by a violent vomiting frenzy. It was a painful reminder of why I didn’t get into these types of ramblings in the first place.

    Of course, the Androgynous members of this party, their silent codes being forced to surrender to the unsolicited screaming attributed directly to me, gave back the most horrified and indecent responses I’d ever seen of an audience.

   “Get that mother fucker out of here!” someone yelled. 

   “He’s a drunkard!” yelled a woman dressed as Dracula.

   “What? A fire?” some other idiot yelled

    Panic had erupted. Pure Panic and animosity now on the verge of becoming a complete meltdown. Followed by a confusion so serious, it might have put a couple of already confused people’s sexuality in that room to shame. The Turkey stopped singing. And there I was, the culprit being spotted, without so much as an inkling of what to do, backing up for the staircase. Could they not see this for what it was? No, what they didn’t understand, or rather, what they couldn’t understand was that this particular vomiting had not broken their number one silent rule, the one against vomiting by cause of severe alcohol consumption. No, it had come from the trouble lurking inside my gut, cut up in every single heartbreaking way imaginable.  Every single ounce of it intended for the love parasite that was Amanda Fucking Palmer.

    But that didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have much time. I slid down the spiral staircase ahead of the crowd, where I ran into the kitchen and grabbed my pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Any further vomiting would not have the luxury of being for anyone else. It would be for me, and only me. A couple of the Androgynous members trapped me in the corner. And that was when I heard Amanda yell at the top of the stairs

    “It’s okay. He’s homeless. He’s just homeless…”

    “But Amanda. I’m not…”

    It was useless. How the fuck had this happened? How had one of the greatest bullshit comments turned itself into the enemy? Betrayed me. Forgotten about the bullshit it had originally come from. I’d never know. And like that, everyone pointed to the door. Whatever was left of my dignity was spent stabbing the side of another Pabst, half of it being lost on the side of my face. 

    “Alright, sorry to ruin your party, everyone,” I said. “I’m not drunk by the way.”

But no one would believe me. It was obvious. And so I walked away, a sort of tilted head up.

The next few hours were spent actually getting drunk on the doorstep of the Cloud Club. With shotgun after shotgun, the real drunkenness penetrated whatever was left of my small lens of reality. A part of me stayed because of the prospect that Amanda might change her mind, have a small bit of forgiveness for a fellow street-performing statue. Have a change of heart that wasn’t so ill conceived in serious misjudgment. But every drink began to enormously doubt the prospect of such an understanding.

    Of course, to add to injury, a cold rain started to fall, and I resorted to a fetal position over the  doorstep. Every shotgun’d beer spilled into the rain, joined its stream that ran into a rusted, crooked drain. A drain I stared at for the better part of those two hours. A drain I wished I could climb down. Become its molecules. Become something that would never matter. Become something that would never have to feel like this. Never have to feel as cold as this. Never have to feel as cold as Amanda Palmer.

    “Fuck, he’s still here. Let’s call him a cab.”

    It was Amanda.

    “Amanda! I’m so glad you’re here. Do I have to go?”

    “Yes.”

    “But we’re both statues. We understand each other.”

    “We don’t want drunk people in the venue.”

    “That’s not very patriotic,” I said before a pause. “I thought we had something.”

    “If we have anything, it’s that you totally freaked me out in there. My fans wouldn’t enjoy seeing a headline like 'who killed Amanda Palmer’ in the paper tomorrow. And neither would I.”

    “Amanda, you seriously think I’m a threat?”

    “I’m joking. But you need to go.”

    “I’m going to write an album about heartbreak and pretentious people like you,” I said. “Did I tell you we’re called Sky Case? Our album title...” I said while pausing to look at her.  “The Cabaret Prince And The How-To-Do... Of A Pretentious Amanda Palmer.”

    “That doesn’t make any sense and I think you meant to say Well-To-Do,” she said. “And, what the fuck. I don’t care.” 

   “That’s it! That’s the title.”

    I thought of anything else to say.

    “Did you know amphibians are also androgynous?

    “Please don’t talk anymore.”

    “Okay.”

     The cab pulled up at that moment, and I finally realized the fleeting, wretched direness of the situation. 

    “Amanda, you don’t want to start a rivalry with me,” I said, fully aware of what a profound statement I’d been compelled to make.

    “I don’t know who you are. Please just get in the cab.”

I got up, and then turned to say my last words.

    “You know, I had an abortion, too.”

      I hadn't, but it was my way of telling her I had loved her. That we'd felt something that went beyond imagination and made-up abortions. Something that might take ages to decode. And as I grabbed my remaining Pabst Blue Ribbons, the ones left without a keyhole in the side of them, I stepped slowly into the cab, careful not to bang my head. I looked out of the raindrops covering the windows of the door and saw Amanda being consoled by an unknown woman in a tuxedo. Had I been too harsh? Was I really that bad of a guy? And then I thought, how did they expect me to pay for a cab if they thought I was homeless? The inconsiderate fucks!

    “Here’s 30 dollars. Please take him somewhere dry,” Amanda said to the cab driver, opening his door.

    “Amanda. You can’t buy me!” I screamed. “We’ll always be rivals!“

    The door slammed. It was most likely she never heard the last part of that sentence, which, all things considered, might have been for the better. There was no need for a stupid fucking rivalry. No, I would need to let her go. She had tried to mend the fences with her money, her fancy little cab ride, and I could accept that. I mean, couldn’t I accept that? My hand reached out for absolution, and it touched silence. Just silence. Stubborn, angry, stupid fucking silence. And everything would have to be quiet because these were the rules. I followed them until my lunar blackout, somewhere shivering and wet, somewhere in that night.