Talk Vomit

By Shayla Frandsen

Gummy-colored candles, fiery on top. No drop-offs here: this was the sort of birthday party parents attended, too. Their loud instructions to their small children, and the small children’s blinks in confused response, made the entire function feel as harried and chaotic as a Friday afternoon traffic jam. 

The hot wax of the candles melted like tears, colored splotches dirtying the white frosting. The birthday boy was so young that he wouldn’t remember any of this, the gifts, the attendees, the race car theme. The balloons—he might remember the balloons. So far, the tantrums had been contained to four, only two of which came from the birthday boy himself. A good party. A success.

This was a group of parents with expectations as high as a house mortgage. In the years between their college friendships, marriages, and eventual children, there somehow grew a standard for these parties. The standard was easy to trace: large. Ornate. Expensive. None of the parents could tell you how this standard came about. It just…existed, arriving fully formed the way a fully formed child emerged from the womb and not a zygote.

There was, however, the matter of the stressful pattern which had emerged. The younger the child was, the more elaborate the party thrown for them. Again, nobody had said this outright; instead the fact grew like a fungus. There was absolutely no situation which called for a herd of two-year-olds to be gathered and made to sit obediently around a small table, yet here they were. The cake was sliced and disseminated while two more tantrums were added to the tally, because nobody’s slice was as large as the birthday boy’s and several of the kids had a serious fucking problem with that.

Once the tantrums had been calmed and all cake detritus spirited away, it was time for the piñata. The piñata, lingering like the Hindenburg over the entire morning’s proceedings. A blue googly-eyed donkey. Or maybe a dog? But the tail was too long. Was it supposed to be Eeyore? Some of the parents leveled barely-hidden side-eyes at the host parents. A piñata? Seriously? Ten years ago it might’ve been cute, but now it was just…

What was it? Tacky. A relic of an older time, a time of roller-skating rinks, janky rented bowling shoes, and sticky floors at the movie theater. It gave off a sense of desperation, maybe, all that candy flung around, their children scrabbling on the ground. But whatever. The parents helped corral the herd like sheepdogs guide their flocks, probably in an effort to build up good karma for their own children’s upcoming parties. The kids didn’t know much about piñatas, yet somehow knew that the sight of the blue googly-eyed donkey-dog meant some serious shit was about to go down.

Fifteen minutes later, morale was plummeting. Kids were losing interest and the piñata was unbearably intact. One of the more impatient dads all but yanked the stick out of his daughter’s hand and began slaughtering the piñata, just absolutely attacking it like it was poorly-lit cell phone footage shown at a court hearing.

Gasps rang out, even though everybody secretly thought, good and let’s get this show on the road and about time somebody did it. At least one of the moms watched the dad with the stick and thought I wonder what he’s like in bed. 

The piñata, that blue googly-eyed donkey—it was Eeyore, it had to be, because it’d be just like him to take forever to break open—snapped off the string and fell to the ground in tatters. The dad was breathing hard like he’d just been in a bar fight. He held the stick up triumphantly. See that? the gesture seemed to say. I was the only one of you brave enough to actually do it. I am your god.

The children rushed poor, broken Eeyore, scrabbling in the exact way their parents had feared. The frenzy of the horde quickly gave way to bewilderment. Where was the—? Wasn’t there supposed to be—? Maybe this was a trick. Or maybe this was the point of the piñata, all the hitting, the smacking.

For some reason, it took a bit longer for the parents. They finally figured it out.

“You were supposed to get the piñata candy,” the mom told the dad through smiling, gritted teeth.

“That was the cake,” the dad shot back as the kids remained standing over the empty blue creature. “I was supposed to get the cake, and I did. You were supposed to get the candy.”

The other parents made a show of not listening, despite desperately craning to hear every word. God, this was the real party right here. No matter how nice it was to see their friends settle into domestic life just as they had, watching them descend into barbs and snipes was even better. It was unbeatable. Nothing would ever come close.