The Piñata – Kayla Viljoen

Hi. My name is Frank, and I’m here today because of Randy, my neighbour. This is all,
was all, his fault.

I knew that when I moved to the suburbs that someday, I’d be forced to interact with
someone. That dreaded date could be postponed by buying all my groceries online,
techno-commuting to work every day, or leaving the garden slightly dilapidated (too
much decay would cause the community counsel to “check-in”, so I relied on a very
specific amount, as to ward off unwelcome guests). It also maybe included spreading
a rumour that I was an ex-convict out on parole for a major offence. You know, the
basic techniques in the pursuit of people avoidance.

Despite the fact that I could postpone that day, that I could reduce those chances,
the major flaw in all of this still loomed over my daily life like a horribly grey cloud. It
was inevitable that one day I would have to interact with people. It was not a
question of if, but rather, of when.

Sally, an acquaintance of mine on AnthrophobesAndAgoraphobesAnonymous.com (a

website for like minded people like, well, uh, me), said that she had managed to
avoid interacting with actual people for the better part of twenty years. How she did
that is a gory, arduous tale and I wouldn’t suggest it, because it is anything besides a
light read as she described it. The point is, she convinced me that if I played my cards
right, I was looking at living “other people free” until I was probably fifty. To me, that
estimate was appealing, because I planned on living for at least thirty of those years.

Then came Randy.

Randy was the head of the suburb’s community council. He oversaw the aspects of
neighbourly duties that came with living in close proximity to other people. One of
my many mistakes was thinking I could get away from being a part of those duties,
but at this point it doesn’t matter anymore.

On the fifth day of my sixth month in my new house, I heard my doorbell ring and
assumed it was my weekly delivery of groceries, including a little something extra to
celebrate my last box being unpacked. What can I say? I like to celebrate the small
things.

When I opened my door, instead of the beautiful blue taped packages I was
expecting, I was greeted by bow-tie-wearing, ear-to-ear-grinning, probably-up-to-
no-good, Randy. His blue shirt stunned me for a second too long (it was really similar
to the tape’s colour, in my defence) and he took my hesitation as a sign that I

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actually wanted to start a conversation. To my horror, words started to pour out of
him, and as my mother used to say after four or five glasses of pinot noir, I was
raised a goddamn gentleman.

Standing there with the best smile I could plaster on under a vocal bombardment by
someone I’d never met formally, I counted down the seconds until it would be
slightly less rude to return to the safety of my entrance hall. There, I could further
continue my wait for my packages. I started to drift into a lovely little daydream
surrounding this very subject when I unfortunately remembered Randy. Sighing ever
so slightly, I returned my full attention to him, or at least the bright red bow tie
occupying the space between his collar bone and adam’s apple.

As he spoke, I became more entranced with the bobbing of his neck, which seemed
to keep perfect time with the seconds counting down in my head. 92, 93, 94, 95...
He’d ask questions and I’d nod or shake my head, with the intention that if I
interacted just enough; he’d stop talking and leave sooner. It never occurred to me
to actually listen to what he was saying.

Well it did, but by then it was too late.

“So, I’ll see you on Saturday then? Don’t worry, even though the theme seems quite
juvenile, it’ll just be the grown-ups there, time for mom and pop to catch a break and
all! I’ll send you an email with all the details. Oh, Sharon is going to be absolutely
delighted when she hears you’ll do the quiches. Remember, again, it’s three quiches:
two gluten free, one dairy free, if one is both gluten and dairy free, well, that’s
brilliant. Got that? Well then, I think I said enough, and you signed the signup sheet,
so the email will answer all your other questions. I’m going to get going now but
thanks for the chat and see you then!” With that, he turned and left, side eyeing my
half dead petunias and thinking I wouldn’t notice.

I didn’t “get that”. I didn’t even remember holding a pen, but somehow, I had written
down my email address? Quiches? What the hell is a quiche? And why had I
promised to bring three? To where? For what?

As the questions mounted, they piled into the space where air should usually go in a
human body. My ability to breathe slowly gave way to a wave of undeniable panic
akin to the kind I experienced when my mother forced me to go to my university
graduation. The only thought that kept me slightly sane was the fact that he said he
would send me an email. I then vaguely remembered him mentioning that it would
be on Saturday. That meant I still had two and a half days to come up with a suitable
excuse to avoid whatever I had gotten myself into.

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Now before I continue, you should know that I know I have made many, many
mistakes, and I count moving to the suburbs, despite the decent price of my house,
as the first one. The second, and probably biggest one, was asking the AAA
community (Anthrophobes and Agoraphobes Anonymous) for help on the subject.
Mainly because I think we could safely call it the catalyst of this entire disaster.

Rattled from my aforementioned meeting with Randy, I took to the internet to seek
comfort and guidance for the predicament I had found myself in. For the first twenty
odd minutes I got just that, with most of my peers commenting things such as “I hate
it when people drop in IRL”, and “ugh, you should just move to Greenland or
something”. As soothing as these comments were, they did very little to ease my
mind about everything. It was the same member from earlier, Sally, who managed to
talk some sort of sense into me.

She started by stating that the worst thing that could happen, did happen. She said
that I should wait for the email to see what I had gotten myself into. There was no
point in unneeded stress until I knew as much as possible about my “situation”. Then
I could return to the forum and devise a plan with the support of my fellow like-
minded individuals. I liked the sound of that a lot and signed off, more at ease than I
had expected to be.

The bell rang again before I got the email from Randy. This time I checked the
security camera. I promised myself that I would have to do it every time from now
on, that it was the only way to avoid risks. When I was finally satisfied that it was just
my packages, I opened the door, grabbed the boxes in an impressive solo swoop,
and returned to the hallway. As the door closed with a soft thud, I heard the ding of
my computer, notifying me of a new email. The short pleasure of new stuff came to a
close as the harsh reality of the consequences to my stupidity sank in.

I briefly remembered the words of my mother, that all good things must come to an
end, before clicking the dreaded email to see what exactly fate had in store for me.

I don’t know which part of the email hit me first, the fact that I didn’t know you could
play mariachi themed music automatically in an email, or that the invitation seemed
to be using all the colours that were available to mankind in one go.

“!Hola!” it declared, and as unlikely as it seemed, I was hoping that “adios” would
follow in the next ten words, but I was damned to be an unfortunate man.

“We welcome you to our neighbourhood fiesta extravaganza! This Saturday: leave
your adult life behind and come party like it’s your quinceñera! “

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The email went on to explain that this party would feature all the trappings of what I
could only assume to be a children’s party, but for adults. Despite stipulating the
date and time for this seemingly sordid affair, I thought that I still had hope, that I
could plan that escape after all. Ah, a man can dream.

But my dreams were mercilessly shattered! Randy mentioned me in the email! By

name! “Frank, he said in what I chose to read in a haughty, smug tone for creative
reasons, “has also agreed to bring three quiches to our little get-together, and since
it is his first party with us, I believe we should all make an effort to make him feel
welcome and comfortable in our lovely little community!”

I messaged the forum with tears brimming in my eyes. What was I going to do? I
was, as my father often shouted to my grandmother after Sunday lunch, raised a
goddamn gentleman. A very primal part of me felt compelled to give in and go to
the party, for reasons that I still don’t understand. Another, equally primal part of me
wanted to carve out a very dark and cosy corner of my closet and stay there until the
weekend was over.

It was Sally, who again came to my aid. In a long winded but well-meaning post, she
described something that appealed to both parts of me. The jist of the post was that
I should go to the party and uphold whatever social standing I had with my
neighbours. Maybe it would even suffice as a way to silence the nagging of my
dearly departed parents.

Finally, after all was said and done, I could milk that social standing to get out of any
other future events that might come up. It was quite elegant, Sally pointed out,
because I would get multiple chances to casually mention my busy work schedule . It
would only be a matter of emphasizing that emails should be the primary mode of
contacting me.

After relentless back-and-forth arguments, pros and cons lists, and a quick
spreadsheet analysis to determine if I could actually immigrate to Greenland (haha,
no, dammit), I made a decision. Regardless of what I wanted, Sally was right.

The next two days passed in a blur. Most of that time was filled with finding out what
quiches are, swearing a little bit, ordering quiche ingredients online, swearing a little
bit more, and trying to make the damned quiches, muttering words that my mother
never taught me and that my father would cry at hearing.

A part of me, though miniscule and very insignificant in the whole scheme of things,
was excited when Saturday finally arrived. The rest of me was going through the
mental list of relaxation methods I had been reading up on for the past twelve hours.

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Quiches in hand, I stomped over to 225 Springer Street. I was dressed in my normal
attire, partially because I didn’t have anything remotely Spanish related, but mostly
because I refused to buy anything like that. I figure, since I looked like this for my first
fifteenth birthday party, the make-believe one should be no different.

A tall, red haired lady that I assumed was Sharon, due to it being the name on her
apron, opened the door for me. With a deep sigh, I braced myself for the inevitable
questions and entered into the large colonial house.

It was at this time that I realized I had inadequately prepared, that my list of
relaxation techniques was far too short. I also noted that nausea was slowly
mounting in my throat, and if it continued to go on, I could feign food poisoning
about twenty minutes in.

A man with a platter of what I now know was piña coladas walked past, and I willingly
grasped one. Alcohol was known to lower inhibitions, and I really needed to seem
like a pleasant person, as to avoid any future pleasantries.

Finally, the familiar face of Randy came into view, and he took it upon himself to
introduce me to the rest of the people at the party. It was then that I employed a
tactic I liked to call defensive drinking. You speak, and I drink. A fun twist on a
drinking game, at least that’s what I thought.

Many of the faces blurred into one, moving from one oversized room to the next,
until finally we were in the kitchen and I could set down both my empty glass, and
the three quiches.

“Ah! There they are!” Randy announced, and turned me towards a couple wearing
matching yellow shirts. “Frank, this is Marcia and Eduardo Hernandez! They moved
here from Mexico City a year ago. To celebrate their first year as a part of our
community, we threw them this little bash!” He bobbed about excitedly as he
announced that the whole party was his wife, Sharon’s idea.

“You really shouldn’t have.” I heard Marcia mutter under her breath and for a second,
I thought that maybe not all people were as bad as I believed.

Then, Randy led me through to the backyard, where the space was filled with music,
sombreros and laughter. People were gathered in little clusters, some around the
barbeque, talking as they prepared the meat. Others sat at the table or around the
pool.

As I surveyed the area, I realized that it was indeed a children’s party, and that there
were only adults around, as far as I could tell. The large array of balloons,

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decorations, and alcoholic beverages all supported my theory. The multicoloured
piñata hanging in the large oak tree in the corner of the yard proved it.

The rest of the evening passed in a flurry of ever-growing anxiety, meeting too many
people, drinking more piña coladas. I am not a religious man, but in many moments,
I found myself praying that this whole ordeal would finally come to an end.

At six, the group of barbequing men announced that the meat was finally ready. I
found some relief in the fact that I could yet again put more things into my mouth
that would make it impossible for me to hold a conversation.

I should take a moment to state that the food, although not what I had been
expecting for a “Spanish” themed party, was really delicious. The meal relaxed me
quite a lot, although I think that the piña coladas were starting to finally take effect. I
even genuinely smiled at the joke Sharon told.

At around half past nine, after food and a rather lovely dessert, Randy stood up and
with the tapping of his fork on his glass, he called everyone to his attention.

“Listen, everyone, tonight has been an absolute success. I’m sure that everyone has
thoroughly enjoyed themselves, which is why I believe that now would be a good
time to end things off, with our last activity: The piñata.”

I felt a surge of joy and energy throughout his announcement. The end was in sight!
Relief poured over me, and again, I genuinely smiled. Another mistake.

As though he noticed my grin alone, Randy pointed towards me and continued: “As
it is his first time with us, I would like to give the first swing to Frank. He brought
those lovely quiches for us, and as a new member in our neighbourhood, I think it
would make him feel so very welcome! What do you think, Frank?”

Time had been brought to a halt. All the things I said about feeling happy and a little
relieved? Lies! All lies! He was leading me towards humiliation, towards disaster, and
he was doing it all with a smile! I felt the nausea rise up once again, and as the eyes
of every person at that godforsaken party landed on me, I had no choice but to reply.

“Uhm, Sure?”

SURE?! WHAT?! No, no, no, no! Why did I say that? What the hell was happening to
me?

I didn’t have time to panic. Randy came over to me and took me by the shoulder as
the onlookers cheered. Finally we arrived at the neon coloured donkey hanging
alone, with its black eyes staring me down. Randy took out a baseball bat and a

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blindfold, while a crowd formed around us to behold the spectacle that was about to
unfold.

I could no longer bear it. “Randy.” I said a little forcefully. “Randy, look, I uh, I can’t do
this.” I hoped that he would hear the panic in my voice and that it would further
plead my case.

“Oh, sure you can! You got arms for swinging, we’ll be cheering you on! You got
this!”

I pulled together the last of the little bit of nerve I had left and again I said: “I really
don’t think so.” This time the waver in my voice was definitely audible. Despite what
my mom told my aunt at my fourteenth birthday party, I didn’t feel like a goddamn
gentleman at this point.

“Hey, no, just think of it as something you’d really like to beat to a pulp. You got
things you’d like to take a swing at, right?” He took me by the shoulders and looked
at me for a split-second before stating: “If you make it something you hate, it’ll be
easier to hit!” He smiled once more, and reluctantly, I decided that that seemed to be
a logical approach and reached for the bat.

The crowd cheered loudly as Randy wrapped the blindfold around my head. “No
peeking, you hear? Right, as soon as we let you go, you got thirty seconds, man! Go
hit that thing!” he almost laughed the entire sentence and then proceeded to spin
me as I prepared to hit the piñata at least once.

As I was whirled about, I thought about what Randy had said. I began to collect all
the unpleasant feelings I had to pile onto that donkey’s back. I pulled together all the
anxiety and frustration of this day and this week and then this month and finally the
year. As I was released, I saw in my mind’s eye not a piñata, but rather a horrifying
monster stand in-front of me. I couldn’t do anything except let those same emotions,
the anxiety and the rage and everything just overtake me.

I charged forward toward where I assumed the piñata to be and swung the bat as
hard as I could. I felt the thump as the bat connected with the cardboard of the
donkey and I heard the thunderous applause of the crowd. “Well done, Frank! Do it
again!”

The feeling of relief was stronger than I expected, and I hit it again to the chorus of
the crowd. Everything began to fade as I hit the piñata again and again, harder and
harder, as the monster in my head shrieked and screamed for mercy.

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I was in a frenzy. The bat moved like lighting now and I charged forward with the
kind of energy I didn’t know I had. It didn’t feel like I was hitting cardboard anymore.
My monster had materialized it seemed, and I hit harder and harder. Rage filled me
and I was determined to quiet the terror-filled screams of the beast. I had to.

Over and over and over I swung that bat as hard as I could. I couldn’t hear anything
anymore, not the cheers of the crowd, not the screams of the beast, only the sound
of the bat making contact as I unleashed everything. With each blow I became more
confident. My emotions felt less invasive, everything felt calmer. I found myself
enjoying each swing, craving the feeling of relief that came with it.

It was the ding of the oven timer, declaring that my thirty seconds was over, that
brought me back to reality.

Hastily, I lifted my blindfold to see if I had hit the piñata enough to release the candy
hidden within. All my senses return to me and for a split-second I wondered why no
one was cheering.

I looked up and the first thing I saw was Randy. He wavered for a second, a soft
groan escaping his lips as his left eye twitched. He collapsed in slow motion, and the
side of his head started to ooze blood, dripping down his neck and onto the rest of
his skull on the ground, surrounded by what I could only assume was bits of his brain
and eye. Slowly, his shirt turned to the same colour red that his bow tie was. He said
nothing as he fell down onto the grass, limbs splayed and his remaining left eye
staring back at me, hauntingly lifeless.

I closed my eyes for a minute, trying to reset my brain. This was all in my mind, right?
This didn’t happen, did it?

I opened them again and this time I saw Sharon, but she didn’t look the same. I could
no longer read her name on her apron, maybe because of all the blood obscuring it,
or because her collar bone pierced through the end of the word to expose the pulp
within. Her limbs were beaten to such an extent that she seemed smaller than she
was. I turned around to see yet another face staring back at me, covered in more
blood and what appeared to be someone else’s intestines. Slowly, reality started to
materialize, and I realized that I was no longer standing at the piñata under the old
oak tree in the corner of the yard.

As I felt the air in my lungs disappear once again, I saw more and more people
laying lifeless before me. Each more brutalized than the next. There was blood
everywhere. I felt as though I had stepped into the mind of a psychopath, that all of

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this was a terrifying nightmare, that I was going to wake up and everything would be
fine.

For a moment, as I closed my eyes for the millionth time, praying that nothing of this
was real, I couldn’t help but feel a slight tinge of relief, knowing that I would never
have to speak to any of them again. As I opened my eyes, the horrifying realization
dawned on me that no one else ever would either.

It was that thought that shattered me. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. Nothing. So
caught in the grasp of what I had done, that I didn’t hear Marcia, with her broken ribs
and shattered femur, crawling back to the kitchen. I didn’t see her call 911 as she
shook violently, describing through pained sobs everything that had happened. I
didn’t even hear the sirens either. It was all too much. It had to be a dream. I needed
it to be a dream with every part of my being.

But I am an unfortunate man.

In total, seventeen people died that day. Marcia and I were the only survivors. Her
husband and nine other people died on the way to the hospital. Two more died
during surgery. Children were orphaned, the neighbourhood was no longer a safe
suburb. Everything had changed.

You probably heard this story so many times during the trial. You probably heard
Sally and Marcia testify and thought that I was a maniac, that I was insane. Did you
agree, when they both said they didn’t think I was capable of something as atrocious
as this, or did you, just like Sally, believe that it was all my own, undeniable doing?
Does it even matter anymore?

I pled guilty in some twisted hope that they might confine me to a solitary cell,
despite the horrors of what I had done. It was the last mercy I begged for in the
settlement talks. It was in begging that I knew I was not the goddamn gentleman my
parents died believing I was.

Even with all my grovelling, even after playing into any insanity I could muster to be
committed to a mental institution, nothing worked. Instead, I have been condemned
to the torture of endless questions uttered out of the mouths of endless people. The
last six months have been filled with that same story constantly repeating and more
people in my life than I ever wanted.

And now, I have nothing left to say about it. I just know, I just wish that Randy never
invited me in the first place. Like I said. This is all, was all, his fault.