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In his haze, Kendall had disappeared from the party. Greg, meanwhile, was having quite a time getting people to leave. In fact, there had been a steady stream of new folks coming through the door since 2:30.
One of them was a man Greg actually recognized.
He approached him, still searching for aid with crowd control.
“H-hey, man,” Greg towered over Stewy, pointing the top of his bottle to him, trying to remember his name, “uh—Greg—and you’re—“
“Stewy,” he supplied, “Greg—ah, you’re Kendall’s milk carton of a cousin, no?”
“Yep, that’s me—ol’, um, ol’ 2% Greg.”
A pause. Greg was caught by how Stewy was surveying him.
“Hey—do you think,” he stammered, “do you think you could help me get everyone, like, out? Like crowd control?”
Stewy slid further into the room, wading his way through the throng of dancing strangers.
“Not really my area,” he clipped as he scanned the room, pushing people aside, laying his hand on the small of a man’s back as he went, finally finding the snacks on the kitchen island, “so, hey listen—is Ken here?”
“Uh—he—I’m not sure, actually?”
“Fuck, OK,” Stewy took a toothpick and stabbed a mozzarella ball and ate it in two bites.
“Mozzarella, black olives, and sun dried tomatoes—where did you get these apps, dude? 1997?”
“No, um—Garden of Eden? It’s—it’s a gourmet market on—“
“Did you wear your walking sneakers to go get them?”
“No, they deliver, so—“
Stew was silent, munching, as he considered Greg.
“So Ken’s not here?” Stewy asked again.
“I don’t think so.”
Stewy was silent again and tilted his head, still evaluating the man before him.
Greg shifted, and he couldn’t tell if he was uncomfortable or—
“Hey—I’ve, I’ve got some MJ in my room-uh, if you—“
Stewy placed his hand over his heart while spearing an olive, “Aw, that’s actually…that’s really nice. I gotta split, bro.”
Greg sputtered as he watched Stewy grab a napkin, wipe his hands, and then throw it back onto the counter.
“But listen,” Stewy held his hand out, “lemme put my number in your phone—and we’ll set up a time for that, hm?”
“Oh—um,” Greg brightened, “sure. Sure thing, man.”
Stewy punched his number in and gave the phone back to Greg, “also, if Ken shows back up—“
Greg saluted. “I’ll let you know.”
Stewy nodded, bemused, “thanks.”
He clapped his hand on Greg’s shoulder, snaked his way back through the ever-growing crowd, and disappeared out the door.