I was in the supermarket the other day and happened to stand
next to a group of college-age kids whose shopping cart was filled with a
variety of chips, pretzels and snacks.
I overheard them talking excitedly about some party a guy named Jason
was throwing and what a fantastic time they were going to have.
Listening to them, I couldn’t help but think back to some of
the parties I’d attended when I was their age. I don’t know if I was just a
party pooper or if everyone I knew gave bad parties, but the majority of the
gatherings I attended back then turned out to be anything but fun.
For example, one night, this guy named Norm called to invite
me to his friend's party. The woman who was throwing it, he said,
was celebrating the fact that in a week, her husband would be returning home from active duty in the army. I thought it was kind of weird she was having a party before her husband’s return instead of waiting to
give him a big homecoming celebration, but I didn’t question it.
The minute Norm and I set foot in the woman’s house, I knew
I shouldn’t have come. For one thing,
the hostess, who was wearing enough makeup to stock a cosmetics counter, and a
dress short enough to make any attempt to sit down an X-rated event, was the
only female there. The other guests, about eight of them, all were men, and
let’s just say that good grooming didn’t appear to be very high on their list
of priorities. In fact, they all looked as if they’d just stepped off a pirate
ship. I began to suspect that this actually was a farewell party for all of the woman’s boyfriends, before her
husband returned …which made me wonder why Norm had been invited.
“I don’t think we should stay,” I whispered to him, my hand
in a death grip on his arm.
“Let’s not be rude,” he said. “We’ll just stay for a
half-hour or so, okay?”
Well, 20 minutes later, the hostess brought up the subject
of Norm’s sports car and how she’d always dreamed of riding in a gorgeous car
like that. I silently prayed he
wouldn’t say what I suspected he might.
Unfortunately, he did.
“Come on, then,” he said to her. “I’ll take you for a little
spin.”
My eyes shot daggers at him. Only two people could fit into his car, so that meant he intended
to leave me all alone with the Pirates of the Caribbean.
I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I gritted my teeth and
waited, figuring that Norm and the hostess would be gone for only a few
minutes. And, I told myself, when they
did return, I was going to insist that he take me home.
Two hours later, there still was no sign of Norm or the hostess. Fuming, I called a cab and left.
Then I took great pleasure in slamming the phone in Norm’s ear when he
called (that’s the sad thing about cell phones nowadays – there’s nothing to
slam down when you’re angry).
Another time, a guy named Tom, a bank teller, invited me to
a Christmas party his new neighbors were throwing. The party actually seemed
very nice. The interior of the apartment was festively decorated, Christmas
carols were playing on the stereo, mistletoe was hanging in the doorways, and a
big crystal bowl of bright red punch sat on a holly-covered table. The guests consisted mostly of young
couples, all animatedly chatting and mingling.
I really was enjoying myself until about an hour into the
party. That’s when the host, a guy named Bob, carried what looked like two big
cans of paint into the living room.
“Time for some real fun!” he said, smiling almost wickedly.
I leaned over and said to my date, “Don’t tell me we’re
going to have to help him paint this place!
I’m wearing my good dress.”
“I have no idea,” he answered, looking genuinely puzzled.
The host then left the room and came back with two more cans
of paint. The crowd cheered.
I glanced over at one of the cheering couples standing near
us. “What’s all of the paint for?” I asked them.
The guy chuckled. “It’s not paint, it’s glue. He works in a
shoe factory and...um...’borrows’ a few cans from time to time.”
Dummy that I was, I had no idea why on earth someone would
want to steal that much glue. Maybe,
I thought, the guy had some sort of huge Christmas craft-project in mind where
we all were going to sit around making construction-paper chains to decorate
something equivalent to the tree at Rockefeller Center.
Before I could open my mouth to ask anything else, my date grabbed
me by the arm. “Quick!” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here!”
Without questioning him, I allowed him to practically drag
me out of the apartment.
“What was that all about?” I asked him once we were outside.
“From what I overheard, they’re glue sniffers,” he said.
“They put some of that shoe glue into bags, put the bags over their noses and
then sniff it. It gives them a cheap high.”
I laughed, picturing the party-goers with bags of glue
clinging to their noses like feedbags. “You’re kidding me, right?”
He shook his head.
The next day, we heard that the party had been raided by the
police. Had I gone to that party with
a creep like Norm, the one who’d left me stranded, I’d probably have had to call my parents for bail money.
So even to this day, thanks to my past history, I’m still a
bit apprehensive whenever I’m invited to a party.
Although, at my age, I don't think I have much to worry about any more. I mean, at the last party I attended, the highlight of the
evening, which drew cheers from the guests, was when the host demonstrated a new device he’d purchased to help him
put on his socks without having to bend over.
# #
#
 |
CLICK HERE ===> https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/384106 |
No comments:
Post a Comment