-- While we were having dinner on Friday, Toney reminded me about the neighborhood block party scheduled for Saturday night, and how we were all RSVP'd-up. We'd been assigned to bring pasta salad, potato chips, and napkins, so we were locked-in.
Instinctively, I groaned. I'm not really a party kind of guy. I don't much enjoy, and am not especially skilled at, making small-talk with strangers. It's necessary to pour extra kerosene into the
Demumblifier(tm), when I'm hanging around such functions.
But, we'd gone the past two years, and had a blast exactly fifty percent of the time. The first go-round turned out to be surprisingly fun. The Secrets played "Manhunt" within a gang of roving
Lord of the Flies children all evening, while Toney and I drank beer with the other
adults, beside a bonfire.
There was lots of drunken bizarreness that night, including a man who suddenly whipped out a harmonica and began blowing blues riffs so loud, I believe it affected the migration of birds. A classic WTS?! moment.
Last year, however, was a disappointment. I don't know if the intake of alcohol had been retarded for some reason, or what. But the magic could not be recaptured.
Also, some guy asked where I work, and I told him I was recently laid-off and looking. And the dude almost literally recoiled in horror. If I'd said, "I like to dig up fresh graves, and make love to the corpses," I imagine he would've had a similar expression. Unemployed?? Oh my!
So, that kinda sealed it for me. They could all go fuck themselves, for all I cared. I was sitting at home in my jammy pants by 8:00.
But it's amazing how the fun times almost always trump the bad times in your memory. A few weeks ago, when we received the invitation, both of us responded enthusiastically and signed-on without hesitation. You know, when the thing was still comfortably in the future...
On Saturday I bitched and moaned a little, but had no intention of trying to weasel out. We'd just go, and hope for the best. If it sucked, we'd sneak away. I'm very good at sneaking away, especially for a man of my size.
We arrived around 6:00, and the Yuengling keg was empty. A good sign. The shindig started at 4:00, and they were already one-keg down. This year might be one of the good ones.
We'd had a beer at home, and a shot of something called Limoncello. Are you familiar with this stuff? It's made in Italy, from lemons harvested at an ancient grove, or somesuch. It tastes like a dessert going down, then you realize your sternum is afire.
We brought our own cooler of the golden elixir, and two camping chairs. The boys went off to help set up a makeshift society on a deserted island, and we were invited into the Big Circle of
Drunkenness.
A few people introduced themselves, and somebody asked where I work. I tried to remember if it was the guy from last year, but couldn't be sure of it. I told him, and he said, "Wow, I own stock in that company! Made me a lot of money."
Oh yeah? Well, they just put me through forklift training, so I guess we've got some things in common?
It only took a minute or two before we were established members of The Circle, and no longer the center of attention. A large man who looked like Ernest Hemingway proposed a toast to "the late great Harvey Korman," and we were off…
And it was a drunken good time again, similar to the first year.
A harelipped man did a lot of talking, and was easily understood at first. But the more he drank, the harder it
got.
He seemed like a nice guy, and I feel kinda bad talking about him, but by 9:00 it was like trying to decipher Morse code; there were no actual words, just dots and dashes. Somebody started a conversation about
Blazing Saddles, and the dude hollered, "Meh Broo eh ucking larious!"
It sounded like he was driving through a bad cell.
Somebody else sat down, and was given the standard battery of questions. He said he's a pharmaceutical salesman, and someone asked what he sells specifically. Insulin, was the answer, and Hemingway raised his glass again, and said, "To diabetes!"
Later, a woman emerged from the darkness with a large platter of Jello shots. I know I lead a sheltered life, but I'd never had one in my entire life. But I sure as shit have now. Sweet Maria.
Hemingway said he'd be serving up "belly shots" in a little while, and some guy said, "If we start drinking booze out of
your belly button, we'll all die of alcohol poisoning!" An unknown man was laughing so hard at that, I thought he was going to do a header into the fire.
An older gentleman made an announcement at one point, saying he was going to go around and take up a collection for rental of the giant tent set-up behind us. "And the contributions I'm looking for," he said, "are about six inches long, two inches wide, black and green…"
After he'd said "six inches," a guy stood up and started unzipping his pants. This brought shrieks of laughter, and at least one spit-take. Somebody way off in the distance yelled "six inches, not two inches!" and another hollered, "and he said black and green, not
black and blue!!"
It was just complete drunken pandemonium. I don't know if it was the booze-infused Jello, or what. But I thought that black and blue comment was comedy gold. I almost soiled my folding chair, laughing.
Eventually the group dynamic could not be maintained, however, and it devolved into several smaller conversations. When that happens, it's time to leave. Once the circle collapses, it's best to just walk away.
Two guys started talking about music, and both were obviously bed-shittin' drunk. One was the insulin salesman, and I didn't recognize the other one. They were yelling about the greatness of Crosby, Stills, and Nash.
Then Insulin mentioned Van Morrison, and I thought the other guy was going to have a seizure.
"OH MY GOD, YES!! VAN FREAKING MORRISON! VAN THE MAN! I LOOOOOOVE HIM!! I SAW HIM AT THE OLIVE GARDEN (or whatever) IN CLEVELAND, BACK IN 1971!! ABSOLUTELY DROP-DEAD FANTASTIC!!!"
I mean the guy was screaming; I'd bet money he woke up Sunday morning completely hoarse, wearing a beard of vomit, and humming "Domino," with no way to explain any of it.
While we folded up our chairs I overheard another drunk tell a Don Rickles lookalike, "You know, I get along with everyone: rich, poor, black,
white. Hell, we all put our legs on two legs at a time."
"Yeah, we're going to go!" I announced. And a couple of men raced over, shook my hand, and hugged Toney.
It was so great to see you guys, let's not let it be another year, we have cookouts all summer, you're always welcome… It was an outpouring of booze-fueled good cheer.
And the next time I pass one of them on the street, I'll wave, and they'll look at me
and think, "Who's that asshole?"
