You’ve been planning on it for weeks. Ever since you heard the rumor.
Empty house – friend’s parents going to a dress-up Company party somewhere in Santa Barbara – no offspring invited. Just adults – lucky you.
Invited half the senior class. Could be a golden opportunity. You perfected the look of being actively bored. Imagined the love of your life showing up – practicing your lines. You were destined to make an impression.
It helped that you discovered your dad’s stash of booze in the garage. Half gallon of Canadian Club with your name on it – a gallon of Red Mountain just to be on the safe side.
You got to the party as it was getting started. House full of Santas and rooms full of elf wannabes – an 8-foot Christmas tree loomed over the living room and colored lights were weaving their way around the party. Christmas spirit was alive and well and took the entire house hostage. You fell in love four times before you got past the entrance. You ambled up to the punch bowl; a silver swimming pool holding a lake of high octane – it smelled like it was going to explode any minute. You dumped in half the Whiskey and commandeered two bottles of Ginger Ale – you stirred – the mixture was sweet but it was deadly. A line had formed and Dixie cups were scooping up the concoction and wholesale guzzling began.
In no time the party got loud and the people were got animated – the usually shy ones were terrorizing the makeshift dance-floor. You were getting a boozy-eyed glint from one of the elves; Larissa, decked out in green. You knew her from Algebra – on normal days she ignored you like atomic waste – tonight she was braced against the kitchen doorway and you sensed opportunity. Three words into an incoherent conversation and it was tonsil-hockey from that point on.
You were developing some below-the-waste agitation just as a hand grabbed your shoulder. You spun around and came face-to-face with what appeared to be her very pissed-off jock boyfriend. He was yelling something, but it sailed past you and missed it completely. You turned to look at who you believed was your new girlfriend who had already vanished.
Next thing you knew you were semi-airborne, hurdling toward the Christmas tree. You narrowly missed it but instead landed face-first on a table of Lasagna, Macaroni and Cheese that flew everywhere.
Rather than quietly lie in a heap of food group debris, you summoned some undiscovered indignation and hurled your right fist in the air. Rather than land on its intended target, it veered off course and clocked Amy, the girl you were trying to get next to since Junior High. She shrieked and doubled over with a bloody nose, infuriating everyone in the room who rushed to her aid and proceeded to kick the crap out of you.
When the world made its presence known again you were laying naked in a bathtub, submerged in cold water – you were head-to-toe bruises and your face was swollen, resembling the Goodyear blimp on a bad day. As you tried to gather whatever brain cells you had left you realized you were still at the party – although it was long over. The living room was eerily silent, looking like it survived hurricane season – the Christmas tree looked hungover and festive debris decorated the walls and floor like a crime scene.
You managed to get dressed, locate your car and stagger home – praying there were no sirens or breathalyzers anywhere in your immediate future.
When you and your damp and puke-stained party clothes made it through your front door, you were greeted by your mom and a clock that struck three – the clock was ambivalent. Your mom quietly laid into you that you may never see the outside world again and you were going to have “a little talk” when you sobered up. Nodding was the least you could do as you trudged into your room and collapsed on your bed.
The thought raced through your head that you, in all probability, would spend the rest of your life apologizing to people from that party and your chances of getting anywhere near Amy with so much as a bargepole was remote to nonexistent at best.
All you could do was throb, sigh and stare at your clock radio. It was Christmas morning . . . of all things.
And to accompany you – here’s an hour’s worth of Jimmy Rabbit from KROQ – December 24, 1977
