Some people…

Some people are fucks. True fucks. I am happy that the English language has given us the opportunity to use a verb as a noun and an adjective and specifically in this case, I am truly grateful. Some people are fucks.

My last year’s seventeenth birthday party was a sweet success; chill people that I knew, along with their chill friends that I didn’t know, quenched their thirst for vodka cranberries and ice-cold coronas at my house and the party when on and on with music, dance, food and hella lot of spirit. Kinda dumb of me to think that this year would top that.

After the seniors had gone off to their UC’s and CSU’s or maybe CC’s, I was left with a handful of friends along with acquaintances; which I should have gotten to know better. At the day of the party, the day of the glorious “one-eight” candle-topped cake approached, I invited more and more people that I had met within the past months or had been acquainted with and the list grew on and on with doubt and regret for my choices… Regardless, this was my 18th birthday party and the “pop” of my teenage bubble should be a loud one.

Sadly, I got what I wished for.

Preparations went flawlessly Food, check. Decorations, check. Alcohol, check. All with no obstacles nor significant challenges which did make me think: “Is this too good to be true?” but I disregarded any second thoughts with swift notions and lightheaded mind.

6:30 o’clock.

-Umm… Soc, the door’s eye thingy is scratched

Heather, my Cassandra-turned muse said.

The first ominous sign appeared, an obviously deliberate scratch mark on the front door’s peephole. Probably made with a key, whatever bastard did it probably didn’t’ want us to see his ugly face and thus opening the door to him and his crew of misfits to come and raid my house, food and drinks. Oh no, this door will, be, locked and whoever knocks I will ask for who they are and if they are invited.

If I had done what I just said, I wouldn’t have a reason to type this. Instead, I blamed it on some angry Jehovah witness.

“Everyone’s got their dark times”

I thought…

7:30 o’clock

Ding dong. Mark Harris was the first to show up in the little oasis. I received a much heartfelt card with a sweet message and a PowerPoint presentation with cool looking goats—which he had promised me—since he couldn’t frame a picture of a Greek goat as he originally planned. Regardless, I was very happy and pleased with his gesture since he is my only retreat of solitude in Psychology and always a good resort for car-talking and joke-telling. I started preparing him a white Russian which I was planning on making myself too when the second doorbell rang and the two people whom I expected the least to show up on time appeared. Bora and Pam; both looking gorgeous and strong as always, they greeted me with a lovely card, European style kisses and a 50$ gift card. Bora, whom I hadn’t seen since prom, had not changed a bit, and I was guiltily glad for that. Soon enough, we picked up from where we left off; Our usual conflict between Greece and Turkey, Gyro vs Kebab, and then we followed the long windy road of bullshit politics with false facts and made up proof just so we can fuel the conversation and keep on having to say something while playing tavli. I missed hanging out with him. He reminds me of a former self which I left behind in some garage in Oceanside. Somewhere in that garage, I was smoking from a three-foot bong with a cigarette on my ear and lots of beer in my digestive system. Somewhere in that garage, Bora was sitting on a lazyboy, eating pizza with ranch and watching “Pacific Rim” with Pam, Logan and Jake. Somewhere in that garage, Tyler was screaming for an ambulance while lost in a salvia trip while I stood there in absolute shock having my ears punctured with junkies’ high pitched laughs. Somewhere in a garage, I left a kid behind.

Ding Dong.  Kim impossible was here. Balloons and girls made this the first “wow” entrance of the night. Along with party lights and hot bodies, the party started to light up as they walked around the living room in awe of the tidiness and preparation. They too, had been in a garage. Gossip dance and the clinging of Coronas slowly blanketed the house in a niche of dizziness and euphoria. I was beating Bora in tavli as I kept getting doubles and in view of my eminent victory, Heather kissed my forehead and got up to join the party. Bora forfeited and did not allow me to call it victory but we both knew what it was.

-Was it his birthday gift?

Pam asked Bora while vaping his $200 German vape.

-He already has one.

Bora, leaned his gaze upwards. He was looking at the colored lights projected on the ceiling.

One, two, three, four, five, ten, thirteen, sixteen, nineteen, twenty skater rats and hood-boys, surfers and sluts, middle-schoolers and college dropouts marched in one by one through the door and into the kitchen in single file, eyes fixed on the bottles of beer, Bombay and vodka.

Within seconds, I became the owner of a nightclub.

-Hey bro, what is the Wi-Fi password?

-Hey, where is the bottle opener?

-Can I change the song bro?

-Can I smoke inside bro?

No ding dong came this time; this was an unwanted ejaculation of scumbags into my house who were unwantedly ejaculated into their lives.  Tristan, Bora, Jake, Mark and I watched as these sperms made themselves comfortable inside their new home and contrary to biological rule, all of them managed to get inside the egg. Soon enough though, the mother started to ache and the bigger they grew, the louder and shittier they got. I only had one option to get rid of my unwanted pregnancy and guess what: I am not pro-life.

-Okay, we need to tell them to leave.

-But what the fuck do we say?

-Say, “Yo, get the fuck out”

-We will get shanked dude.

-No, just say whoever doesn’t have an invitation to leave.

-They won’t listen. Look at them!

-I swear, once I saw Diba walking in I knew that this would party would be fucked.

-It was Christophe and my fucking sister, one of the guys asked if I’m Katie!

-They need to leave.

-Okay, okay, start calling them out.

Tristan approached a black guy with a cigar balanced on his ear holding Tristan’s precious bottle of Bombay in his hands. He was taking up enough room for two people to sit and his legs were spread open as if he was expecting a blowjob… Two blowjobs actually. He was browsing carelessly on his phone, the unopened bottle of Sapphire was in his tight grip still and Tristan’s 6’3-foot shadow didn’t do as much as to even make him lift an eyelid. The same guy–walking in my party uninvited and who sat so gracefully on my couch–had asked me if he could change the music a few minutes ago.

Funny, I thought, manners are not dead.

He hesitated.

-Should we start telling people to get the fuck out?

-Yes but don’t say that

-Don’t say what?

-Don’t tell them to get the fuck out, tell them to just leave

-Alright…. Yo, all you who did not get an invitation, get the fuck out.

Bora and Tristan went tip-to-toe with all the accumulated scum of Oceanside and Carlsbad, Jake and Mark were kicking out the less trashy trash but they still were a great deal of help. I… well, I was just there, in the middle of it all while a herd of sheep was being led out from a field. I tried not to look them in the eyes while they left, “I don’t want them to remember me” I thought. And to my surprise, none of them did.

-Aw are you serious!?

A penetrating noise made me jump, the sound of breaking glass made me think of the worse.

“My parents’ picture frames or the glass table or our glass-framed paintings!”

My footsteps from the living room to the door felt like they were eternal, even though I was hauling ass to see which motherfucker did it.

“What was it?”

“The fucking Bombay, man…”

Tristan, after all his pleas and wishes, lost what he wanted the most. His Bombay Saphire. See, when Tristan went to Europe in the summer of 2015, he experienced among many things, an alcoholic awakening. And from all of our craziest and hardest poisons, he fell in love with the one we snub the most. That’s why he had been rambling on and on about Bombay and asked me if I could buy him a bottle for the party. Well, I did. And it stood there on the counter unopened during the entire clusterfucking part of the party until some dickless pussy-faced cunt smashed it on my fucking door on his way out. I didn’t get to see the cunt’s face nor his body so I can only imagine him as a dickless pussy-faced cunt. You can’t be anything else dude…

I rushed towards the door so I can see whodunit but the rats were out, the black dude with the manners only stood by the entrance lighting up his cig which he held on his hat, he puffed a huff and blew the smoke on the cold, January night sky. I caught his disapproving glance towards me and then he scrammed.

Was that the end of it? No.

Mark, some others, and I were cleaning the mess at the door while my heart was on my fucking throat; we had cut that one close. Oh, parenthesis: Pam had asked me if she could bring her friend Monica to the party yesterday, I knew her and I thought she was very sweet but thinking of the people she was associated with I decided to tell Pam that the Invitation list was full. To my astonishment, 10 minutes before the rats invaded my house, Monica showed up with a bunch of skanky girls. Well I greeted her and she lost her shit saying “oh I did not know this was your party, Im sorrryyyyy” and etc but what the fuck could I do… Would I kick her out? No. She and her ultra-fuckable group of twenty-twos made themselves at home and I said to myself “Well, at least we have eye-candy.” So Monica came up to me while I was cleaning up the shitbags’ mess and announced me some bad news (Asides from her own presence).

“Ummm…70-something people are out front; they are trying to get in the party”

“Wh- Are you serious?”

“Yes, and you need to do something quick because someone will call the cops from your neighborhood.”

“Wow dude, you stay here. We’ll take this”

“No fucking way man, this is on me”

“You are the birthday man bro, you stay here”

“No, I need to see this.”

I walked out with my untucked shirt, messy hair and stinking beer-breath. I walked out almost defeated because I knew that this night was over for me, my friends and all these people. What would some extra humiliation do anyways? I walked outside and yup, 70 was a good estimate. That’s actually how many they were. And they were not all skater rats and skanks; well-dressed high school classmates and acquaintances started gasping with astonishment “Oh its Socrates’s party” as I stared at all these people I knew and had to kick out. They reminded me of a crowd of goldfish. They were all shining in their makeup, bling, rose-gold iPhones, waving, glimmering under the street pole, idiotically moving their mouth-holes, staring at a particular direction with no purpose, waiting to be fed. I went to touch one but it swiftly shook my hand away from it and uttered something very incoherently, very subtly, something like “get the fuck off me bro.” Our interaction did not fare well; they all wanted a sip, and I wanted them all to dip. Plus, one of the goldfish spat Tristan on the face five times. I eventually spoke. I don’t remember exactly what I said but I remember their silence. Holy shit they were silent. They were listening to me! What the holy fuck!? They started to disperse slowly but only after Tristan pulled the final straw and started dialing 911.

Evacuation procedures had ended. Now neighborhood watch was set on guard. The fellowship of five started sweeping the neighborhood, warning incoming party-prepped vehicles that the ring had been destroyed, that there was no fiesta aqui jamas. Exhaust pipes of shitty Corollas could be heard popping their 5$ worth gasoline along with the occasional hullabaloo of some hooligan hollering a slur. I felt as if I got rid of something toxic from my system, it was a grand relief; with the only drawback that I shat out my wellbeing along with it.

Eighteen had begun.

I returned, friends had stayed. In a standing ovation of concerned looks and uncomfortable smiles they awkwardly greeted us. I made an unnecessary announcement about the incident that just took place  and informed whoever wanted to stay and eat, to stay and eat and whoever wanted to leave, to leave. A random kind couple left, they had helped me with the broken glass. I liked them. This kid, Garrett or Griffin, something like that– left with some girls. They were also very kind and helpful. The twenty-twos also left, apologizing to me and reassuring me that this was the best party they have ever been to…for twenty minutes. I watched their butts jiggle on their way out. They were nice.  

We were nothing but friends now, we took a second to absorb what had just happened, I couldn’t help myself but burst out a wry laugh of amazement.  Something had happened, something occurred to me that I still remember and laugh about. I laughed over broken glass and a ruined party , over a home invasion, a police threat, I laughed about.  If this was nothing important, then I wouldn’t have laughed that stupid laugh; I knew just how important this was. It was so important that it was ridiculous. So I laughed.  

The night wrapped up in a thick cloud of cigar smoke and contagious weed coughs. We were on the beach now; narrating events that occurred less than an hour ago as if they were WW2 Normandy landing stories. I felt content, at least something came out of this clusterfuck; some laughs, stories, experience, lessons and bad crossfades… I realize it now, more than ever how tailored to my life’s outlook such an event was. Through chaotic situations, unpredictable scenarios and very unfair decisions is where wisdom is nurtured, a life lived behind the sealed door of helicopter moms is not one that breeds any foolish wisdom, any arrogant doubt, any happy fear, any panache or any practical cosmical experience. It would just be a life of sedentary reassurance, of fake safety and suppressed desires. But sooner or later, that bubble of safety will pop. The tender meat will be exposed to the salts and peppers of the cook and those will do nothing but sting. Which begs the question; does the trout meat dipped in brine not feel the sting of the salt? The asphyxia of water, oil and vinegar fracking its pores? Or Is it just used to it? Or does it  just not feel anything at all because, you know, it’s a fucking dead trout.

It seems like we are all dead from the outside, we the kids who got lost in garages. We walk under artificial light in a genuinely dark place, under day and night blended into one…  It’s a useless invincibility to be able to enjoy chaos, to laugh in pain… And I know what we are afraid of the most; for all this to gradually start making sense.

Failures are lessons; and there really isn’t much of a difference in saying “I failed” and “I learned.”

So for example, I learned to lock the door.

 

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