The other night, I attended a yearly
party with old neighborhood friends. This has started to become a
reunion type of thing where some of us haven't seen each other since
the last party. Much food is eaten, too much liquor and beer is had
and owing to the party's host, several thousand dollars of fireworks
is set off. (Thanks to the fireworks shops below the Mason/Dixon Line for
providing them!) The party, if the right people are in attendance,
can devolve into romp. This is what I hope that happens each year.
There's no problem watching a bunch of late 40 somethings turn into
teens again. Hell, the teens in attendance at the same party look
upon us with some shock as well, as old people aren't supposed to be
irresponsible and shameless.
There was one interesting visual I had
seen. A girl, about 10 years old, was wrapping her tee shirt as much
as she could around her body. It was about 2 am and she was getting
cold and tired. She glanced around to all the other respectable
adults there, yawned and looked nonplussed while one of them was
lifted upside down over a keg to have the the nozzle shoved into his
mouth.
The old college chant started. “Chug!
Chug! Chug!”
She just balled herself up into her
chair and went to sleep.
Kids see everything. I kind of goof on
the parents there, who quickly suck on a joint say, “My kids don't
know I smoke.”
Your kids don't care. It's boring to
them witnessing it now.
The party ends when the late 40
somethings either pass out or get so tired they have to go home. That
was around 3 AM. I myself could feel it as well, as all I wanted then
was my bed. I got to my car, fired it up and drove off. I made it
about two blocks when I passed a cop car.
“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! The alarm in
my head went off. What the hell is a cop car doing in the Pinecrest
section? This is the second richest neighborhood in Pawtucket. If you
hop the river, you're in Country Side, the richest, with it's golf
course and homes that say Brahmin Back Bay Boston. There's
no crime in Pinecrest, there's no reason for them to be patrolling,
until I figure it was the block party that was going on...the one I
attended...the one where we fired off four inch round firework shells.
The one with the wine, beer, Honey Jack bottles on the front lawn.
I knew I was fucked. I wasn't slolshy
drunk but I was probably over the legal limit. My mind reeled fast.
“Uh...his number is 722-4003...if I
have to wake up my lawyer...I'll do it!”
“If I'm arrested..I'm in the tank
till Monday morning till I get bail!”
“Shit..this is about $6,000 if I
fight it!”
He never pulled me over. I have to wonder why he finally took a
right hand turn and ignored me completely. Not that I was going to
find him and ask.
If cops profile, here's what he saw and
thought, perhaps. A white haired guy in a Beach Boy's stripped shirt
driving a convertible in a very nice section of Pawtucket. I hope he
wrongly concluded I was a local resident and completely harmless. If
so, good. I guess a pile of white hair says: “Too old to be of any
consequence.” "Probably not a gang-banger."
I rabbit warren-ed my car through the
side streets all the way home, avoiding any of the main drags, and
finally pulled into my driveway. Jesus..of all nights to be pulling
me over....
I wake up the next morning, late. I
swing my legs out of bed and I feel something I haven't felt in
years, a hangover. I spent the whole Saturday moping about the
house, drinking fluids and eating Ibuprophen. I forgot how a good
hangover feels like the flu, there's no position you can put your
body in to make you feel comfortable.
I then imagined all the other late 40
somethings doing about just the same thing about now. We ain't 19
anymore!
Around 4 in the afternoon Mike was out
there honking his horn. I go out, in my summer shorts, a ratty tee
shirt that mirrors my equally ratty hair.
“Shit..are you just getting up?” he asks me.
I tell him no, that I had gotten up
hours before, found it very unprofitable and went straight back to
bed. He goes onto say that I look like crap. I concur. We rap for
about an hour, going over the last night's festivities and the
various divorcees/about to be divorcees/wive's shamelessly looking
elsewhere and we conclude NONE of them are worth it.
It wasn't till Sunday morning that I
felt OK. This is what happens when you get older and really get out
of practice of partying like your 20.
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