Happy Election Day everyone. This would probably be a seemingly perfect opportunity to spew forth some rants about my thought on politics for you, but I’d much rather regale you with more offensive stories about my first summer in town. Besides, I really have no thoughts on politics. I, like all of you, am just looking forward to the end of all the campaign commercials. And that concludes my piece on politics and the election process. Now onto something much more interesting, which ironically enough consists of multiple reasons why no one living in my apartment the summer of 1988 in Ocean City, MD could ever go into politics, even if they’d wanted to.
If you’ve been following along at all, then you’re familiar with the cast of characters, the setting for most of the stories and you have at least a cursory knowledge of our collective lifestyle. The stories from those four months are abundant which is why this has made it to episode eight. Unfortunately, most of the good stories from that summer I can’t even write about here in the interest of decorum. Believe it or not, I’ve narrowed it down to the ones I think I can actually get in print. The parties we threw that summer were nothing short of epic. The various contests we had and antics we partook in were appalling at best. I’ll lead this week with a story about one of our parties because it’s more likely to get through the editing process than some of our competitions and games. If there’s room after the story, I’ll tell you about some of them.
We quickly gained a reputation for having the best parties around that summer. Many of them sort of evolved into theme parties. It was never premeditated, however. We didn’t do anything corny or cliché like toga parties, costume parties, crazy hat night, or anything stupid like that. They all started off seemingly innocuous and then morphed into something sinister. Nothing was ever intended to have a theme to it other than for everyone to have a great time at any and all cost. The seven of us collectively were recent graduates of two different high schools, and we worked at six different places, so our circles of friends had vastly expanded, as did the range of our party attendees. The lucky ones were able to escape as the sun rose the next morning with a few fully functional internal organs and a tiny shred of dignity and self-respect intact.
One of these parties stands out vividly in my mind for a multitude of reasons. It started out like most others, with a rapid influx of people ready to cut loose, and a variety of drinking games being played within the first half hour. As the night rolled on, this one, like many others got progressively weirder. One of my roommates had come into the possession of an entire case of neon glow sticks. It’s still unclear to this day how and why he had them but they came in handy on this fateful night. I won’t be brazen enough to suggest that we hosted the first glow stick party, but I will say that about two decades would pass before I again heard of their popularity. The party was pretty much in full swing and people were practically shoulder-to-shoulder in our condo with everyone having a great time. At about this point, one of my roommates decided to bust out the case of glow sticks. To get the mechanism to function, you bent it in half, snapping whatever was housed inside of the cylinder to release neon liquid. You would then shake it up to disperse the liquid and get it to its’ full strength. The stick would subsequently glow in the dark and illuminate a circumference of approximately eight feet. These magic little sticks would maintain their mystical powers of illumination and intrigue until sometime the next day.
It’s still amazing to me to this day that this fascinating little plastic device, which probably retailed for about 80 cents each at the time, could completely mesmerize sixty drunken buffoons. It was like giving fire to cavemen. Two of the roommates, snapped, shook, and dispensed the wizardly wands to our guest as if they were a group of tourists about to go spelunking for the first time. Within minutes, it looked as if everyone in attendance was about to embark on a modern day ogre hunt and the only thing missing were pitchforks in their free hands. There were glow sticks tied to each paddle of the speeding ceiling fan, draped around peoples’ necks—they were everywhere. Everyone was having an amazing time. But we were eternally looking to raise the bar.
Soon after, curiosity got the best of one of the roommates. He wanted to know how this cylindrical phenom worked. So, needless to say, a kitchen knife was taken out against the urging of those few still possessing the capacity for rational thought, and a glow stick was cut in half. Much to our delight, not only did all digits remain in place on his hand, we immediately discovered that the magic liquid still maintained its powers of illumination even while unencumbered by the restraints of the plastic tube. Next thing I knew, this presumably toxic liquid was being flung everywhere. Within minutes, the floors, ceilings, furniture and walls were completely doused. Our condo looked as if Mr. Yuk and the Incredible Hulk had a fight to the death.
Some of us even resorted to going shirtless and writing clever phrases on our faces and torsos with the chemical. One guy, maybe me, maybe not, took some of the radioactive beverage into his mouth and may have spat it about the room. (How’s that for a visual!) It was the best party EVER! Until…
There’s always one person at every party who deems it their mission to mess things up for everyone else, and ruin a good time. Let me go on the record as saying that I hate “that” person. She was the friend of a friend to one of the roommates. We all knew her from back home, but she wouldn’t have been at the top of anyone’s invite list. She had gone to a different school than us, a private school, and she made it abundantly clear to each of us that she felt we were all beneath her. She wasn’t very bright, yet portrayed herself as our intellectual superior because we were audacious enough to have attended public school. Yeah, she was the double threat – stupid and condescending. My two LEAST favorite character traits and the same person had them both. She was wrecking the party for everyone else, and yet, for me, it had just gotten more enjoyable. If you ever want to jump in the express lane to my bad side, just belittle me and my friends. ESPECIALLY in our own home.
She had gotten sprayed with the same neon substance that was providing so much fun for everyone else and immediately started screaming like the victim of a bear attack. At first, I was concerned, but then she started shouting all of the unnecessary details about her sweater that I had just ruined. She told me that it was white, that it was cashmere, where it was purchased, and EXACTLY how much it cost. She then insisted that I buy her a new one. This event posed three obvious questions: First, who let this (I don’t know if I’m allowed to print the proper term for a female dog, but it applies here) in? Second, what can we do to shut her up so everyone else can get back to having a good time? And third, who the hell wears cashmere in July?
Something needed to be done, and done fast. Otherwise the party was ruined and would quickly end just because of some loon who was more concerned about an out-of-season crappy garment than the demeanor of fifty or so other people. I snapped into action! I falsely explained to her that I had been in this situation multiple times before, and that I had a cleaning chemical that could remove the stain before it set. My roommates all looked at me with one eyebrow raised and in complete befuddlement. They knew I was BS-ing her, yet they instinctively knew that I had a plan to rectify the situation and salvage the fiesta. I informed her that I could fix her beloved sweater, but I needed her to take it off first and give it to me. Now get your mind out of the gutter. I had no ill intentions. I wanted nothing to do with this girl other than to shut her the hell up. Even at the formative age of eighteen, when my choice of female companionship wasn’t exactly discriminatory, I still found girls who displayed signs of pedantry coupled with stupidity repugnant. And, she had a tee shirt on underneath.
Reluctantly, she relinquished her beloved garment to me. (Back then I was very charming and convincing.) I took the sweater into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I then ran it under water and saturated it just enough that she could not put it back on until at least the next day. After hanging out in my bathroom for about five minutes or so, I invited her in to see the fruits of my labor. I showed her that all evidence of the liquid was gone and that her sweater was fine. Here’s the trick that she didn’t get: All the lights were on in the bathroom so the neon wouldn’t have shown up anyway! She thought I was some sort of miracle worker for removing the stains. She apologized, hugged me, thanked me, and went back out to party. Crisis evaded party back on, and a good time was had by all. I’m just glad I wasn’t anywhere near her the next day when she inspected her now dry sweater.
Well, thankfully for you, there’s no room left for me to get into the other stuff. Guess I’ll have to save it for later. Thanks for playing along.
Until next week,
Syd Nichols
