I was at this hoi-polloi party once.
It was hosted by a high maintenance kind of gal. I assumed she was born with the quintessential silver spoon in her mouth or at least she pretended to be. Her beautiful bungalow was crowded with what my partner liked to call “arty farty” types. All there to attend the party of the century and hobnob with the hostess with the mostest.
I was not an original invitee. I got in by sheer luck and I’m not quite sure it was the good kind of luck. There was enough vodka at this party to drown the sorrows of the whole of Vladivostok. And so as the evening progressed, alcohol gave voice and courage to creepy crawly mutations lurking within the souls of these most distinguished gentlemen and ladies.
It turned out to be a painfully irrelevant and traumatizing evening. At least for me.
As I strolled through the crowd I noticed that the first few margaritas had already unleashed Ms Hysterical Hyena.
The initial phase of her high pitched laughter was interspersed with occasional bouts of mild giggly snorts. A few more margaritas and the mild laughter had graduated to bloodcurdling howls every time she found something funny (at this stage it was pretty much everything) .
Walking away double-step from Ms Hyena, I bumped really hard into Mr. Potent Philosopher.
Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that this guy had so much to say. Where were all these words when I saw this gentleman earlier on in the evening sitting demurely on an aesthetic looking cane chair staring away into space? Half a dozen rum ‘n’ cokes later this man was convinced he’d found the meaning of all existence, the futility of the theory of relativity and the missing link in evolution…all in a night’s work. He kept up the drone for quite a while and hadn’t even noticed that I had slunk away to get myself a breather.
Only to be accosted by Smiley Face.
She had a smile plastered on her face that the Cheshire Cat couldn’t compete with. She was just so happy that the world was round, that her glass was full, that she needed to puke in a few minutes and that her boyfriend left the party with someone else among other happy facts.
We were soon joined by Weepy Creepy who had popped out after a few peach and vodkas.
He seemed ready to do just about anything to get a shoulder to cry on… or better still a well-endowed female chest to lay his troubled head on. And Ms Smiley Face seemed ready and able while I certainly was not. The sob stories were endless. His girlfriend jilted him (hmm…I wonder why?), his boss hated him, the dog ate up his project, the vacuum cleaner swallowed his tie, the washing machines of the world were conspiring against him…you get the drift.
I desperately looked out for my partner – who seemed to have found the nicer alcohol induced avatars – why was I always the unlucky one?
Then the music turned up a few notches
And onto the dance floor shimmied Ms Bump ‘n’Grind. She began to to shake, not just a leg, but a whole lot of other things. The shaking got more animated as the music got wilder . The whisky sours beat a rhythm in her head that no one else could hear. And as I watched closely I realized that Ms Bump ’n’ Grind also happened to be stuck in a musical time warp – the dreaded Disco ’80s. The pelvic thrusts and wild gyrations made my head spin. She was in the ‘mood for lurve’ as she dragged another avatar Mr Macho Macho Man onto the dance floor – literally yanking his arm off his socket and crunching up each and every one of toes, tucked neatly away in his wing tips. If he was in pain he did not show it.
And then finally as quickly as it had begun , the nightmare was over. It was time to go home. I wanted to slap the grin off my partner’s face as he hummed a tune walking towards the car. I felt traumatized – in need of some kind of therapeutic intervention.
But there would be no such reprieve for me. And so I live with those haunting images and memories of a night most foul. Hopefully never to be re-lived again.