Ahh, Memorial Day. Does anyone besides me find it at least mildly ironic that, as a result of celebrating a holiday dedicated to remembrance, people usually can’t remember a damn thing the next day?
Last year TD and Baby Joey hosted a Memorial Day shindig at their house for the first time. We were only about halfway through the day (and three quarters of the way through the kegs) when it was decided that the party should be a yearly event. And so, this past Sunday saw their 2nd annual drunken tribute to summertime’s unofficial start.
This was Girlfriend’s first time partying at TD & Joey’s. How well does she fit in with my friends? The first keg wasn’t even on ice yet when she asked me to pour her a cup of beer. That’s my baby. And although storm clouds and heavy rains had rolled in about mid-afternoon, the sun miraculously came out from behind the clouds the very instant that we got the keg on ice. “It was a sign from above,” Joey said later.
People and food steadily streamed into the house. TJ made an appearance, but had to work that night and thus left after a couple of hours. I think he has been frequently repeating the phrase “fuck my life” since the moment he got into his car to leave. He left even before Dupa—slowed by the South Side debauchery he had engaged in the previous night—was drug through the door by the proverbial cat. The end of Dupa's Saturday seemed to perfectly summarize his state on Sunday: Late in the alcohol-soaked night he had a moment of spontaneous clarity, and found himself freaking a 52 year old cougar on the dance floor. Along with him were his friend “Mitch Canada”, and two more cougars. He looked around at the scene, said “peace” to his boy, and walked straight out of the bar.
When Esq appeared at the party, he was rocking a pink polo shirt. In this day and age of fashion-forward thinking, that act alone doesn’t merit much hazing from your peers; but wearing an ensemble that matches your girlfriend’s does. And therefore when Shock B. walked in behind him, dressed in a flawlessly-matched pink shirt, cackles were heard from every corner. Hollywood, in tribute, ran out to his car to change into a golf shirt that nearly matched 1L’s top.
Dupa made a mistake of another nature: he crossed Girlfriend’s path while holding a hamburger that was smothered in mustard and ketchup. My lady had developed quite a buzz by this point in the night, and she stopped him long enough to hungrily take two bites out of the burger. She then wiped her hands—mustard doused, as they were—with his blue Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt. When Dupa brought it to her attention that she had left two giant yellow stains on his shirt, Girlfriend said, “Deal with it!” and ran off mischievously. Joey offered to loan a top to him, and took him to his closet. When they found a pink polo identical to the one Esq was wearing, Dupa began shaking with joy. He put it on, and ran out into the living room to stand beside Esq, who was only mildly amused.
Tony and I spotted a large table out in the yard that had been left vacant; we quickly picked it up and carried it over to the porch, nearly shoving fellow partygoers out of the way as we declared a start to the night’s beer pong matches. Soon ping pong balls were flying through the night air, and I was chugging down beer four times faster. I really need to shake some rust off of my pong game.
Dupa and I were one of the first teams on the table; but, by the time we’d lost that first game, the signup sheet was ten teams deep. Relegated to the spectators’ gallery for the time being, I checked in with Girlfriend, TD, and others in the dining room. Girlfriend was getting along splendidly with TD’s friends, particularly 1L and “2Ls”. When a song came on over the stereo and struck TD’s boogie nerve, she began giving an impromptu lap dance to 2Ls, who was seated to my right at the table. Girlfriend, who had been sitting in my lap, sprung up and began freaking 1L against the opposite wall in response. And me? I grinned like the Cheshire Cat…and snapped a few action shots. When the dance-off subsided, 1L walked away. But Girlfriend responded by grabbing Shock, throwing her into a chair, and climbing on top of her for a lap dance (more grinning; more camera flashes). I turned back towards Esq, who was in the living room, and called his attention to our better halves. With a smile, he gave a slight shake of his head and said, “Ain’t nothin wrong with that!”
Though action like this is typically right up Hollywood’s alley, he was suspiciously absent. A short while later I walked out into the backyard to check on the beer pong action. I found him seated in a folding chair near the keg, eating from a bowl of fruit—fruit which had all been marinating in vodka for the previous day or two. The party’s music was coming from a “docked” iPod that was located near Hollywood’s seat. When Shock walked over to change the song, she bent over directly in front of him. We looked up to see a giant, sloppy grin on his face, which was less than a foot way from Shock’s booty. He almost seemed to be leaning his head towards it, as though he was going to put his ear against the seat of her short-shorts. “[Hollywood], it’s not a seashell,” I reminded. “You can’t hear the ocean.”
As the night moved on, the party’s numbers began to dwindle. Hollywood, who had hidden his keys in the house earlier in the night to prevent himself from driving home drunk, managed to find them and disappear. Tony announced “I’m out,” and said goodbye to everyone before heading into the house. Someone asked, “Is he leaving?” “No,” I replied, “He came over with me. He’s just going to sleep.” Sure enough, we saw him find his way over to a living room couch, plopping down and tapping out.
The hardcore revelers remained well into the night, mostly parked in the backyard playing and watching the beer pong battles. Girlfriend got her first taste of the action, eagerly tossing shots at cups with a mixture of curiosity and earnest competitiveness. Our friend Tank was on hand, and he had brought something special with him (other than his fiancée, Katie). Tank had won the championship in a fantasy football league started by Chief and Tony last fall. The team he beat in the title game belonged to Esq, who was none-too-pleased to see Tank produce the trophy from his car. The cup looks like a 1:10 scale model of the Stanley Cup, complete with the winner’s name etched into the side. Tank handed it to Joey, who swiftly took it over to the keg and began filling it with beer. Esq cursed as the cup was passed around for people to take sips.
Girlfriend and I soon called “No mas” as well, crashing on a futon in the spare room. The last of us stayed up until well after 3 a.m., finishing off the third and final keg. The next morning Tony, Joey, and I all awoke well before either TD or Girlfriend, who had planned on cooking us breakfast (Girlfriend had even brought eggs, bacon, and other supplies with her the day before). Finally, around noon I called TD’s cell phone—from her living room. It rang three or four times before a hoarse, depleted voice responded, “Hehhlo?”
Me: “Hey there. There are three hungry guys out here, and we were wondering if you were getting up anytime soon.”
TD: *pause* “I feel like I’m gonna die.”