We were being stupid teenagers, if we weren’t looking
for trouble it meant that we’d already found it. My brother and myself
had redecorated the tenant house. Big brother appropriately chose black
paint to cover its interior walls. Hey, it was cool. A decrepit curve sign
announced a turn that lead directly into a wall. A bullet-ridden stop sign
hung precariously in the middle of another wall, relegated to an existence
of insignificance when compared to its former self. Posters, music, and
other treasured memorabilia adorned various locations.
When the paint color decision was announced to the
family one evening, Dad spoke in eloquent terms of encouragement.
"Black", he said, "What kind of idiot would want a house
painted black?" I’m sure Mom reassured him in private that we would
probably outgrow it. "It’ll be something to do to keep them out of
trouble," she reasoned with reassurance. It was much to father’s
disappointment that we never did outgrow it. He was a taciturn man of
words and deeds. Infrequently when he was in one of his talkative moods he
would wax philosophic. "They were such good little boys until they
turned into teenagers."
With a fervor unmatched since our last debacle we
worked, preparing for the big wing-ding that would officially christen our
clubhouse. One of my friends said the place reminded him of his idea of
prison. He had never been incarcerated before, but that was beside the
point. After mulling over the alternatives a suitable name was chosen for
the clubhouse, "The Cell". Finally after an exhaustive week, the
ninth wonder of the world was completed. The only thing left was to throw
a party, one we hoped would be remembered as a boisterous blowout.
During that week at school no stone was left unturned.
Brother and myself invited every jock, freak, aggie, and hoodlum we could
find at school, and that was a bunch of them for a small town. Hey..., I
said it was a blowout. Finally after much anticipated fanfare, the week’s
schooling was over. It seemed like the week would never end waiting for
Friday night.
Brother Dear and myself ate supper that night with all
the haste two over-charged teenage boys could muster. After all, there
were preliminary preparations to make before the guests arrived. No RSVP
was required here; just bring your carcass and an empty gullet.
It wasn’t long before alcohol started arriving in
quantity. Don’t ask where all of it came from, local venders would never
sell to underage patrons. It was strictly prohibited to sell to teenage
drinkers officially; unofficially, you had to be tall enough to peer above
the liquor store counter, and strong enough to carry your purchase to your
vehicle. It was not a good thing.
It wasn’t long before things got out of hand. Guys
were trying to impress the gals with bravado and beer. The chicks were
typically aloof; they enjoyed the attention bestowed on them but knew what
happened to girls that got too drunk in the presence of rutting males. It
was getting rowdier that even I had anticipated. All the correct
ingredients were present for a fight not unlike Custer’s Last Stand. I
was suddenly aware of how he must have felt when being surrounded by so
many hostiles. But unlike the ill-fated general, the big guns were
immediately available at my disposal a short distance away.
With pretended innocence I hurried to the house and
told Dad of the predicament. He told me, "Stay at the house, I’ll
take care of this." He didn’t have to tell me twice.
In a short while cars full of teenagers began to hurry
away from the scene. In less than fifteen minutes the only remnants that
there had been a party was the empties scattered about the clubhouse
floor. Dad returned and told us in no uncertain terms, "Get over
there, clean up that mess, be quick about it, and then come back and put
yourselves to bed." With bowed heads in resigned defeat we did as we
were told. I didn’t actually know what happened to make everyone leave
so quickly until the next week at school.
One friend said he was partially hidden from the front
door when Dad came bursting into the clubhouse. "But...," he
proudly stated, "I saw it all." "Your Dad came in and just
said, ‘party’s over’." The guests in front knew he carried an
irrigating shovel in one hand and the wrath of a redneck in the other.
Strangely enough, neither of us kids got into trouble
over the episode, and we were on our best behavior for a week or two. I
guess Dad knew we were half scared out of our wits. We never pressured our
parents for another extravaganza of that night’s magnitude. We learned
our lesson well that night, even though it was not the one our parents
hoped we would learn.
The lesson we learned was never have a party at your
own house if it stands the remotest chance to turn into something out of
control. No, instead talk someone else into having the party and then
split when trouble arrives.