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.