Rerun Time: How to Leave a Party in Ten Easy Steps. Or Maybe Fewer.
For your viewing pleasure, I’m resurrecting some old posts that might have been lost in the literary action. This story is mostly true, and paints me in an odd light. Which is to say, completely accurately.
Years ago, I was invited to a party. I’m not saying it was the last time, but it might have been. I don’t remember. The host was a wonderful friend of my beau at the time and I enjoyed this friend’s company, so I believed I could only enjoy his friends’ company as well. This beau, I’ll call him D, believed, as I did, that the best social activity involved three, maybe four people at most, and could quickly be ended at a moment’s notice when necessary, by which I mean when we started to panic and became unable to respond politely to conversation. Did I mention social retardation?
The party, unfortunately, was three hours away from home, so we came prepared to stay at this party all night. Yes, all night. No escape route, no pre-agreed upon means of begging out when, not if, we began freaking out. The first few folks we met seemed nice enough. D and I parted ways, making our way around as guests arrived, being introduced and making brief eye contact before reverting to the floor-stare. We met occasionally as we circled the second floor apartment, giving a quick, “You okay?” and a restrained nod to each other in passing. Gradually this gave way to lingering moments wherein one of us would say, “Are you sure? You don’t look well.” We took turns sublimating our own mounting panic to console the other.
Frankly, I think we did quite well. It must have been a full hour into this shindig when our glances over the sea of heads began to acquire a wide-eyed look, the look one might see on the face of the horror movie star when he realizes the meth-fueled axe murderer is in the house. At this point, we understood that it was time. Time to find the way out. But how? How could we insult this dear friend and escape unnoticed from a second floor apartment in a hugely tall house? We had backpacks! A bottle of vodka to contend with! (A note to those of you who believe that alcohol subdues neurosis – you are mistaken. There are not enough greyhounds in the world to obliterate the fear that dwells within a true social misfit. Alcohol can only make escape significantly more challenging, and potentially illegal.)
D leaned his head towards the bedroom where our cumbersome packs were lying, unaware of their fates, and I followed with relief that he must be feeling like me. We needed out. NOW.
Quickly, we ran through the possibilities. We could just say goodbye to our host and go. That would be the reasonable thing. But we were supposed to be staying there, could hardly be that rude to a friend surrendering his bedroom, opening his home to us even while having to perform the tricks of party emcee. And besides, reasonable was not one of our strengths. We could sneak out, hoping he wouldn’t notice until much later when we would have some time to invent a plausible excuse without exposing our true natures. But how would we sneak? The halls and rooms were all filled with the creative folk of Charlotte, the haute-art and then us. A couple of hillbilly hippies, laden with back packs. Back packs of all things! We might have passed ourselves off as Appalachian Trail hikers gone astray, D in his overalls, I in my boots.
At the same moment, we noticed the window. We guessed it looked out over an alley beside the house, and slowly walked over to it to see for sure. D raised the heavy window and peered out through the screen-less opening.
“It looks like maybe 30, 40 feet. I think it’s too far for us to jump. But there is ivy and stuff growing up the side here…maybe we could climb down?”
I leaned out beside him, “Are you crazy? We’ll never make it. But our stuff might.”
We removed the bottle of Bowman’s from his bag, and with only the briefest hesitation, dropped our bags into the darkness. With a satisfying whap they hit the ground. At least our stuff was safe, even if we were not.
At this point, there was no turning back. We emerged into the frippery once again, this time as a united front of anxiety and borderline panic, seeking out our host. We slunk up to him, telling expressions on our bloodless faces. His eyes slowly rose from his conversation to take us in: the crazy leading the inept, and with his face falling he nodded. “You are leaving. Thanks for trying.”
We ummed, cleared our throats, and bowed awkwardly to those who might have heard, making our way to the stairs. Once safely in the truck, we sped towards downtown Charlotte, to a nice, orderly hotel room, towels untouched by any people with faces we might have to deal with, neat white tile, and not an artist in sight.
30-40 ft would be worth the risk. I once went to a party and a guy was patting a cat, so I went up and said “ooh I wouldn’t pat that cat, it’s got ringworms” . Needless to say the guests were not at all upset when I made my early exit!
Friggin Loon, I’m honored to have you here at my party. You can harass the guests all you want. In fact, I feel pretty certain they’re the types who’d enjoy it. And when they look at you that way – you know what I’m talking about – come find me. I think we’d get along splendidly.
First of all, that was a great story and wonderful writing. But, I’m honestly surprised. I always thought you were a little social butterfly. You seem to do a lot more social stuff than me, what with all you’ve got going on in the birthing field. And you know that you’re an artist too. Writers are definitely artists, and you are definitely a writer. One hell of a writer!!
Scott, thank you for your compliments. You have no idea what an encouragement they are to me. As far as the social thing, I can do it for short periods, but I find it exhausting. Occasionally fun, but always draining. I’ve actually surprised myself with my involvement in social media, but it has the wonderful quality of being something one can walk away from whenever the hell one feels like it, with no explanation. Real, live people? Not so much.
I agree with Scott, BK. I love your writing. And I, too, always thought of you as being “the life of the party”.
I admire your ability to “tell it like it is”, but in such an honest and entertaining way. Brilliant as always.
I think it’s easier to tell it like it is from the anonymity of the internet, and I still struggle. I go back and edit things I think are too harsh or might cause someone to not like me. Because in real life, I’m totally insecure. I’m working on it, and this is how.
And come on, b, I know you’re a social butterfly with your yellow hair and stylish glasses. The way you run that hand through your hair in perpetuity…it’s downright captivating.
Cool story BK and deftly told. This story has great potential for a longer satire, a short story even. Nice.
FJ, you’re looking a little peaked. Blurry even. Are you feeling okay?
I really appreciate your thoughts. I hadn’t considered making this into a larger story, but once National Novel Writing Month and its inherent madness are over, I might add that to the list. Thanks for visiting, friend.
Hi BKT! Long time no see. Great story. I’ve had a few of those in my lifetime. Never a clever way out without guilt following like a giant shadow.
I’m fortunate that there were no hard feelings about our inelegant escape. Of course, the relationship didn’t last, but who’s counting?
People who meet me one on one can’t believe I hate big parties with people I don’t know. They think I can fit into any situation.
I am usually the guy sitting in the corner….sometimes petting a cat.
Hilarious, Bearman! Remember – there’s always Tough Actin’ Tinactin! Take care of that rash, okay?
Boy, can I relate!
How is it that so many of us creatives have social anxiety? Is that why many great writers are also drunks?
Either alcohol makes for good story-telling, or creative types are screwed up. My money is on both.
O yeah, i’ve been to a few of those. Some parties I would have even taken my chances with the ivy… Great writing – this is Real.
The older I get, the less interested in am in going to a parties where I won’t know people really well. I don’t mind small talk, but I hate forced small talk, which is probably why I like twitter…you can enter and exit the conversation whenever you want without it seeming awkward.
Hilarious – I thought I was the only one who felt that way about twitter. I like being able to walk away with no explanation, which probably sounds bad but oh well. If only I could do that in real life. *sigh*
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