Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Birthday Party

Last year, my birthday fell on a Saturday, so I decided to throw a big bash at my folks’ summer home in Wisconsin. I made fliers and told everyone I knew about it. Word traveled fast, and around 50 people showed up. I knew half of them.

The people I didn't know seemed alright, though. Rowdy, but cool. There was this one guy who must have had a dozen vests on. A shirtless teenager showed up with a shitload of amazing records that he played all night. A Mexican girl with a broken leg set up a tattoo station on the kitchen table. People were dancing and getting fucked up and touching each other. The party had an altogether positive vibe that couldn’t be fucked with.

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Around midnight, there was a loud knocking at the door. Three strikes, with what could only be a mallet. My guests were startled. They looked at the door, at each other, and then at me. I hesitated until some girl whispered gently in my ear, "Open the fucking door." So I opened it, revealing a 7 foot tall black man. I knew it was Patrick Ewing instantly, because he was wearing a Knicks uniform and his entire head was soaked with sweat. He smelled terrible.

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“I heard it was your birthday,” he said, putting on a gracious smile and walking in. “Can I use your toilet?”

“Sure, Mr. Ewing. The bathroom is down the hallway to your left.”

“Thanks, and please, call me Patty Trick.”

“No.” I replied. “Just go to the bathroom.”

He disappeared into the bathroom and the party regained its frenzied energy . Some jackass got hold of my dead uncle’s wheelchair, sat his girlfriend in it, and pushed her right into a wall. Blood streamed down her face as she laughed. And the party continued.

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After 45 minutes of toilet time, and still no sight of Patrick Ewing, I knocked on the bathroom door to see if he was okay. The door was slightly ajar, and I had a bad feeling deep in my stomach, but I went in anyway.

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Patrick Ewing was sprawled out in the bathtub, dangling his massive legs like he was lounging in a hammock. He was eating peanut M&M’s by the handful. His throat and eyes were puffy and swollen. I asked him if everything was alright.

“Not really. I’m allergic to peanuts.” He tossed another handful of M&M’s down his ever expanding throat. “And chocolate, too.”

He was wheezing badly. I went over to the tub and crouched down to get a better look at him. I could feel an intense heat emanating from his face. I touched his moist forehead. The motherfucker was burning up! I quickly turned the shower on as cold as it went.

Patrick didn’t like this at all. “What the fuck?! Turn that shit off! My M&M’s are getting all wet!”

Then his eyes rolled up into his skull and he started to convulse. Badly. His hot swollen brain must have finally had enough. It was seizure time for Patrick Ewing.

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The circuits that controlled his limbs went berserk. His beefy body shook the room. His hands clenched into tight fists that battered the tile around the tub. A wild right foot caught me in the ribs. I curled up on the floor and couldn’t breathe for a while, but I kept an eye on the giant loaf of wet thrash. The shower was still raining on him, and he started thrusting his groin violently in the air. The whole scene looked like an extremely fucked up R&B video.

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I got my wind back, and was starting to get up on my feet when I heard something I hope to never hear again. Imagine the sound of a thousand pencils breaking at once. Patrick Ewing had shattered his pelvis.

The pain must have flipped a switch in his bulbous head, because he stopped convulsing and maintained a perfect stillness for what seemed like an hour. His bloodshot eyes remained focused on some far away object that I couldn’t see.

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He turned his gaze at me, and the look he gave sent shivers down my spine. I bolted towards the door, but his massive paw grasped my shirt and I was jerked into the tub with him.

The shower was freezing. He clenched his teeth as he spoke, half scared, half furious. “My groin is all caved in! It feels like gravel in there. Did you put kitty litter into my crotch?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think I can get up. Help me. Please help Patty Trick."

"Believe me, I want to help you." I replied. "I want to see you walk away from this. I want you out of my bathtub. Just tell me how, and I'll do it."

"Bring me a fresh bag of peanut M&M’s!”

I promised him that I would. But I never did. I just kissed his misshapen forehead and left, closing the door behind me. He was too far gone.

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I went out to the living room and told everybody they had to leave. With my wet clothes and tense body language, they complied readily. After the last guest left, I locked up the house and drove back to my apartment in Chicago.

I got a call from my dad a week later. He was pissed. Finding a putrefied mound of gargoyle flesh bloated in your bathtub is a bummer. After I explained what happened, there was a brief moment of awkward silence, and then we both started laughing.

I love birthday parties.

3 comments:

Matt and Jeanie said...

is that a true story?

Scotch and Salad said...

patrick ewing screaming "my m&m's are getting all wet!" and then going into a seizure. this is one of your best stories yet you fucking weirdo.

Jess said...

It can't get any better than this.