So this is the new year.
Laura was 22; Scott and I were 20. We lived together lived together in a three-bedroom apartment in Allston, near the Common Ground (at that time, it was called the Allston Ale House - the name changed after a body was found in the dumpster on Super Bowl Sunday - he had been sexually assaulted and murdered over a Super Bowl pool win, worth about $200).
Scott was still an undergraduate student, but by this time, Laura and I had quit school and started working. I was pulling down two part-time jobs that equaled one full-time job; and Laura had an almost-full time job without benefits, but would supplement her income by cleaning houses, tutoring, seamstressing, whatever she could to make a couple of bucks here and there.
A number of our friends also lived in the same neighborhood - within two blocks, there were five houses where we could, and did, party. Being two crafty girls and a very VERY gay guy, every party at our apartment was a costume party. So, when we decided we were hosting New Years 1992, we had to go all out.
Scott devised a plan that our party would have a $5 cover charge, and that $5 would buy you a character for our murder mystery party, that Scott was writing. The money would also cover all the booze and food for the evening, if you could believe that. Well, we had about 50 or so people buy themselves a ticket.
Since we were partygoers and not hosts, Scott ushered us out of our own house for the day, with an admonishment that "any drawers or anything you don't want people to go through, put an X on it with gaff tape". With that, we gathered our costumes for the evening and walked a half block to Linden to get ready and get a good coat of primer on before arriving.
The party itself was amazing. Everyone had their characters down, folks discovered clues all throughout the night, and, 30 minutes to midnight, the crime was solved. With that out of the way, the party immediately devolved. Our two murder victims had managed to hook up in the back stairwell of my apartment. There was a full on gay orgy in my living room. Folks were fighting and fucking and getting ill all over my house. I did the only logical thing I could: grabbed my friend Wayne and two bottles of champagne, and left my own party. Wayne had mentioned something in passing on our way to his place, which I put away in a back corner until the next morning, after the walk of shame back to my place, having done not a single thing.
(Okay, untrue. I made out with Wayne, because he was adorable and sweet. But we both quickly acknowledged that we're just not that into each other, so there it ended. No harm, no foul. And besides, making out is not bad behavior. It is god damn celebratory behavior.)
So, there I was, back in my apartment, with 30ish half-naked people in various states of hung-over-ness draped over every surface of the place. My sister, up for the weekend, was up early washing dishes - because that's what she did every time she visited. We started making pancakes and coffee for the crowd, and doling out Advil and water to those who wanted it. We laughed over the strange morning-after conversations happening in our living room..."Where's my sock?"..."What's that on your shirt?" (he tastes his shirt) "Huh. Semen".
And then Laura woke up and made a beeline for me in the kitchen.
"Okay, I have to ask you something, and you have to promise me you won't laugh."
"Shoot."
"Okay. What time did you last see me last night?"
"Um...11:53, because you asked what time it was. Wait. WHY."
"I don't remember a thing that happened last night. I woke up this morning, UNDERNEATH my futon, with my coat still on, my dress hiked up to my boobs, my nylons wrapped around my neck, and all I have to go on is a used condom and a set of keys."
She held up the keys. There was one of those foam surfboard shaped floaty things, like a mini buoy in case you dropped them off the side of your boat. It was, sadly, undescriptive of the person who, apparently, Laura had a forgettable time with last night.
"Um, at least you used a condom...?"
We set our brains on deciphering who the mystery boat captain was. And then that little lockbox in the back of my brain unlocked.
"Wait! Wayne said something about seeing you when he went to get your jacket out of your room. That was about 2ish"
"Shit. I'm gonna have to call Wayne."
"You're gonna halfta call Wayne."
So, in the middle of the living room filled with the days' remains, Laura picked up the phone and asked Wayne if a) he had walked in on her fucking someone in her own bedroom, and b) if he had any clue who he was. Wayne, being a smartass, let her stew on it for quite some time, before sheepishly admitting a) she was conscious, but indeed indisposed when he walked in, and b) that, unfortunately, he did not know who the gentleman was.
With Laura's immediate resolution being Get Tested ASAFP, we made the best of the morning with our Breakfast Bunch. About four hours later, we got a phone call from our friend John. Seems the friend he brought to the party was heading back to his hometown, but lost his keys somewhere along the way, and were they at the house? Laura muttered something about finding some keys "in the house", and John replied, "Cool, me and Forehead will be by to pick them up." Something about John's tone, Laura noted, she knew that he knew that she fucked this guy.
This guy named Forehead.
Forehead. Laura relayed the news to me and Scott (who had just woken up, and therefore didn't know anything that had gone down in the past few hours). Folks started to gather up their belongings and head back to their apartments. When it was just the three of us, a very awkward John and Forehead met up with an equally awkward Laura for an extremely awkward key exchange.
To this day, we never got that guy's actual name.
Scott was still an undergraduate student, but by this time, Laura and I had quit school and started working. I was pulling down two part-time jobs that equaled one full-time job; and Laura had an almost-full time job without benefits, but would supplement her income by cleaning houses, tutoring, seamstressing, whatever she could to make a couple of bucks here and there.
A number of our friends also lived in the same neighborhood - within two blocks, there were five houses where we could, and did, party. Being two crafty girls and a very VERY gay guy, every party at our apartment was a costume party. So, when we decided we were hosting New Years 1992, we had to go all out.
Scott devised a plan that our party would have a $5 cover charge, and that $5 would buy you a character for our murder mystery party, that Scott was writing. The money would also cover all the booze and food for the evening, if you could believe that. Well, we had about 50 or so people buy themselves a ticket.
Since we were partygoers and not hosts, Scott ushered us out of our own house for the day, with an admonishment that "any drawers or anything you don't want people to go through, put an X on it with gaff tape". With that, we gathered our costumes for the evening and walked a half block to Linden to get ready and get a good coat of primer on before arriving.
The party itself was amazing. Everyone had their characters down, folks discovered clues all throughout the night, and, 30 minutes to midnight, the crime was solved. With that out of the way, the party immediately devolved. Our two murder victims had managed to hook up in the back stairwell of my apartment. There was a full on gay orgy in my living room. Folks were fighting and fucking and getting ill all over my house. I did the only logical thing I could: grabbed my friend Wayne and two bottles of champagne, and left my own party. Wayne had mentioned something in passing on our way to his place, which I put away in a back corner until the next morning, after the walk of shame back to my place, having done not a single thing.
(Okay, untrue. I made out with Wayne, because he was adorable and sweet. But we both quickly acknowledged that we're just not that into each other, so there it ended. No harm, no foul. And besides, making out is not bad behavior. It is god damn celebratory behavior.)
So, there I was, back in my apartment, with 30ish half-naked people in various states of hung-over-ness draped over every surface of the place. My sister, up for the weekend, was up early washing dishes - because that's what she did every time she visited. We started making pancakes and coffee for the crowd, and doling out Advil and water to those who wanted it. We laughed over the strange morning-after conversations happening in our living room..."Where's my sock?"..."What's that on your shirt?" (he tastes his shirt) "Huh. Semen".
And then Laura woke up and made a beeline for me in the kitchen.
"Okay, I have to ask you something, and you have to promise me you won't laugh."
"Shoot."
"Okay. What time did you last see me last night?"
"Um...11:53, because you asked what time it was. Wait. WHY."
"I don't remember a thing that happened last night. I woke up this morning, UNDERNEATH my futon, with my coat still on, my dress hiked up to my boobs, my nylons wrapped around my neck, and all I have to go on is a used condom and a set of keys."
She held up the keys. There was one of those foam surfboard shaped floaty things, like a mini buoy in case you dropped them off the side of your boat. It was, sadly, undescriptive of the person who, apparently, Laura had a forgettable time with last night.
"Um, at least you used a condom...?"
We set our brains on deciphering who the mystery boat captain was. And then that little lockbox in the back of my brain unlocked.
"Wait! Wayne said something about seeing you when he went to get your jacket out of your room. That was about 2ish"
"Shit. I'm gonna have to call Wayne."
"You're gonna halfta call Wayne."
So, in the middle of the living room filled with the days' remains, Laura picked up the phone and asked Wayne if a) he had walked in on her fucking someone in her own bedroom, and b) if he had any clue who he was. Wayne, being a smartass, let her stew on it for quite some time, before sheepishly admitting a) she was conscious, but indeed indisposed when he walked in, and b) that, unfortunately, he did not know who the gentleman was.
With Laura's immediate resolution being Get Tested ASAFP, we made the best of the morning with our Breakfast Bunch. About four hours later, we got a phone call from our friend John. Seems the friend he brought to the party was heading back to his hometown, but lost his keys somewhere along the way, and were they at the house? Laura muttered something about finding some keys "in the house", and John replied, "Cool, me and Forehead will be by to pick them up." Something about John's tone, Laura noted, she knew that he knew that she fucked this guy.
This guy named Forehead.
Forehead. Laura relayed the news to me and Scott (who had just woken up, and therefore didn't know anything that had gone down in the past few hours). Folks started to gather up their belongings and head back to their apartments. When it was just the three of us, a very awkward John and Forehead met up with an equally awkward Laura for an extremely awkward key exchange.
To this day, we never got that guy's actual name.