In my final year of high school I decided to have a house party. With graduation coming in June and the pressure to have fun dominating my every thought, I adopted a time-tested strategy: beg my parents for the opportunity to let a bunch of random kids walk through our front door and do illegal things.
After my ability to whine and complain became impressive, they gave in.
God love ’em.
My Parents’ House
Before I continue with this story, you should know a little about the party shack.
Party features included:
- Pool Table
- Hot Tub
- Wraparound deck
- In-ground Pool
- Blacktop with hockey net
- Beer Pong Tables
- My badass border collie, Lucky
Basically, the house is pretty big and I’m lucky to have lived a few good years in it.
Seventeen-Year-Old Me: An Overview
Being seventeen, I took this situation for granted and assumed there would be little or no repercussions for my ‘totally innocent’ pursuit of fun.
Before you judge, know that I was awkward. I mean, most kids that age were—but I was desperate for EVERYONE’S approval. Being cool was really important to me, more so than school work and all that needless crap only people with ‘aspirations’ cared about.
But, having braces and acne didn’t help.
But enough about that guy, back to the story.
So, the party came and went. A lot of underage fun was had and—surprisingly—nothing was out of place. Only a heart or two had been broken that night.
Sadly, not by me.
The reception at school that Monday was great, I think some girls talked to me and my buddies admitted to having a good time. It being February, I began to plot another party closer to the graduation date.
Obviously, things would go even smoother a second time around.
Advertising the Event
About a month before the party’s date I started spreadin’ the word. I wasn’t a particularly popular guy, so I only had to tell a few close friends and word spread faster than Zombification in World War Z. The only difference: in my case, it didn’t seem like a waste of time.
The weeks leading up to the ‘magical’ night were really fun. I got more than the regular amount of attention—and I really liked getting attention. This experience was new, different, and nerve-wracking as hell.
i eventually decided that I’d make a guest list. After a lot of name adding I crossed out every girl and decided anything with female genitalia was welcome. The remaining 50 guys’ names would give my bouncers a blueprint to work from.
That’s right: bouncers.
Obviously, no name dropping. Let’s just say they were two fellow 17-year-olds with the same primal impulses I had.
In exchange for their services, I gave them a few bags of Lays and some Coke. The party entrance was through the back gate, where my ‘muscle’ would camp for the night.
Being the age I was, I assumed I could trust these bros with such an all-important task. My teenage mind had little reason to distrust the world and couldn’t fathom any scenario where things could go horribly sideways.
The Night Of
After caving in to a few more invites that school day, my invite list began to resemble a family of 12’s grocery list.
It was extensive.
With only hours remaining until the ‘night of 1000 juvenile visitors,’ I took Lucky for a walk and caked myself in cologne and Axe Body-spray. Things were lookin’ up and my seventeenth year on earth was destined to be my finest.
The bouncers—let’s call them Archie and Jughead arrived. So did my best friends, all thirty of ’em. My dad locked himself in the TV room, preparing to face the wave of teenage angst with quiet annoyance. Mom obsessed over the snack situation; “Do you think two bags of Ruffles will be enough, dear?”
And my iron stomach got it’s drink on: two beers in an hour.
As the guests arrived…and arrived…and arrived…I could barely get into the game’s room. People were scrounging for seats by the pool table, chips littered the floor and the backyard reminded me of videos I’d seen about WoodStock.
With the noise level gradually increasing my dad left the confines of his TV room and suggested we’d reached maximum capacity.
So, my friends and I decided to kick a few people out. After failing, 10:30pm rolled around with two armed officers at our door. They demanded the party be shut down. As the masses filed down my street I was reminded of how crowded a stadium looks after a concert lets out. The entire street was flooded with high schoolers.
Archie and Jughead had let me down. How hard could it be to reject a bunch of people you wanna impress?
I went back inside to see my dog, Lucky, cowering in a corner. I’ll never forget the look of fear in his eyes as a thousand unwelcome visitors finally left his territory.
The party was a complete bust. The neighbour’s backyard and our pool were littered with beer cans, a Canadian flag was stolen from our shed and piping was pulled out from under the deck. A few clocks were missing and troubling clues indicated something ‘adult’ happened in my room.
Point is, high school’s a time of extreme vulnerability and impressive stupidity. I’m not saying avoid hosting parties, just don’t make the same mistakes I did.
Consider this story a much lamer Project X, but with better acting.
(Insert witty and equally thought-provoking sign off here)