I should've gone to the head before leaving the State Theatre.
But I'd been in a hurry to get to the post-show party at Jimmy P.'s, or at least find his place before the directions I'd gotten verbally had a chance to shift and morph in the treacherous blasted landscape of my short-term memory. So I found myself with a gut's worth of draft beer pressing down urgently on my already full bladder as I negotiated Old Northeast's darkened thoroughfares, occasionally closing one eye for clarity — this was years ago, long before a DUI and a now-ex-girlfriend's admonitions seriously realigned my attitude toward driving with a buzz on — and constantly muttering the cross streets of the intersection nearest Jimmy P.'s like a mantra.
"Seventh and Ninth."
"Seventh and Ninth."
"Seventh and Ninth."
It was going to be close. I wasn't far enough in the bag to consider stopping and relieving myself on somebody's lawn a good idea. And while I'm probably not above purposely wetting my pants before entering a party for the sheer spectacle value, I didn't really know this crew well enough to gauge how such a stunt would go over — earning a reputation as a crazy I'll-do-anything guy among your friends can be useful, but being thought of by a group of quasi-strangers as a man with an embarrassing bladder-control problem is just sad.
I gritted my teeth, and reminded myself about the corner of Seventh and Ninth, and drove badly on.
Seventh Street North eventually revealed itself in that grid of dead-ends and one-way passages behind the Walgreen's at the corner of Ninth Avenue N. and MLK; so did a long line of cars haphazardly parked along the curb, and the low throb of bass. I sledded my blue Honda Civic hatchback in behind the last vehicle, probably between a fire hydrant and a STOP sign, and was out on the street and power-walking before the engine finished sputtering out.
Shapes milled about in front of the small, dimly lit house. They barely registered; I had my eyes on the open front door. The music wafting through the opening was ominous and danceable and considerably less punk-rock than I expected from the folks with whom I was meeting up. But that fact, too, was just a blip on the periphery of a consciousness focused, crystalline, on avoiding the unthinkable: releasing a torrent of slightly used beer onto the carpet beyond the doorway.
In the dimly lit living room, I pushed my way, politely as I could, through more partygoers than I anticipated, not looking at any of them. I didn't even ask for directions to the bathroom — there was the kitchen, there was the hallway, the can had to be just ahead on the right or the left. I found it immediately.
In what in the party universe represents a miracle along the lines of resurrection, or at least manna from heaven, it was empty.
I peed for about five hours, experiencing the kind of divine relief I imagine is usually reserved for young, sexually active women whose menstrual cycle experiences a hiccup and comes several days late, but finally comes.
I had to stand there, hand on the towel rack, for a couple of minutes, just to reorient myself in my new, depressurized state. Then I washed my hands and face and strode jauntily from the head, ready for more cold suds, loud music and rewarding social interaction.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by vampires.
The house was full of guys and girls, most of them several years younger than me, dressed entirely in black. Black funeral suits. Black capes. Black gowns and cloaks and slinky cocktail dresses. Many partygoers wore whiteface, with black circles inked in around the eyes. Several sported fangs; in my shock, I failed to discern who had shelled out a couple of bucks for fake plastic vampire teeth, and who had shelled out considerably more in order to have their real teeth filed.
Some of the vampires continued to converse in the kitchen, and some danced to the music I vaguely recognized as Bauhaus or Sisters of Mercy or something similarly shadow-hearted. But a lot of them had apparently just been hanging out in the hall, outside the bathroom, waiting for the sweaty blonde guy in the T-shirt and cargo shorts to emerge and explain his presence.
You know that scene in the movies and sitcoms where a character walks into a room full of people who are the stereotypically polar opposite of that character, and everybody stops and stares and there's the sound of the stereo needle being screeched across the record?
It was EXACTLY like that.
Only with, you know, vampires.
What the hell do you say?
I think I handled the situation with aplomb and tasteful understatement.
I said:
"Sorry, wrong party."
And then I slowly wound my way through the crowd, feeling each vampire's eyes on my back as he or she turned to track my progress, until I reached the front door.
As I got into my car and started it up, I marveled at the number of role players inside the house, and pondered the existence of an apparently thriving scene in St. Pete of which I'd formerly been completely unaware. I also thought about the huge coincidence that parties were going on near the corners of both Seventh Street and Ninth Avenue North, where I was leaving, and Ninth Street and Seventh Avenue N., where I was obviously supposed to go.
But mostly, I wondered exactly how badly a guy has to take a leak in order to walk through a yard, and then a house, full of people dressed as the swanky, sexy undead — and not notice.
Pretty damn badly, I think.
This article appears in Aug 16-22, 2006.
