You Arrogant Bastard

How I Spent My St. Patrick's Day, Part Two

On the eve of St. Patrick’s day, it became apparent that the rumors would be substantiated: in third-period Spanish class, the Freewheelin’ Patrick himself floated past the door’s four-paneled plate glass window that have over the years become so comfortingly familiar to the DCPS crowd, pausing when he caught me out of the corner of his eye. He twisted his supple Arab form to address me, knowing full well that the glass would serve as an impediment to any message he had intended to relay verbally. He mouthed some words to me. I am no whale-chasing deaf woman, so I find it difficult to read lips precisely. I picked up on the vowels, though. And the ‘s’ sounds that ended some of the words.

“AAauress ppaarree is oo”

I deduced that he was trying to say “Mattress party is on.” I rejoiced --- stopping momentarily from the drawings of old men sodomizing animals that make up my standard classwork in AP Spanish. My leap into action drew the attention of my Spanish teacher, who hollered at me in her thick Dominican Spanish. I’m no whale-chasing Dominican, so I find it difficult to comprehend the heavy accent she carried on the raft ride over here. (I’m sorry, that was insensitive: I meant to say “log-bound aquatic conveyance”). I picked up on the vowels, though. And the ‘s’ sounds that ended some of the words.

“Thaaawehhl, kehhh ‘staahss asssiendo.”

Shit! Leave me alone… “No estoy haciendo nada. Simplemente estoy estudiando.” There we are… got that monkey off my back- large Dominican monkey. Now then. How do I finish this camel? Ah yes. With the robust phallus of an elderly man.

Flash forward to that evening. Things start slowly in the evening, but the promise of grasshopper parfaits at G. Bakers house was enough to drag any straggler out of his cave. T. Vladeck got wind and beat us all there, throwing up a classic Tom Vladeck away message to make sure everybody knew. When I arrived at the scene with J. Russell, we were presented with glass cups filled to the brim with gelatinous liquid that I could only assume was the pureed essence of a good many mid-atlantic grasshopper. We were pleasantly surprised when Gabe told us that it was the cookie “grasshopper,” not the insect, that made up these homemade fake French treats. No matter, I thought, though you cannot substitute the nuance of a crushed insect in any pudding-based confection, a Keebler-made girl scout cookie imitation was just as good as any twisted racist mint ice julep, and certainly better than nothing. We ate the parfaits quickly. They were sweet and damned fine.

Ah! Here comes Julian and Joey, with new right hand man Lukas Manneun. They sample Gabe's tasty parfaits, reject the notion of a mattress party and move on. Trevor shows up and we get the same response. Gabe himself gives us the standard spiel, “I- I- uh- I – don’t- [want to go]- to – y’know- the- if it’s- uh- ah!- eh..” I admit I was skeptical as well, but it is my deep-seated conviction that any social event going on in the basement of a mattress store is worth my 4 loonies, and the fact that it was not gonna cost me a dime sweetened the deal (despite the five-dollar cover. Loonies…that’s what they call dollars in fuckwad Canada. “Three loonies for the whole pack” and so forth. “But the pack only contains one” “Fine. Toonies for the pack.” Toonies means two loonies [dollars]. These are the only monetary units in the great white north. All other trade is conducted through elaborate fur dealerships and Corn Palaces.) Tom was the lone holdout, always up for a wild evening of grassroots eccentricity or coked up schoolgirls from the suburban sprawl. I sped off with J. Russell and Janet, who was dropped in the Jew-zone after some obscure dinner. We were bound for home, leaving Tom with a singular promise: that we would meet again. Later. In the motherfucking mattress discounters.

My push for a trip to the 7-11 for a poor man’s daiquiri was met by veto, so we set off by foot to the heart of Tenleytown. Doors at 10:30, we were told, and we were fashionably late at 10:40. When we reached the alleyway that runs behind mattress discounters, a silvery car passed us. Lauren and Cara were inside the car. The kids at the party were damn young, they said. And they weren’t sticking around for no Vienna sausage-fest. That blonde girl who drives them around every once and a while seconded the motion. Her nightly vocabulary consisted of three relatively uninspired phrases: 1) “I’m like the only person there that’s old enough to get arrested,” 2) “This is the gayest shit ever,” and 3) “I am a insufferable bitch.” Okay, I made the last one up. But after talking to her for about 30 seconds, it became clear that this femme was a spoilsport. And my policy is, if you don’t like it, fuck off. She was clearly better suited for a neon-lit eurotrash nightclub pumping shitty trance, overpriced rail drinks and throbbing euro-phallus. Anyway, Janet worked some persuasion magic and convinced them to check out the scene indoors. Scorpion showed up and we all attacked the party with high hopes and healthy skepticism.

I would like to make clear before I go any further that there is a certain range of possibilities of what could have happened at any party taking place in the basement of a retail store, from mass gang-rape to mass arrests. So it is wise not to get your hopes up, and honestly I was surprised that the damn thing even happened. But, Wayne, this mattress party was everything I could have asked for and more. I stepped inside and was greeted by Doc himself, finally unmasked, a smiling gent with mild facial hair. The door was craftily disguised with plastic trash bags, and bolted shut with what Douglas Darden would call a two-by-four. When I walked down the staircase, all my doubts were erased. Before me stood legions of people, all Wilsonians with a few notable exceptions (Paul Joyner, Sarah Ozment). You could cut the street cred with a fork in that room. That basement was the convergence of 15 years of Tenley culture, all drinking from the same spout, manned by the steadfast Pablo. Skinheads and thieves, hip-hoppers and Queerben, plus a nice peppering of masters of the written word… SPOK wasn’t there, but I’m pretty sure that OVER was. And AHOY. J Russ lit the room with a pulsing dub soundtrack- perfect subterranean music. Saul wielded a hammer with cunning expertise, ‘Drew Lander played the role of the drunkard, and Darréll his kindly guide. Scorpion socialized. More than one hundred passed through the shop that night, as time brought St. Patrick’s Day to the present. Have a look around the room yourself, soak up the ambience.

Lines of mattresses created corridors of merriment. No forts, but it didn’t matter. I bounced on those fucking mattresses. There were two bathrooms- the basement latrine- filthy to begin with- was quickly oversoiled, and the upstairs employee room was often filled with a disoriented ‘Drew Lander, giving you any of the classic drunkard lines as you knock on the door to make sure he’s got the right end of his body over the toilet.

Self: Drew, you still breathing in there?
Drew: This man!… this man right here…! This is the king right here.

The upstairs room was quite sanitary, and a visit provided the rush of being in perfect view of any passers-by near the storefront.

The basement lounge stayed lively til the wee hours of the morning. J Russell cut out early in a spell of paranoia. He left his dub disc but it took damage due to an irresponsible faceless troublemaker who left it out on the concrete floor. Some of my crew accompanied a group of juniors to your Steak n’ Egg, to highten their evening speedball of street cred. I find that dangerous, however. Straight crack for me. Uhh… of street cred. Picture of the evening.

All was well in the mattress party. It concluded with zero interference by John Law. The evening wrapped up around with Saul providing a generous transport homeward. Yesterday I was dismayed to learn that Doc had lost his job. The Freewheelin’ Patrick Himself lamented that this was because of our beloved mattress party. This sad news came after repeated assurance of future mattress functions, but I became skeptical after some shady accounting on the part of the hosts (“We made a $700 profit,” then later, “We have a $400 debt”).

Curtis Morales ended the evening on a brilliant note, perched atop the Washington monument, mandolin in hand, crooning softly toward the moonlit Patomac river:

“And so we strode, hands entwined once more, waylaid by the setting sun.”

Yeah… I made that part up. Fuck. I’d better quit while I’m ahead. Ah well, I’m satisfied. Got to say ‘phallus’ twice. Oh fuck. I mean three times.