by John Wayne Comunale
I went to a party a few days ago where I didn’t know anybody. I mean, like I literally knew no one. I guess most people would call this crashing but I didn’t see it that way. I was driving by and saw a ton of cars parked around a house with a bunch of people standing around drinking and talking. I thought; hey, I like drinking. I like talking. I mean, why should I let these assholes have all the fun just because I don’t know them, right? So, I parked a few houses down and walked up to the party house.
I nodded a greeting to the people standing in the doorway, which they reciprocated without a break in their conversation. Once inside I made a b-line for what I assumed was going to be the kitchen. I was correct in my assumption and found it to be crowded with strangers gabbing away oblivious to the complete ‘unknown’ who was roaming amongst them.
A door opened leading in from the backyard and I saw that the guy coming in was holding a semi-clear plastic cup filled to the brim with exactly what I was looking for, beer. I headed for the door doing my best not to draw unwanted attention my way, but just as I touched the doorknob a hand slapped my shoulder and clamped down.
“Hey dude,” said a voice that belonged to the who the hand was attached to.
I slowly spun around to face him raising an eyebrow as my only form of acknowledgement. He was beefy, tall, and blonde. He was wearing a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. Standing next to him was an equally stocky fellow with the exact same haircut but in a slightly darker shade of blonde. He also wore cargo shorts and flip-flops but was sporting a polo-style shirt with what looked like a tiny seagull emblem just above his left tit. They each introduced themselves to me as ‘Chad’, which seemed about right.
“You gotta’ do shot with us dude,” said Chad.
“Yeah man,” said other Chad. “Do a shot with us dude! You gotta’.”
“Well,” I said, “your logic is sound. Set me up.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Chad. “What was your name again dude?”
“Chad,” I said without a missing it a beat.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Chad. “Here you go dude.”
He handed me a tall double of what smelled like cheap, low-quality tequila that was probably purchased due to the cleverness of its ad campaign. I held the glass waiting for Chad to pour the other shots and used the opportunity to take in my surroundings. The kitchen was filled with nothing but guys wearing cargo shorts in a variety of colors all with eerily similar haircuts. An alarming amount of them also had freshly shaven arms. My eyes rested on one of the guys wearing the exact same Dave Matthews Band shirt as Chad.
“You ready dude?”
Chad followed my sightline and saw what I was looking at.
“Oh yeah, Chad over there showed up wearing the same shirt as me, which is not cool. He thinks he’s a bigger DMB fan than I am, but that’s bullshit.”
“Isn’t that right Chad you fuckin’ douche? Huh?” Chad called across the kitchen.
Chad responded only by laughing while shooting Chad the bird before chugging his beer.
“Nah, he’s a cool guy though,” said Chad, “alright, let’s do this. What should we drink to?”
Neither myself nor other Chad had a response.
“I got it,” he said. “Let’s drink to you dude. Let’s drink to Chad.”
“Indeed,” I said clinking my glass with Chad and other Chad. “Let’s drink to Chad.”
I left shortly after our toast.
I don’t crash parties anymore.
John Wayne lives in Houston, Texas where he wiles away the days writing ridiculous stories and slinging lattes for a bunch of jerks. When he’s not doing that he’s touring with his bands: johnwayneisdead and Letters to Voltron. He also writes and illustrates his own zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead.
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