Stellar: The Debs Night

I was in my dressing gown putting out the bins a few days ago when I had a rather unpleasant encounter.  It was about 6 in the morning and when collection day comes I’m prodded until I get up (because it’s a “boy’s job”) to wheel the bins out front.  As I was opening the side door, I noticed a pool of liquid approaching my feet and looked up to find a young man in a baggy tuxedo and stained white shirt.  In one hand was a peach satin handbag, his uncircumcised Johnson in the other spraying a sparkling yellow jet of urine onto my front patio through the bars of the front gate.  We stood for a second just looking at each other without speaking until I slowly shut the door, turned around and went back upstairs.  For many reasons, it is my belief that it is unwise to attack a man when his willy is hanging out. 

In fairness to him, this young gentleman probably started out the evening with such honourable intentions.  The auspicious occasion of my own debs seemed so grand, so grown up at the time.  I remember I had rented my tux from one of those cheapo formal hire places in town, the ones that always have paisley carpet and white wooden stairs.  Any time I ever went there they only had XL and XXL sizes, but the baldy man with the tape around his neck would assure me that he could take it down so it would fit like a glove.  I picked out a shiny yellow and green waistcoat, with matching cummerbund and bow tie.  At the time I thought I looked like James Bond.  A photo now sitting on my parent’s mantlepiece betrays me with the cruel truth.  Swimming in a giant double breasted jacket and what appear to be black parachute pants, I look like a colour-blind pianist who’s just been freed from a concentration camp.

I was going with my friend Claire who I had a bit of a crush on, so I was keen to put my best foot forward for her folks.  As I saw it, this meant buying expensive chocolates and the largest corsage the florist could make.  Greeted at the door by my date who looked fabulous in a flowing cream dress, I presented my gifts.  I’m not sure how it happened but somehow I was given the task of pinning the giant bushel I had brought with the entire family as a captive audience.  Keenly aware of the proximity of my hands to her cleavage it took me about a minute before I eventually got it clipped and stood back to admire my handiwork.  The sheer weight of the thing pulled down the front of her top, exposing the left side of her bra and boob.  It’s impossible to overstate how mortifying this event was on a pair of teenagers, but it’s safe to say we would have gladly immolated ourselves had either of us been in reach of a can of petrol.

We sat for a while with Claire’s folks and had tea while they reminisced about their college years.  All of the stories seemed to end with a parable about responsible behaviour.  “I remember going out on the town and we’d have a few pints”, Claire’s dad said.  “Only a few – mind, and then we were home at a reasonable hour, and that was it, we didn’t need to get hammered”.  I considered telling them that I was all about being responsible and had even brought a condom, but reminded myself that humour is entirely subjective.  I still have that unused condom somewhere in my attic, the talisman of my long-suffering virginity.  

Of course, we arrived in a limo (pink hummers with karaoke booths having yet to be invented) and for a while everything was dignified.  The table was dressed for silver service and we ordered grown up drinks like whiskey and Guinness instead of our usual Hooch and West Coast Cooler.  The teachers hung around for a while talking to students and we all got a kick out of calling them by their first names – “Hey Bob, watcha havin?”

We had some sort of soup and then chicken, all the while knocking back the booze.  By dessert, the teachers had left and the wheels officially came off the wagon.  Our dinner table quickly became a minefield of broken cocktail glasses with lipstick-stained rims.  Jackets and ties came off, trays of peach schnapps came out and before coffee was served the first casualty of the night was dragged out of the toilets.  I have no idea who it was but the image remains crystal clear: a backless red dress, a hole in the knee of her tights and half a head of wet hair.  

The rest of the night is a blur.  I have no recollection of it myself, but my friends have a great time telling the story of feeling up some girl who wasn’t my date on the dance floor and then getting a bit sick on her arm.  Not my proudest moment, but I did get a Facebook friend request from her last week, so I’m hoping it’s water under the bridge.

The only thing I do remember was sobering up in the freezing cold as we walked to Jury’s Coffee Dock at 5 in the morning, with an unexplained bandage on my hand.and my enormous jacket over Claire’s shoulders,  I’m pretty sure I watered the plants a few times along the way too.

All of these memories flooded back as I crawled back into bed.  “What took you so long?” asked the figure buried under the duvet. I explained about our unwanted visitor with the peach clutch.  “Eew gross!” she said sleepily.  “Yeah” I smiled, “Kids these days…”