Party House

In my memory, I often confuse the different parties that took place in that house. There was good reason for the confusion. The residents of the house came and went, and I remember times where we walked in and spent the night, not knowing who currently lived there. There were many bedrooms, all with uncovered mattresses on the floor. I remember that detail because I spent the night on one with Lorne, and the name of the mattress manufacturer, according to the label, was the same as the name of Lorne’s ex-girlfriend, Julie. I can place that night in time, because in another room was a man I would later date, who was Julie’s ex-husband. But this was before Lorne broke my 20 year old heart, before I knew that Julie’s ex-husband would be a temporary and finally ineffective substitute.

I think the one party that I remember best took place kind of in the middle of my span of memories of that house. It was after we met the Frankenstein lookalike who would eventually introduce me to Lorne, but it was before the night on Julie, and long before the substitute. The drawback to the house was the lack of working washrooms. You had to climb to the third floor, and hope that the hundred or so drunk students at the party weren’t all in line for it at the same time. That night, I decided it was easier to head to my best friend’s apartment, in a house down the street, in order to use the toilet there. I remember heading out in the night by myself. I remember hearing footsteps behind me. I remember thinking that I was being paranoid, just before someone grabbed my arm. I turned, expecting a familiar face, and saw a leering old man with gaps where his teeth should have been. My instinct was to run… outside of my friend’s apartment, I fumbled with the lock, breathing heavily, then slammed inside.

I was eventually brave or desperate enough for company to make my way back to the party house. The boys there rallied, and set out drunkenly to find the mad would-be rapist who had dared to approach me on the street. They had little success, and were drawn back by the need for more beer and girls.

The next memory of that party is the Frankenstein lookalike, who was dating my best friend, walking me back to her apartment, this time because his sexy, hairy, artistic friend had begged for an hour alone with me, away from his preppy girlfriend. The hairy friend arrived, and kissed me on the couch, his hand stroking me everywhere outside of my clothing. Slight gap in memory, then my best friend pounding on the door, warning us that the preppy girlfriend was on the warpath. Hairy friend took off at a run. I slept alone, somewhere, somebody’s couch, somebody’s mattress, not Julie, before the broken heart, before the substitute, before we lost track of each other, of the house.