Keeping the Peace, and Keeping to Myself

I’m the third “Jason” – and the fourth “Jay” – at this party. Since it’s not really kosher to arbitrarily assign nicknames like “Ranger” (since he’s the only other Jason here from Da Range) or Fingertoes (since that Jason is inexplicably wearing Vibrams instead of sneakers), I decided I’m going to from here on out introduce myself solely as “Ness”.

Ness found himself at a housewarming party in Roseville. “Ducky”, to affectionately loan a nickname from Kinked Slinky, and his what-she-lacks-in-height-she-makes-up-for-in-beauty girlfriend, let’s call her, um… “Shorty”, have extended this 200+ mile invitation my way to help them celebrate being property owners, so I made sure to grab my ball cap and packed an overnight bag. I prepped my truck with a fresh oil change the night before, and loaded a tent and sleeping pad in the back, just in case we avoided any thunder and the night proved decent enough to sleep outside. I was happy to help deliver Marine Vargas (sorry, never did quite learn your proper rank) to the airport for her return flight to California the same morning, then I found the street I was directed to, but did not see the promised balloons-tied-to-mailboxes that universally indicated “PARTY OVER HERE!!!” (is that a Family Guy joke? I feel like it was…). Before I can call our hosts liars, though, I see a car pull over to park on the side of the street, and out pops Shorty herself, pulling the strings of three helium balloons.

Guess who ended up tying them to the mailboxes. It was one of my few contributions to this party.

Let’s fast forward through setting up the volleyball net, hiding from slight rain showers, the arrival and introduction of further guests, the tapping of the keg, and the eventual arrival of Frank and his tailgate- (and junkyard-) ready PT Cruiser. Alright, so the only other person I can expect to know is here, it’s time for Ness to get super smashed with some bros, right?! “PK DRINK!”

While my intentions might have been as high as Pokémon-shaped parade balloons, my spirits were a little more bounded to Earth. I just don’t know what it is. I feel like I owe Frank not one but two weekends of jovial camaraderie now: both recent times I've visited I've felt like my damage meter was at 210% and a slight poke would knock me away. (If you haven’t picked up on the video game references yet, than that last one was like a home-run bat to the head. Ok, ok, I’ll stop now… and start with other nerdy pop-culture references!)

I had stayed in and got some decent sleep the previous two nights, yet I still felt thin, like too little butter scraped over too much bread (thanks, Bilbo). I sat in my Big Boy camp chair (over-sized and reinforced to support my fat ass) and drank keg beer. I paid attention to the lavish praise Frank received on his weight loss efforts while glancing down with loathing and despair at the manboobs still hiding within my green Harley t-shirt. Here I am, prime opportunity to meet many new people – women – but years of lethargy is taunting me from the past. I realized that my fake-it-til-you-make-it has run out, and I make some lame excuse to myself to allow Frank to baste in his due glory, promising myself that my time will come when skinny-Frank is old and busted, and skinny-Ness will be all the rage.

So I sat in my silence, making cursory conversation only when addressed by someone who feigned interest out of pity, it seemed. Nobody really cares what I do for a living. A brief spark of personality leaks through when I get to talk about my dog, but nobody wants to suffer a pet-lover's monologue that extends into bat-shit crazy territories. And in return to anyone suffering through my rantings and ravings about my sweet Juno, I won’t give a shit about your Maltese.

I listened in on conversations, soaking in snippets from one acquaintance to another, trying to make sense of these strange windows into strangers’ lives, trying to drown out the rising depression snaking its way up my spine. I just don’t get it. Am I just that tired, though I've done nothing but drive a few hundred miles and walk for 30 minutes in the Mall of America? Is it the dreary cloudy weather and clingy damp cold that screams more of April than June? I've successfully navigated the societal landmine field of rooms full of strangers before, and managed to even provide some life to a party or two. I have no shortage of things to talk about, but today I was more an anti-social Butters than I was a floating social butterfly, and it sure stung like a bee. Maybe if I imbibed drinks as mixed as my metaphors instead of beer, I would have loosened up a bit more. But as it was, I had stood there struggling to initiate conversation with a woman I would never ever see again in my life.

As the sun set and I took an inordinate amount of trips down the long driveway to my truck to change into progressively warmer clothes – first from shorts to jeans, then from Chuck Taylors to boots, finally to grab a hat and jacket – the party reached a crescendo and everyone adopted the roles they would carry for the rest of the night. Two of those particular roles were Super-Frank, the BAC-fueled hero that Gotham needs but nobody asked for right now, and Disciplinary Officer Ness, whose sole task it became to make sure Super-Frank didn't hurt anybody or himself in his antics. Read Frank’s accounts over at Kinked Slinky to get a good feel of how the evening went. Unnoted, however, was how I was forced to get uncharacteristically aggressive with some Mr. Smartass Commentary, who did not find Super-Frank in any way agreeable. There are few times I leverage my size and weight advantage over someone, and this jerk cowed pretty easily. To be fair, I did ensure Super-Frank hung up the cape and settled down for the night, and fisticuffs were averted.

Almost as if it burned the last of the fumes in my gas tank, this keeping of the peace was soon followed by a sojourn to the bathroom that became a turn-in instead. It was very easy to get comfortable in front of the TV, which was playing Men in Black. The big guy who was somber, brooding, and seldom of words, the guy who probably outwardly seemed like some aloof asshole but inwardly struggled with demons of inadequacy and loneliness all night, the sleeping bear that roused only when necessary to protect him and his own, soon fell asleep on the couch.

I can't imagine what conversation went on about me out around the bonfire, or if my absence was even noticed. Every party has to have that guy and I feel like I was definitely one of them. People probably dared sidelong glances at me and formed their opinions about me, wondering why, if I couldn't have any fun, did I even stick around the party. 

I know that reality is probably more sonderous than that. Nobody gave two shits about me, everybody had their own internal struggles at the party, whether it was over the game of bags they were playing, whether they should get up and grab another beer, or if they should stay by the warm fire and just be done for the night. I know I wasn't anything more than a background character to everyone else's story that night. It's still hard to find solace in that sonder, though. I still have the harshest critic nagging me from within, my own R Lee Ermey screaming obscenities at me, and unlike Gomer Pyle, I'm stuck enduring it without an easy way out.

I woke up shortly an hour or two later when Shorty, a woman of three-quarters my height and much less than half my weight, tucked me in like I imagine she’s done with her own son, giving me a blanket and pillow and even taking off my eyeglasses. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all as she did the same for Frank on the love seat opposite me, and I quickly found the sanctuary of sleep again.

Next week you’ll find the first of our (hopefully many!) double-team restaurant reviews, where we exhaust the English language, and maybe some Spanish, French, and Klingon, of ways to describe the largest pancakes we've ever attempted. I promise it won't be as morose as this entry! Scope it out Monday!