I was 16, and my mom and step-dad went out of town for the weekend. That, in and of itself, would have been a fairly responsible decision; except that it was the weekend of my birthday, and I was turning 16 (duh!). They had no idea what the lusty fog of puberty had done to my mind.
The preparations went normally: get some hooch, call some ladies, and ignore all warnings. Nothing, it seemed, could go wrong. My friend Jeff then decided to invite this dude named Troy. Troy had connections with the local Mexican mafia and had reputedly ridden with the Gypsy Jokers (bikers). I knew why Jeff had invited Troy, and--smarty--I did not ask Jeff to un-invite him. PAR-TEE, if you know what I mean.
The Friday evening of glory had arrived. My anticipation had reached levels that were before altogether unfathomable. If teens had party gaskets, I was about to blow mine. The events of the evening played out exactly as follows: Some good friends arrive. I drink some beer. This nineteen-year-old woman arrives, who reportedly likes me. She and I immediately split almost a whole bottle of Yukon Jack's. I'm out of the gates running. We retire to my room and perform various ungraceful acts of confusion and delight. Ahhh. I pass out. When I awake, it is light. The house is abandoned. The doors are wide open. All plants and beer cans are now ashtrays. Everything is moist. The kitchen floor is gray and sticky, with wet toilet paper all over it. The house is completely free of any booze or food. My birthday is over, the place is like a vomit explosion, and I'm all by myself.
I clean the house as though it's a dumpy motel, and I'm making about 50 cents an hour. I sigh a lot. I return to my room and pass out.
Although my parents weren't scheduled to return until Sunday, they returned Saturday evening (typical). All that I can remember my mom saying was "It smells weird in here. Did you have company?"