The Night of Nights
Notice: This story is another of Simon’s party stories and is a work of fiction even though the tribe is mentioned. Sorry for any confusion that may happen as some of this is an inside joke and is based on comments that started out between some of the tribe members. So remember to read this with tongue firmly in cheek. J
The hall is reserved, the caterer booked. The flowers
are ordered in from Holland and the Philippines and the cases of Dom are
chilling. The gift bags—yes, don’t worry, Tiffany’s and Saks said they’d take
care of them so don’t worry for even a second. The invitations went out weeks
ago for Tribe members and significant others—though Mr. G. had sheepishly
admitted that his partner had said something about preferring death by inches to
spending ten minutes in the same room with…at that point in the e-mail the
message was cut off.
We were all worried for days before Mr. G. came back on line, avoiding any answers to our many questions.
Everything was ready. Everything had been planned and this will be—bar none—the party to end all parties.
Come hell or high water, until I got that phone call from Ms. Q. the morning of the event. Dear God.
“OHMIGAWDOHMIGAWDOHMIGAWD!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ms. B…B! I can’t believe…it’s horrible, a nightmare! You won’t believe what’s happened!!!!! Jay-sus!”
“Q, Q—talk to me—what’s wrong, what is it?”
I did what I had to, I bitch slapped her over the phone. “Q, get a grip, damn you—what’s happened?” I could hear her take a raspy breath, several, in fact.
“You know—the warehouse!”
“The warehouse where we have all the stuff for the party? That warehouse?”
“Of course that warehouse, you ho—what other warehouse is there?”
Good point. “What’s happened to the warehouse?”
“It’s burned down, down to the ground. It’s toasted, fried, a smoldering smoking sludge stench.”
“Wha…? How? Who…?”
Q paused, whether for dramatic effect of for more breath, we’ll never know. “Them.”
Damn them. I digested this for a minute, squared my slightly drooping shoulders and stuck out several of my chins. “We’ll deal with this. The party will go on.”
“Bullshit, B. How can it? Everyone's clothes were torched. How are we going to party like there’s no tomorrow without our gladrags?”
She had a point but—dammit—there had to be a way. “Q, trust me.”
Quick as a wink I slammed my trusty land-cruiser into gear to access the damage for myself and when I got there a scene of devastation met my eyes—something I never hope to ever see again. It was worse that I’d imagined, and I’d imagined a lot. The building, a spacious eight by ten foot steel backyard shed, was a twisted, charred hulk and inside I could see the melted pile of cheap ass polyester knockoffs the Tribe had bought to wear to the biggest event of the decade.
Cheap ass polyester? Excuuuuse me?
You cheap bitches! Armani does not use rayon, damn you! Yves wouldn’t be seen dead in the same room with double knit. Valentino using a Beaddazzler? I don’t think so.
Is that all you think of this? Is that the best you can do?
I’ll see you all in hell first!
Fine. Try to make a mockery out of this party, will they? They’ll answer to me for this—they’ll pay. They’ll all pay!
I knew what I had to do. First I e-mailed everyone not to worry, I had this covered and their new and improved, specially selected outfits would be waiting for them at the ball room of the Secaucas Holiday Inn. They should be there half an hour early to get ready and just don’t worry about a thing.
Next I made a couple of calls to my old theater friends who agreed that this travesty couldn’t go unpunished. And who had the nerve to actually purchase a felt poodle embellished circle skirt and have the nerve to call it fashion? Dear God.
The night of the party arrived, all was ready. Each Tribe member had their own sealed garment bag waiting for them, assured that everything had been personally chosen with them in mind. I waited for them in the balloon strewn banquet room, the crepe paper streamers bravely doing their best to counteract the nightmare we were living.
One by one they trickled in, wearing their new finery.
Mr. G., dear Mr. G., in his Lion costume from a high school production of The Wiz.
Ms. Q in her multi layered ball gown and her floor length wig—our own Rapunzel.
Ms. M. tricked out as Glinda the good witch, her magic wand aglitter, her crown slightly askew.
The two Finns dressed as siamese-twin killer whales.
Ms. G., dressed as our own Big Bird, complete with lime green boa to compliment the yellow turkey feathers.
Ms. A. dressed as a goddess, braless boobs hanging out of her classic greek toga, her lithe waist encircled with a fetching gold ivy vine, trailing leaves here and there.
Ms. D. dressed as Cruella De Ville, complete with a couple of dwarfs in dalmatian costumes.
Mr. W. dressed as Robin to Ms. S.’s Batman.
On and on they came in, a smile here and there as they glimpsed one another before heading over to the slightly wilted seafood buffet, shrimp salad taking the place of honor.
I said nothing; there was nothing to say.
Screw with my dress up party will they?
I think not.
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