GREAT NECK
ROSLYN
JERICHO
WHEATLEY
DIX HILLS
No Motorola Razr went without Evan Krumholz’s cell phone number.
Dinners were constantly interrupted, as I would get up to greet vaguely familiar upperclassmen as old friends
The first few weeks of 10th grade went as such
1. Someone would attempt to channel their inner Joel Goodsen and alert me of their home’s ability to house a party. A “house party” as it were.
2. I would get on my texting game and “blow up their spot” to the local Jew scene media
3. Hundreds would flock, the host’s house’s backyard would be saturated with Parliament butts, Coors light cans, and the occasional Trojan wrapper.
4. WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP
Cops would arrive, and people would scatter like roaches when a dirty kitchen’s lightswitch is flicked on
5. People would eventually show up at my house for an after party of sorts, part promoted by me, part promoted by people willing to exploit my desire to be wanted
This continued for at least a month, the volume of kids increasing, along with my parent’s disapproval
They’d often stand on their bedroom balcony, overlooking the chaos. I’d run upstairs, assure them everything is okay, run back downstairs, assure the cops everything is okay, and for a short while, it was all gravy.
The cops started to get pissed and the parties were dismantled, Cops would bang on my front door and scold my parents, alarming them of the legal ramifications for “hosting” such parties.
I would smile, circulate around my backyard with a bottle of Hypnotiq in hand, and tell myself that such catastrophes were all in good fun
By October, my parents had received a letter from Old Westbury Police, explicity warning them about the severity of “hosting parties and serving alcohol to minors” like my mom was on roller-skates with a tray of fuckin Smirnoff bottles…..
Well, I decided to quit the game, telling all my faux friends that I was changing my ways.
Didn’t work.
People would show up after failed parties, and I’d have to plead with them to go home. Assholes would drive on my lawn, piss in my backyard, possibly fuck in my gazebo…
After one particular night that resulted in my housekeeper crying because someone “did drug on kitchen table” and some idiot cursed out my mom after she told him to go home, my parents sat me down and essentially gave me an intervention.
I was not to go out
I was not to have parties
I was not to do anything that I was used to
I was crushed
I was fine….
So by second half of 10th grade my days as the party king of Long Island shriveled up like Wheaton terrier feces on a hot summer sidewalk.
Some people stopped calling, certain girls didn’t say hi at Kitchen Kabaret anymore…but…I couldn’t be more grateful.
Stay tuned for the conclusion.
