The Grange Hall

by Tammy O’Keeffe

It was New Year’s Eve and my husband and I were invited to our first, exclusive, Hollywood party.   Basically, my husband had struck up a close friendship with the host, a big time movie star – let’s call him Jake – on a local basketball court and this was our first social engagement with him.  I’ve been pathologically shy since middle school, so the fact that the party was not outrageously huge was a relief.  Jake was a great host, everyone was talkative and friendly, the drinks were flowing and it was shaping up to be a really fun night.

Sometime after midnight, Jake and a few friends were huddled around the bar drinking Jagermiester shots. Sensing a Kodak moment, my husband immediately threw me into the mix insisting I do shots with Jake. I refused several times before finally giving in.  An hour later, things turned south.  The room started to spin and I knew I had to get out of the house and fast.  I told my husband we had to go then I ran out of the house (without even saying goodbye). I stumbled down the long driveway and lay down next to some trash cans while my husband got the car.    After what seemed to be an eternity but was probably only fifteen minutes, my husband managed to get the car, but after ten feet of driving he realized he was too drunk to drive.

We barreled up the driveway with the car to call for a taxi, but it was 3am and none of the services were answering.   At this point, I pleaded to sleep in the car, but my husband insisted we could crash at Jake’s.  We stumbled back inside where my husband promptly shouted out, “Is there a good place for my wife to barf?” Before I knew it, I was being whisked upstairs to a quiet bedroom.  A group of guys helped me into the bed and gave me a bucket.  Then they all scurried back downstairs to the party (my husband included with them). I vomited off and on, until finally falling asleep in the plush comfort of a Beverly Hills mansion.

I woke up at 8am, in the brightest white room I had ever seen.  The brightness was disorienting and it took me a minute to realize that I was still at Jake’s house.  Panic set in.  This guy was a major movie star and I’d hurled in a bucket in his guest room and was looking like the living dead.  I had to get out before anyone saw me.  I threw on my shoes and tiptoed through the house in search of my husband.

The house was littered with passed-out partiers. Random bodies spread across beds, couches, throw rugs.  I couldn’t find my husband anywhere.  It occurred to me that he might not be alone but I decided I didn’t care. My impending humiliation coupled with the lack of a toothbrush was far more pressing than any drunken infidelity.  I finally found my husband fully dressed on a sofa, spooning with an Academy Award Winning director.  I woke him up quietly and we slipped out of the house.

As we drove down Ventura Blvd heading home, we both realized that we were still drunk, but we’d come this far (and the roads were empty).  I wasn’t about to pull over now.  If we stopped the car to sleep, looking the way we did, we’d probably get arrested for vagrancy.  We did 15 all the way home, and then we crawled into bed.  The nightmare was over. I was home. I was safe.  I could be hung-over inside the comfort of my own bed, without anyone seeing.  I felt myself relaxing.  There was nothing to do now but sleep it off.  Everyone at the party was probably way too drunk to even remember a thing.  It would all be a blur.  We could move on socially, and without a hitch.  I let my body go.  My eyes were so heavy, and I was almost to the point of drifting off when I remembered…

 I’d forgotten to empty the giant bucket of vomit.