Art Party, Pt. 1

It is not often that I immerse myself in the world outdoors. I find it dirty and strange. Even less do I step outside while it is daytime. I can muster the strength to will through a sun lit sojourn, but I usually bring a few energy drinks for backup.

And so it was I found myself recently, called upon by my employer, working a day-shift at my job. Two hours of sleep wasn't going to cut it, so I downed a 32oz energy drink to get me through my shift. It really wasn't helping much.

Day shifts are quite different than their night counterparts. It isn't as busy, so we are tasked with preparation duties and errands to complete in order to help the night crew handle the dinner rush. While suffering from the haze of sleep deprivation I manage to take out the trash, do some dishes, and make pizza sauce. On Mondays, we have to make sure to take the cleaning rags and cook aprons to the local laundromat. I don't mind this duty at all, it gets me out of the store and that is good.









Deadly perils, pricelss treasures.


While dumping some rags in a washing machine, I noticed a torn bit of paper curiously nestled beneath a tacky plastic orange chair. Figuring it was accidentally dropped by someone waiting for their clothes to finish, I couldn't help but pick it up and examine the discarded paper. Turning it over revealed a telephone number with a strange area code and a google web address.

Interesting.

I pocketed the paper and finished tending the laundry. On my way back to the pizza store I walked past a pay phone, and using some quarters that were supposed to be for company laundry, I called the number. I expected an actual live human to answer but was instead greeted by a recorded voice message.

The voice was female, that of a mature adult, and was colored by the rasp of years of smoking. All she said was, "Art Party. 9pm;" she gave a date and an address as well. Then, unexpectedly there came a tone. I was being recorded.

"Smiley Grimm," I said into the phone. Then hung up.

Double interesting.

The rest of my shift was so uneventful and boring I don't even remember it.

In the early evening, whilst relaxing at home, I remembered the note and decided to investigate it further. My research revealed that the number was part of some online messaging service. I also looked up the address she gave me and was shocked to learn that the supposed location of the "art party" was less than a half-hour away from my residence. Thank you Internet.











Thanks, buddy.


Again turning to the interwebs, I was able to glean that Art Parties are as nebulous an activity as you probably guessed. They come in all varieties, from the conservative to the extreme, from the stinking wealthy socialites to the stinky dirty college kids.

I figured since I had already given my name to the recording, I would have to attend. I had two days to prepare.

"This could be fun."

One minor issue that could be troublesome is that I have never been to a party in any capacity before, excluding adolescent birthdays. I don't understand social paradigms, I fail at interaction, and I have no taste, all of which work against me on a daily basis. The one advantage I would have: no one would know me, presumably.

I had to start with what I did know: the recorded voice was of a lady who was definitely over the age of thirty five, and she had smoked at least one cigarette in her day. This meant that she was social, possibly distinguished, and didn't think she was too old for parties. An older lady who was enjoying, possibly hosting, a pretentious social gathering of some sort isn't too common in my neighborhood. It was wrong of me to be judgemental already, so I stepped back and tried to remain objective. It was just a party. It was just a party. It was just a party.

At first my plan was to assume what type of people would be attending, and disguise myself as one of them. That would be too difficult, because I had no clue what to expect, so I decided to make a character out of myself instead. I would be a British-alt-pop-rock loving college art student who loved intellectual meetings.

Luckily Wal-Mart afforded me some cheap arty clothes. I already had some cheap sneakers, which would help accentuate my individuality. I don't have hair, which shaved off having to worry about getting it styled. I researched art pieces online, but gave that up rather quickly because it donned on me that I was probably going to be looking at local creations. Hopefully, I had the tools for at least moderate success.

The day came.

As the night grew deep, I made the drive. According to the map I printed the house was somewhere beyond where the highway ended, tucked away in a nether region of the city. I followed a long lonesome gravel road that was hemmed in by barbed wire fences and mailboxes that leaned out like beggar hands. As I crested a hill I could see bright red tail lights gleaming in the darkness like the evil red eyes of a shrouded demon clown. It came from a car that was parking in the roundish driveway of a large three-story house atop a foreboding hill.

I wasn't sure when it happened, but I had driven into Psycho and looked upon Bates Manor. Sure enough, that was my destination.










"Mother, no!"


Driving through an open gate, I crossed the cattle guard, and made my way around the circular gravel driveway to a row of at least a dozen automobiles. I was the only one who drove a truck.

Looking to the front door I beheld a group of six, evenly split between male and female, enter through a large wooden door.

I didn't want to approach and enter alone, I needed to be crafty in order to infiltrate, so I flipped open my phone and faked a conversation while pacing near my truck. It didn't take long for another car to arrive, with another gaggle of six; when they knocked on the door, I joined their group as I ended my faux call. I smiled.

The door opened and we began to file in. Now the hard part...

To Be Continued...