It was awkward

          While missing the penchant-for-cleanliness gene, I have inherited the hospitality gene. I don’t own my own food business like many members of my family but I do love to host parties and I like to do it right. Memorable themes include “Swank and Crank”, “Fung-Wah Fabulous” and “Tree Huggers and Bone Thuggers”. And I host said parties with the knowledge that in the name of fun there are sometimes casualties. In my apartment I have had chairs broken, vomit spewed and other general debauchery. After a couple of shots at “Pie Fest”, my friend Sam smeared leftover pie all over his bare chest and then went looking in my closet for a “costume change”. He managed to find a dry-clean-only wrap that was the perfect accoutrement for his chocolate and cream covered body.

          None of these stories tops the now infamous incident surrounding my birthday this last November though. My friend Manu called ahead to ask if he could bring a few extra people up to the party from our favorite watering hole. I always say yes to requests of this kind, especially because Manu’s scientist friends get along with my singer friends. This is to say that the science crowd offers a high population of men, something opera singers find both foreign and delightful. On this particular evening there seemed to be a few stragglers who were not exactly the cream of the crop.

          Not being able to remember his name, I shall call him Boris, (Manu now refers to him as the drunk Russian). I do not doubt that Boris, like many of Manu's colleagues is a brilliant scientist who came here as an asset to our country's research. But Boris had a particular look about him that immediately gave one the sense of the amount of beer he had had that evening. He also had a particular smell which penetrated the room like a pile of wet onions in the sun. But all in a day’s party- everyone is welcome!

          It was clear that Boris’s condition kept him from checking his manners and I immediately began hearing reports from friends that there was a lot of uncomfortable leering going on. My friend Ellen told me that he’d been staring at her clavicle all evening. Boris approached my childhood friend Rita and introduced himself by asking what she did for a living. She replied that she was a research assistant in the department of psychiatry at Yale. With his prompting, she elaborated on the fact that she was currently working on an alcohol abuse study. Boris then asked if he could have her card because he thought he “may have a problem”. Let me be clear and say that Rita was not interested in receiving his attention in the first place but was being nice. It was clear though what Boris’s intention had been from the start and Rita and I were confused at the thought that while hitting on someone, it was a good idea to mention that you are a drunk.

          Well, Rita had to further explain that she was not actually a therapist and that she did not live in Boston. She lived in New Haven and worked mostly with PTSD patients. Boris would have none of this. He insisted on having her card because he was sure she could help him. Rita obliged and left to fetch her card, if only to escape the conversation.

          Moments later my boyfriend and Ellen would not let me enter my kitchen. There was a light in both of their eyes that said they knew something that I didn’t. “What’s going on?” I said. Brendan replied “nothing” a bit too readily. “My boob popped out and Brendan saw!” Ellen yelled. “It was awkward,” he jumped in dryly. Of course, I still did not believe them, but whatever had happened was not going to ruin my fun.

          Come to find out, Brendan and Ellen had walked into the kitchen at the same time only to find Boris passed out in my director’s chair after having wet himself. They were surprised that it was not just a trickle down his pants but a veritable ocean of urine surrounding him and the chair. Brendan and Ellen did not spring immediately into action to distract and cover up the evidence. Their first priority was to step out on the balcony so they could safely laugh until they cried. It took two friends to carry Boris out of the apartment, and two cabs to refuse to take him in their cars because he was marinating in his own piss. I think he was carried to the bottom of the hill where transportation was finally obtained. Apparently this is part of “his thing”. He has a tendency to lose bladder control in social settings. Yet another thing to endear you to members of the opposite sex Boris.

          Well, for the party I was none the wiser thanks to the efforts of my friends and I laughed as hard as anyone the next morning when Manu called yelling “I’m sooo sorry! He’s not really my friend! I should never have brought him!” I have laundered the director’s chair canvas since the incident but it does not stop most people from pausing before taking a seat and saying “Ok, right, you’ve washed it.”