The Great Fifth of July Party at San Marino by Lick the Fridge
This post originally appeared on Lick the Fridge on July 5, 2011
As the sun began to rise, and as the occupants of the San Marino house made their way back to their respective bedrooms in a drunken and exhausted yet giddy daze, and as they maneuvered around the scores of people who were flopped on couches and chairs in the living room, wrapped in blankets on the floor, splayed across the front lawn like fallen branches, spread about amongst the feet of the fruit trees in the backyard, dangling their limbs out of hammocks, and asleep in cabs of cars and backs of pickups, they all shared an unspoken thought, a thought that clawed its way to the surface of their tired minds, fighting amongst, yet clearly defeating, the haze and debauchery that was just now culminating after hours and hours of hogging the spotlight, a thought that has since been shared hundreds of times with reverent camaraderie amongst friends who were there, and exaltedly remembered and embellished with uninhibited nostalgia with people who were unfortunate to have missed out, and that thought was: What a fuckin’ party!
And as the earth tilted and spun just enough to make it appear that the sun had arisen, and as its light shone through the kitchen window and as its rays struck the empty keg and the broken, splintered beer cups smattered around the kitchen and dining room, and as it bequeathed its beams on the only entities of the house that welcomed it—the bottles of liquor, the mixers, the half squeezed, dried out limes and lemons, the hats and sweatshirts and shoes and socks and bras that were strewn about on tables and chairs and countertops—and in the light of the sun, the floor, in all its sloppy, muddy, beer-y glory was plain to anyone who was around to witness it—which was no one—, the evidence of the party and all it represented could not be denied.
And as these inanimate remnants of the Great Fifth of July Party stood still in the early morning hours of the sixth of July, the living remnants of the Great Fifth of July Party were just as still, slumbering and breathing deeply, grabbing onto pillows and blankets and legs of furniture and in some cases one another, and in their dreams, they dreamt of their role, of their participation—of their legacy!—in the creation of the greatest party to come to town in recent memory. They saw themselves dancing in the dance contest, playing poker at the dining room table, strumming guitars on the hoods of cars, finding love (or at least lust) in the backyard or in the back bedrooms. They saw beer being guzzled and shots being thrown down, and they heard laughter and boisterous conversation, and they thought about the new friends they had made, and the old ones with whom they had engaged in wonderful bouts of degeneracy and depravity.
And as the realty of the unstoppable new day that was known as the sixth of July unwontedly thrust itself upon the denizens of San Marino, those who lived elsewhere slowly, reluctantly, yet with admiration and appreciation for their current circumstances, made their way out of the house and back to their lives that were led somewhere outside the confines of this wonderful historic scene.
And the occupants of the San Marino house stayed in bed, and they positioned blinds and pillows and blankets in such a way as to remind the sun that she was not yet wanted, that they would see her later—much later—when they more prepared to welcome her with a polite and cordial greeting.
And as the day of the sixth of July began its metamorphosis into what would become the night of the sixth of July, the occupants of the house on San Marino began their descent on the inanimate remnants of the Great Fifth of July Party, remnants that rendered the house in temporary yet unavoidable—delightful!—squalor, they spoke not to one another of their lack of urgency to return the house to its decorous form, and they spoke barely of the events of the night before, for in the air was an indescribable feeling of nothing needing to be said, and since all four of the occupants of the San Marino house had experienced the events of the previous night, they now possessed a shared experience that would bond them together for the rest of their lives.
And with an experience like that, without the necessary distance from the experience itself, giving the experience its proper perspective, and allowing one to respectfully digest its importance and historical significance, there is no need for words.