I came up with a costume idea on the spot. I had a suit already, and because of my physique, I went as Jake Blues last year, and was perfectly willing to do so again. However, I felt that I should do something a bit more unique, something that would simply confuse everyone around me at wherever I wound up that night. I would go as the Spirit of Hanukkah, and all I would need is a cheap trilby hat and a ton of pencils and pens to give out as gifts to anyone who asked what I was.
After buying the necessary goods, I called The Drunkard to see what his plan was. Apparently, and I was just as shocked as anyone else would have been, the French were having a party. “Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know, right?” responded The Drunkard. “Fuckers bought three cases of wine. Surprised the hell out of me when I saw them stacked in the corner.”
So that covered where I would be that night. I decided that, since my usual bedtime was midnight or so, I would take a nap before the party, and so I did.
The party wasn’t what I expected. I assumed that it would be a typical student party: rap or R&B (or, this being Europe, techno) blaring from speakers and mixed drinks consumed from red plastic cups. However, I arrived and found that the French existentialists—in their true ineffable fashion—had created a masquerade ball. In that cramped kitchen, there were over two dozen people in flowing ball gowns and the most absurd, antiquated masks I’ve seen outside of period dramas. I stood in the door to the kitchen, staring in awe, until The Drunkard came up to me with an almost equally frazzled look on his face. “Hey,” he said.
“This is Halloween?” I asked.
He nodded. “Apparently.”
He wore a pink polo shirt and some flannel shorts. “Frat boy?”
He nodded and looked at me. “Er. Jew?”
I gave him a pencil and a pen from my jacket pocket. “Happy Hanukkah,” I said.
We stood in further awe for a while more until one of The Drunkard’s flatmates—judging from the corset and accentuated bust, I’d have to guess it was Julie—came over and started speaking at us in rapid-fire French with a huge grin on her face. Her teeth were a deep, dark red and, I guessed that she was quite drunk.
The Drunkard responded in equally rapid-fire French. To pass the time, I looked down at my bottle of kosher red wine (stuff almost the same as Manischewitz, if you know that taste) and decided that it was now or never. I opened the cap, took a swig, and went around giving out pens and pencils. The men got them placed in their masks, the women in their corsets. I got a few slaps, but it was worth it.
Over my time in England, I found that there were a few things that happened when I was at a party consisting of mostly non-English speakers. The most common thing to happen was that I’d be lost in a sea of Greek, German, French, or whatever language formed the majority that night, and, because I couldn’t add to the conversation, I’d start drinking very, very heavily. Tonight, the surreal atmosphere led to me drinking faster than normal. I believe that, over the course of an hour and a half, I finished three bottles of wine. In any case, I was terribly, terribly drunk and passed out in the middle of the floor a few times.
The third time, The Drunkard helped me up, slapped me in the face and said, “Hey man, you think it’s about time you should leave? Maybe get some sleep?”
I gurgled something to the effect that he wasn’t my mother and, furthermore, he could kiss my ass because I was having a fantastic time and everyone loved me—why shouldn’t they?
He slapped me in my face again and, suddenly, I found the light in his argument. “Rigid times I had, Drunky McDrunkerton,” I said. “Splendidly rigid.” I leaned in and whispered (actually screamed) in his ear, “That girl—Jenny—the one from Belgium—she has the hots for me. I mean scathing hots for me. Think I’m gonna have to go kill her boyfriend, but damn son, she does have a sweet ass, yeah?”
The Drunkard patted me on the head and maneuvered me outside the kitchen, then outside the flat, then closed the door on me. This marked the first time I had been kicked out of a party in my life, and, while it was for a thoroughly good reason, I still felt a little miffed. However, I ignored my pride telling me to march back in there—after breaking down the door—and tell them what for. Instead, I walked outside.
It was cold out there. Even through the alcohol coat I wore, I could feel that. I shivered, shouted out a couple obscenities, and walked back towards my block. Standing outside, smoking a cigarette, there stood Zaf. “Zaf!” I shouted. “Malacka!” I burst into laughter and gave him a great big hug.
He looked at me as if I were insane. This, clearly, was a man who had not been thoroughly and completely drunk in a while. I was about to tell him how we needed to get a couple bottles of whiskey and hit the town when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a robot. I of course understand that this was a man dressed as a robot for Halloween, but at that time, I doubt convinced that this was a robot who had come to the planet Earth for the sole purpose of raping our houses and pillaging our women. I ran over to the robot, dropped down on my knees and burst into tears. “Don’t do it, man!” I shouted.
“Er,” said the man in the robot outfit.
“Earth is your friend! Freakin Day the Earth Stood Still was just a movie! Don’t go all klatu barata niku on us, okay, man? Dude, I got some Jack upstairs, let’s go talk it out!” By this time, I was clutching onto the legs of the suit.
“Get the Hell off me, mate,” said the robot.
This made me burst into louder screams. “No, why do you want to destroy Earth? We’re a peace-loving people, we don’t have any weapons, we’re not a target, not a military target. Grand Moff Tarkin, please—”
“Get the fuck off me, man. Jesus! Fine, I’m from the planet Earth,” he said, moving around in jerky movements. “I’m a party robot. Beep beep boop. Where the bitches at.”
“Hey!” I said, leaping up. “Party robots are awesome!” I gave the robot a high five, walked back to Zaf and said, “I love party robots.” Then, I walked upstairs, went into my room, and passed out.