Martha Cooney

​In my junior year of college I hosted a party at the historic house where I lived off campus with nine girls and a chihuahua (not author’s own). The house was a big three-story with high ceilings and beefy crown molding and an entryway out of a period piece where people read telegrams. I loved the staircase best; it had a broad wooden banister (If I had less sense, I’d’ve slid down it) and wide landings and circled up three floors past long bedroom-lined halls that made you feel like you were in a 1920s boardinghouse for bachelor girls. We embodied the vibe and popped in and out of each other’s rooms to borrow socks; we only locked our doors when we had parties, in case some Magellan came poking around. The house had a long kitchen, porch with a stoop, wide living room with shiny wooden floorboards, and a lack of furniture: made for jamming in as many bodies as possible.

 

Before we moved in, one of the housemates, Erin, sent an email: “Girlies! I made matching white tank tops for the house we can wear for our first party!”

 

You’re right to be apprehensive. Matching shirts are a gateway drug to multilevel marketing parties and timeshares. The sender of a message like this could be the type of person who eventually turns you, a lifelong enthusiast, against the exclamation point. 

 

They could also turn out to be a genuine ray of sunshine who brings the most dour Deborah out of her shell. They’re driving the happy bus, everyone’s invited, and if you don’t accept your free ticket, they’ll come and grab you on the next swing round. That was Erin. 

 

Erin smiled by default and looked like a teeth model slash Spanx CEO while presenting on how to make a new-trend bump with the front section of her hair, which she blow-dried regularly. She was the only one of us who knew our landlord’s name and once on a Saturday night I heard her say, “I’m going to go work on my finances.” She was thrilled to give us the full campus report.  Someone in her sorority slapped another girl during a mixer, a guy in her business school cohort hacked the class of ’05 listserv, some seniors started a late-night cookie delivery company out of their basement, and there was this new website called The Facebook.  Erin delighted in stuff and especially delighted in laying eyes on you. Around Erin, you were fabulous and you were an essential part of her good-time itinerary, and – even though you were suspicious of anyone at this school who didn’t have at least one part-time job –  you actually wanted to be. 

 

So I credit Erin that on a sweaty night in September the ten of us wore tank tops reading 4028, the house’s address, and welcomed music-festival-levels of people into the house. The porch was shoulder to shoulder. Guys from the crew team felt entitled to act as bouncers, but Erin didn’t mind until they turned away someone who got disgruntled, snuck in, and pulled the fire alarm. Only Erin had the number of the landlord’s maintenance crew, who had to come and unlock the inaccessible basement to stop the alarm, so it blasted for twenty minutes while we waited for them. The party self-destructed and everyone left. We were devastated. We wanted 4028 to be known as a good party house, not a lame flop where we didn’t have our act together. 

 

The next day Erin noticed the keg had warped the kitchen floor hardwood into a deformed wavelet. “What is the landlord gonna say?!” she wailed. She still had a big smile on her face. When she was enraged or stressed her good energy didn’t leave the premises; it coexisted. She was already planning our next event so we could redeem 4028’s reputation.

 

It was a Halloween party. The chihuahua wore a stupid antenna headband and tutu. We covered the fire alarm with a skeleton-printed vinyl tablecloth and people packed the downstairs; I wore my favorite thrift-store 1980s prom dress with tiered polka dot skirt. Erin was a cowgirl in plaid shirt, straw hat and denim skirt. “Do you guys know about Arbor Mist?” she gushed, showing us the wine cooler she’d tucked behind the Natural Ice cans in the fridge. The night was a triumph. We were back in the game.

 

Now, in November, this third gathering was going to tip the balance. If it went well, everybody would have a short memory about our failed opener. If it went badly, that would be a two-out-of-three situation. We’d be blacklisted.

 

It was really my party: a benefit concert for a club I was involved with. We worked with a local Philly group that advocated for affordable housing, health care and living wage jobs. I organized fundraisers, and 4028 was a good space to have a benefit. If it seems like my campus activity vibe is different from the vibe of the house, you have an accurate reading. Some of the housemates didn’t get me, but I didn’t get them either, so it was okay. We were united by Erin, and by our address. I had a stake in the house rep along with raising money and profile for the club cause. I wanted to get this right. 

 

My friend RJ, from the club, helped out with the party. We had met in Community Economic Development class the year before and now had that great kind of friendship where you trip each other in public.

 

RJ had a real physicality to his expression. When we walked across campus he sometimes got a sudden spurt of energy, grabbed a railing and hoisted himself into flight, or broke into a short run and took an Olympic leap over a fire hydrant. Even when he propelled himself out of a deep armchair it was a physics-defying act of forward motion. The urge to use his body as a projectile was part of his essence. I can’t remember if he did taekwondo or something. 

 

I am pretty sure, though, that he was an Eagle Scout. He never left the scene if your bike had a flat tire. He brought saltines when someone was sick, cooked pancakes for everyone on overnight trips, and owned a tool kit. When he was mildly drunk, he got more enthusiastic to fling his body around and tackle you from behind, and he also reached a higher state of altruism. One time a couple of us got into an argument; RJ mediated for two hours and said, like a calm Army chaplain, “We have to figure out how the four of us as a group are gonna handle problems.”  

 

We had a solid crew of four that hung out. We studied at RJ’s house, a place he called The Manor, where he put on butterscotch-suede slippers, tied a navy blue robe over his rugby shirt, and did pratfalls when he got restless. He had an enormous glass jar on his shelf, filled almost to the top with pennies. “I’ve been working on that a long time,” he told me.

 

A fifth member, Ben, had started coming around our group. I had a crush on him. He wasn’t the type I usually liked – his Wawa snack choice was Soy Crisps – but he was funny. One night I cooked noodles and served everyone on mismatched plastic plates at the 4028 kitchen table. The chihuahua scrabbled at our feet, fretful and ugly. Ben told us how he brought a box of Teddy Grahams into school for kindergarten snack. He was embarrassed because the snack was supposed to be homemade, so he told his teacher, “Me and my mom made these.” That’s when I decided we were going to get together, and that it would happen at the party.

 

The whole thing was shaping up, and I was excited. Now that I think about it, it was really the first time I ever hosted a party. 

 

I full-on-Mrs. Dalloway love to host. Throwing out the net, bringing everyone in and watching the narrative with all its drama and characters – bring the characters! – play out in the living room. I love deciding where to place the board (Enough with the boards!) (Still love it, though) of “Entertainment Crackers” and cut-up pepperoni; I love fiddling with lighting; I love putting out a can of pumpkin puree with a post-it on it that says “conversation piece.” I love the feeling when someone comes through the door and enters the scene. At a party, anything can happen! As host, you get to set it up and press play. You’re in control, and at the same time, you have no control. It’s like surfing. (I took one lesson last summer, so I know.) I crave power and I thrive in chaos. Put me in, coach. 

 

I’m a pro now, but back then, I needed my debut to go well. I made all the arrangements. I found a DJ (“DJ Scallone”), an opener (“Guy Incognito”), and a band. The name of the band was (this is true) “The Four Horsemen of Dr. Funkenstein’s Electric Aqua-Boolgaloo Featuring Stormin’ Normin and His Neon Bowl of Porridge.” Yes, I also want to flip a table in rage at that stupid name. Also, the “Boolgaloo” is not a typo; neither is “Normin.” I know the placement of the hyphen in Aqua-Boolgaloo is senseless. I know. 

 

The name of the band took up more space than was respectful on the flyer, but what could I do? I printed, photocopied, and cut quarter-sheet flyers to hand out on campus. I sent out a promotional email and made an AIM away message party announcement. The party time was listed at 10:30 pm, which makes me shudder now. Yeah I love to host, but I start earlier than that. Come midnight I put someone trustworthy in charge and Irish myself to bed.

 

RJ was 21 so he borrowed his Sicilian Pop-Pop’s car and brought me to the beer distributor to load up on cases of Milwaukee’s Best. I pushed the kitchen table to the side to make room for the band. I moved the living room furniture, cleaned, put a poster over the fire alarm, added signs by the door to advertise the club, and swept the porch. 

 

DJ Scallone and the bands arrived and by 10:30 we were in motion. Erin nodded in approval at our setup and went out somewhere around 11. RJ helped me at the door, where I collected five-dollar bills in an envelope. I love dealing in cash – the solid feel of it, reassuring me it’s real; a small-scale Scrooge McDuck swimming pool. Give me those coins showering over my face, please. 

 

By midnight the place was buzzing with energy and noise. The porch and front room were full of people I knew and people I didn’t. Someone was celebrating a birthday; a friend brought a cake in a suggestive shape. In the kitchen, people danced to the Electric Horsemen (I REFUSE to write the entire name again) (I tried writing it with just initials and it’s even more infuriating.) RJ was mildly drunk and cheerful. Ben was on his way over. My envelope of cash was thick and delicious. The people were happy, and 4028 was two for three. I had done it. 

 

The fire alarm went off. 

 

Okay. A bit predictable, right? You knew something was going to go wrong. And there was the obvious foreshadowing. Not the most satisfying twist. But it’s just one cog in the wheel of what transpired, so stick with me, if you will. 

 

Side note – if you haven’t read in my first book about the time I evacuated a high-rise dorm because of a fire alarm the year prior, go catch up and come back, but the point is that was my fault and this was not. Also, lightning does strike twice. Wasn’t that Ben Franklin’s whole thing? 

 

Years later, my mind goes into conspiracy mode about who pulled the alarm – if it was the same person from the first party, and if not, how they knew it was under the poster; if they were specifically looking for it, if they went around to as many houses as they could on a Friday night pulling alarms (plausible); if they had a vendetta against one of us. I have no answers. It kills me.

 

It didn’t matter. It happened. The worst part was, I felt the slow, collective realization in the house that this wasn’t a thirty-second inconvenience of some mayhem sprinkles on the fun sundae that would resume after a quick alarm shutoff. Watching the gradual destruction of everyone’s expectations, and their acceptance that the party was over, was worse than a sudden and clear end; like drawing out a breakup instead of making a clean cut. 

 

I confirmed in my mind that this was reality, and, feeling like a complete loser, looked for the number to call the crew to come and get in the basement. Then I roamed in circles, useless. The alarm kept going. Party guests complained and surged toward the porch. RJ went missing. Somebody smashed the suggestive-shaped cake on the stairs. 

 

Out front, people approaching the house heard the alarm and did a u-turn. I saw Ben arrive from the direction of the library, wearing a backpack. Behind me, someone said, “Who wears a backpack to a party?”

 

I ran down and told Ben what happened. He took in the scene. I waited for him to say “Let me help you during this time of crisis, and by the way, do you want to be my girlfriend?” He said, “I’m gonna go.” From the doorway, an indifferent witness called without emotion, “They sprayed the fire extinguisher,” followed by Paul Revere on the sidewalk yelling “The firemen are coming!” I tried to intercept the firefighters but they ignored me and tromped up the staircase in their heavy equipment. A boot went into a chunk of suggestive-shaped cake and left a frosting print on the third step. 

 

After a quick walk-through they left, I stood and looked around at the empty, Beast-sticky front room, and the alarm yelled. In the kitchen, Normin’s Oatmeal (I can’t stand it) played on.

 

RJ called from the stairwell. “Martha? Can you come up here?” His voice wasn’t panicked; it was a measured and gentle call for assistance. He leaned over the landing; dry yellow extinguisher powder flurried down. The further up I went, the thicker the chemicals were in the air; an inch of yellow spray covered the third floor. RJ stood in the empty hallway with monoammonium phosphate particles in his hair and behind him, Erin’s door – plus two others – broken off their hinges.

 

He’d run upstairs thinking the fire was real, and, further convinced by clouds from the extinguisher and with the aim to rescue anyone trapped behind locked bedroom doors, he took a running leap and kicked down three doors that opened into empty rooms. In a neat braid of mild drunkenness, Scout-level altruism, and enthusiasm to hurl his body at things, RJ had reached self-actualization.

 

Yellow dust floated from RJ’s shoulders to the floor as Erin rounded the stairs, shrieking. “What happened to the house?” (Did you ever see a grinning face that’s in agony at the same time? Fascinating.) “What happened to my door?!” 

 

RJ used the passive voice – “got kicked down” – and Erin howled about the landlord. RJ went to the Manor, brought back his tool kit, and worked for over an hour with Erin playing assistant. She gushed. “You are so nice,” she said. “I can’t believe you are doing all this.”

 

When he couldn’t get the doors back on their hinges, he told Erin he was the one who kicked them in. She forgave him and invited him to her sorority formal. After paying for the maintenance crew to fix the damage, we broke even on the party. The cases of leftover Milwaukee’s Best were a sore reminder of 4028’s standing. Erin talked about plans for Spring Fling. 

 

A few weeks later, RJ had his Pop-Pop’s car for the day. We had an agenda - go to the thrift store, bring his finally-full penny jar to a change counting machine, and stop by Pop-Pop’s to bring back the car. I’d heard that Pop-Pop made diesel out of corn oil in his basement, and I hoped I could get a peek. 

 

RJ loved the Salvation Army store as much as I did and found a vintage men’s suit. I followed him to the curtained dressing room and waited outside to give a verdict. He hauled in his backpack, weighed down with the penny jar, and I heard heavy fabric flopping around on the other side of the curtain. “This is great,” he said. “I gotta get my glasses to look.” I listened to the bag unzip, and paged through a couple of boy’s t-shirts on the rack. 

 

Something crashed. I heard the distinct clattering of thousands of pennies gushing in a waterfall before I saw them come through in a wave. They spilled out from under the curtain, rolled under the clothing racks, bounced in a percussive dance like some performance-art sound installation with a Carol-of-the-Bells ding-donging that would make a glockenspiel blush and spread across the floor in a copper carpet of embarrassed Lincolns. 

 

“Martha?” RJ’s voice said from behind the curtain. It was the same tone he had when he was standing upstairs in the hallway covered in yellow extinguisher particles. My stomach clenched in a laugh so hard and painful I couldn’t talk. The last penny rolled under a rack. 

 

We were idiots. I haven’t seen RJ in twenty years. If I saw him again, he’d be a grownup, and I don’t know if I could bear it.

 

Erin was the first of all the girls to get married, buy a house in the suburbs, and put on mitts to pull a ham out of an oven and carve it on a kitchen island at a holiday party. From her detailed wedding itinerary, I learned that you should wear a button-down shirt when you get your hair done. During the photos (this is true), her wedding photographer got hit by a car, but he just kept on taking pictures. That’s the kind of attitude Erin inspires.