photo by Doc BaldyPart 1 -- Phil Forrest's Surprise Birthday Party
The anonymous invitation to a surprise birthday party came in on my walkie-talkie. The instructions were to stand at the corner of 46th and Hazel at 2200 hours wearing a tartan kilt and sporting a poppy in my left lapel. Dubious, but sporting and with a heart for any fate I took the challenge.
Sure enough at 10pm prompt, this black SUV drove up and two guys in Donald Rumsfeld masks hopped out, put a black hood over my head and shoved me into the back of the vehicle. We drove around randomly for what seemed hours, but I was alert enough to keep track of each twist and turn and determined when we stopped that we were at a location deep in the heart of West Philadelphia -- the scary part.
I was escorted up the stairs into what smelled like an old opium warehouse, and my hood was removed. The darkness was practically total, although occasionally the baleful light of somebody's cellphone cast an eerie glint into the murk. Once my naked hands were lapped by the monstrous slobbering tongue of what appeared to be by its dimensions a spectral hound. Or maybe it was some crusty punk chick.
At any rate we did not have long to wait. Suddenly the lights went on and to joyous shouts of "Incoming!" a burst of party balloons and fire crackers exploded. Mr. Forrest, the guest of honor, dropped to the floor in an instant, rolled under the table and tossed a grenade. Fortunately it was only a smoke grenade, not one of the lethal sort, and after a good bit of coughing, hacking and vomiting the party was in full swing -- "wilding", as I believe the term is.
Oddly enough, although the gathered throng -- I would estimate fifty or so -- were for the most part on the south side of age 30, and many had multiple piercings of tongues, nipples and pudenda, and bizarre asymmetrical haircuts, the conversation, such as it was, was remarkably pedestrian. Cats, the care and feeding of, geckos, giant flying cockroaches, dogs I once knew who were schizophrenic and had to be treated with massive doses of thorazine and atypical antipsychotics, and, of course, real estate.
I must have dozed off for a bit, for when I awoke I was perched on the edge of an old clawfoot bathtub out under the stars, filled with what I at took first to be lotus blossoms but which on closer inspection proved to be a fetid algae. The tub itself was fed by an old-fashioned shower nozzle spraying what I judged by a quick taste to be Old Bombay Gin, but on second testing to be an exotic Japanese sake. Disported about me all over the weedy lawn were men, women and dogs in various states of undress and assorted intricately involved couplings. Cassidy's head popped up from beneath some busty woman's thighs and he yelled, "Get over here Bender!" but it seemed to me at that point that discretion was the better part of valor and I retired to the kitchen.
Amazingly enough, the counter was strewn with little slips of paper, apparently ripped from the "Philadelphia Operation Town Watch" memo pad. They were covered with hieroglyphics which I at first took to be samples of the ancient Indus script. On closer examination, however, they appeared to be a very intricate list of instructions for party preparations:
"Please slice rolls for sandwiches."
"Can drape curtain on table to make more 'festive.' "
"All decos are in my cabinet."
"Please put candles on cake."
My heart melted. Wanton and depraved although these kiddies were, they were touchingly well organized. Much as we were back in the day, I mused as I slipped out of the abandoned warehouse and found myself to my surprise on the corner of 46th and Hazel.
Yes, the kids are alright! I thought as I tottered my way home. Just as I was turning onto Cedar Avenue the sirens started blaring and half the squad cars from the 18th District came barreling down the Avenue. I peeked from behind a mulberry tree in time to see a full-fledged SWAT team debouching onto Hazel. Cobra helicopters circled overhead, their monster spotlights probing the darkness.
"Holy crap!" I thought to myself. "They've been raided. Good thing I left when I did. After all, I've got to be in church tomorrow at 9am sharp, and how would it look to the Deacons if they had to come down and bail me out from the Roundhouse?"
