Black Eyed Sunday

Throwing a keg party in Utah must begin with a drive to Wyoming. The Mormon ethos does not trust its inhabitants with as decadent an amount of beer as can be found in a keg, not even at the state mandated 3.2% alcohol content.

The noble procurers of said keg must drive an hour from Salt Lake to state line, act cowboy enough for the liquor storeowner to believe they’re Wyoming residents, and drive home outlaws.

One slow work day my housemate Luke and I both get off work early, and after hanging around the locker room for an hour or so, it is decided unanimously by our Brighton coworkers that the party is at our house tonight.

We concede, as our enormous house is completely devoid of furniture, save two lounge chairs and a pool table.

There is nothing quite like carrying a keg into a house party filled with sober snowboarders. You are welcomed like a hero, and the smiles across your friends' faces will bring warm glow to your heart.

But by the end of the night, walking around a wasteland of inanimate bodies previously inhabited by human beings, the warm glow turns cold and sour.

You realize you have brought out the animal in man.

“How did the toilet seat end up in the shower?” I ask Luke as I brush my teeth at 5:30 the next morning, getting ready for work.

“Uhh….I don’t know,” says Luke, pausing just long enough to convince me he’s lying.

“Hey, were you downstairs when me and Clay started fighting last night?”

Clay, our other housemate, and Luke are best friends who occasionally like to display their affection a little too forcefully.

“No, I think I was asleep by then. What happened?”

Luke emerges from his room looking bruised and sheepish.

“Actually I was going to ask you. I don’t really know.” Luke limps over for his toothbrush, clearly still in pain.

“You don’t even remember why you were fighting?”

“All I remember is all of a sudden we were punching each other and then everyone went home.”

By 8 am I am at work, perched on my four wheeler in front of the lift shop, dutifully protecting the fire lane while watching mothers and fathers dress their children in the ski school parking lot in front of me.

Around 10 o clock I see Clay’s distinctive fuzzy yellow dome striding down the bus lane, carrying his boots and wearing dark black sunblasters.

“Clay!” He whips around to face me, and I immediately regret calling him over.

“Look what Luke F*@%$#!G did to me,” he yells, loud enough for the whole parking lot to hear.

He whips off the sunblasters to reveal an eye both black and red. His fat lip curls into a menacing frown and starts bleeding again as he continued to spit verbal poison towards me and all the calm, mostly Mormon families around us. “That F&$@ING MOTHERF*$@ER and I STILL didn’t punch that F&*$ING SON OF A B*&@H in the face ONCE.”

“Oh,” I say softly, watching all the families to gauge their reactions, which are, at this point, mostly startled and confused.

“Hey Clay do you think you could tone it down a little there’s kids-”

“I don’t give a F@%K!” Clay yells, viciously swinging his snarling face towards the families suiting up for a day of skiing.

“Mommy…” says a little girl holding her boots.

“Sssshhh, honey get back in the car,” I hear her mother wisper, and notice that many of the people in our proximity are drawing their families and belongings as close together as possible.

Clay stands with wily, greasy hair, obviously slept on, and a distinctly beat up face, looking intimidating except for his bright green Girl Scout troop #23 tee-shirt with a big yellow smiley faced sunflower on it.

Parents are looking at us but intently avoiding eye contact, and I wonder if they’ve figured out this kid works here.

“So what happened?”

Clay looks at me, furious but thoughtful. He obviously has no idea.

“Did Luke say anything to you?”

“No, he didn’t know either. But he’s pretty hurt too, if it’s any consolation. Anyways you should go to work,” I say, hoping to put some distance between Clay and the small children near us. “Dave’s already looking for you.”

Clay stomps off and I smile at the families, who, with Clay out of the vicinity, feel it is now safe now to give me the Look of Utter Disapproval. I shrug, wondering, why is it always the girl’s fault?