Green Sweatshirt

Perhaps it's because I have a strong affinity for Rod Serling or because I'm intensely odd but for whatever reason, my life consistently delivers bizarre instances that keep me guessing even as I grow older.

As most people do, I often rehash memories at random times. There is one that has seemed to find its way back in my life by unexpected osmosis. It comes from the time of which Daze of Yor began. It was before I was overly into drugs but still heavily drinking. And now for the setup.

I was a junior in high school. It was in either 2001 or 2002. Pretty sure it was 2002. Actually, yeah because I think it was when my dad was on his honeymoon. Hmmm. I'm not totally sure. I was pretty drunk. Don't know why I couldn't just edit that up and save your retinas but oh well. So either my dad was on his honeymoon or I had a single papa. Now, while my old man was single, he went out all the time so the Carlson home was also known in the seedy underground of Southern Orange County as THE PARTY MACHINE. It was not uncommon for me to have weekend long parties complete with full bars, a cover charge, excessive immature fornication, light drug use, and smiles across the board.

One particular party was so rocking that there wasn’t even a chain to be off of. What? I had a buddy of mine bartending. We setup a couch blocking off the kitchen. We bought three hundred dollars worth of alcohol. As most dumb teens do, we decided that some good old-fashioned irresponsibility would be best to indulge in before the party started. We had a shot contest. Don't remember how many I took but I do know that we tallied them up on a posted piece of computer paper. To be brief, I was passed out in my bedroom -- fully dressed, wearing sunglasses, and cradling a vomit filled Scooby-Doo trash can. My house could have caught fire or been destroyed by time traveling dinosaurs and I would have never known.

I finally came to and my how things had changed. The house was filled with young men and women, the music was bouncing like fat not sexy boobs, and the night had descended upon THE PARTY MACHINE. I got up and had a drink. I talked to some girls and some boys. I squeezed buns. Something had brought me back into my room and I was shortly followed by a person who, for the life of me, I cannot remember -- not their face, not their sex, nothing. So Androgynous Hermaphrodite Person told me that the cops were in my living room. No problem. I was Superman.

Literally falling down the stairs, I crashed into the living room and introduced myself to the police officers as the owner of the fine establishment that they were not welcome at. They had no invitations and were just plain rude. They made two of my friends empty the keg and made hot men and women leave. Somehow I slurred a story to keep my one friend from going to jail and I promised that things were under control. They left and the party went on, only now it was a little less crowded.

Later on, a few friends and I sat in my room drinking beers and enjoying a nice late night low-key time. To my surprise, I saw some all too familiar coppers walk into my room with an unidentified white male most likely in his forties. My local law enforcement was very polite and ignored all of the underage drinking and the fact that I was shirtless. They just said that this mystery man needed to ask me something. I sat back, swigged some brew, and opened my ears. This cat asked if I knew his daughter and whether or not she had frequented THE PARTY MACHINE at any point in the evening. She was missing. I didn't know the name or the description. But honestly, would I really remember a young girl in a green sweatshirt? I wished the man good luck on his venture and told him and the officers that I would keep an eye out. Then they blew that joint. Cops are the biggest party hoppers in the world. And it's always funny when the cops know you by name and have no reservations about just walking into your room and not taking you in for a nice little corn holing.

The night rolled on and everyone passed out. Morning came-a-knocking and the remaining true believers reminisced about the night previous. However, something was wrong. I was wearing a green sweatshirt. I didn't own a green sweatshirt. No one still there owned a green sweatshirt. No one remembered ever seeing a green sweatshirt. What in sweet Pete's name was going on? Someone had even slept with me that night (not in the Biblical sense) and said that I didn't go to bed with it on. Also, they said they didn't hear me get up at any point in the night. So either I killed some girl, and did such a good job that even I couldn't solve the mystery, or I had visited the Twilight Zone. I'm cool with either.

Moral of the story: missing persons earn you a new sweatshirt.