A Post By: Michael Gallo
In high school, partying wasn’t a guaranteed thing like it was in college. There wasn’t a party every weekend and no one knew how legitimate a party was going to be. To make up for this, the parties that did happen, were often times legendary. In high school things like: common sense, maturity, and intelligence weren’t exactly in abundance. Now, combine that with 15 people who are certifiably crazy and you have yourself a good time. Parties usually involved either something extremely valuable breaking, a visit from the local police, or a hospital visit (sometimes two if no one had anything going on the next day). In this article I’ll examine a specific party that happened at a friend’s house my junior year. I will use fake names to protect the guilty. All events and information in this article are completely factual. This unfortunately happened.
Most of the time we ended up at one particular house. This was “Gizmo’s” house. Gizmo was a very good friend of mine. Gizmo belonged in a padded room. Gizmo was a year older, but even at 18 he had what loved ones would later call a “severe drinking problem”. He could put away 15 beers by himself and routinely finished 5ths of whiskey. While driving to parties, he would consume “road beers”. Most of the time he would drink until he was falling into bushes. If you got upset, or said something like, “Gizmo, get out of the bush,” he would fly off the handle and threaten both your family and your unborn children. He frequently started fights with people by saying stuff like, “What!? You wanna suck my noodle or something!?”
However on this particular Friday night, the party was at another kid’s house. We’ll call him “Richard”. Richard went to a private school for all boys. I used to play against him in lacrosse. One time, he had to sit out a game against us because the previous night he had gotten drunk and got bucked off a random horse he found walking around a field. Richard was throwing what was advertised as a “face melting crotch shot”. That was our lingo for a pleasant booze fueled get together. Gizmo couldn’t be more excited. A chance to get out of the house, have a few beers with some friends, and catch up with our friends that went to the private school. Innocent right?
My two friends “Bucky” and “Klunk” met me at Gizmo’s around 7pm. Gizmo was 6 beers deep. He was by himself. His father wasn’t around (ever, no one asked questions though) and his mother was at the casino. After watching Gizmo down another 2 beers, Klunk suggested we get going. Gizmo said he wasn’t going to ride with us. “How the fuck are you getting there?” – Bucky, 2004. Gizmo said his girlfriend was picking him up and he was going to meet us there. We were skeptical, but each of us had this strange, unexplained part of us that desperately wanted to trust Gizmo. Klunk and I got into Bucky’s car. Bucky was sane enough but couldn’t drive a car to save his life. Whenever I rode with him, I found myself saying several Hail Mary’s. When he drove, everything was more interesting to him than the actual road. But we got to Richard’s.
Inside, was one of the biggest shit shows I’ve ever seen. People had fallen off the couch and were passed out upside down. A guy was asleep in the toilet. A girl had slapped another girl in the face, sending her two front teeth through her top lip. A guy came out of a back room with newly powdered nostrils. I looked at Klunk and Bucky. This was raunchy. From outside we heard what sounded like a Nascar race. A single head light stopped, glaring into the front window of the house. The front door flew open, slamming into the sheet rock behind it. Gizmo strode into the house holding a bud light. He found us and walked straight to us, pushing two girls out of the way.
Bucky: Where’s Vicky?
Gizmo: Who said anything about Vicky? I got a motorcycle!
Bucky, Klunk, and I stood in a dumbfounded state of disbelief. If there was one human on earth who shouldn’t have a motorcycle, it was Gizmo. We asked him how he was able to afford it. He claimed he had been saving the money he made as an Applebee’s waiter. Klunk looked like he was going to cry. In a round about way, Applebee’s was going to be the death of Gizmo. However, 2 drinks later, no one gave a shit about Gizmo’s motorcycle. We were having fun. The two girls who had fought earlier both looked like they were getting ready for Round 2. Richard looked like he was ready to make another farmer’s horse his personal Seabiscuit.
About an hour later, Bucky (who hadn’t had a sip of alcohol) told us Gizmo looked like he was getting out of control. We approached Gizmo slowly, careful to make no sudden movements. He was by himself, standing on a couch and humping the air.
Me: Gizmo…do you think maybe you should stop drinking? Your humping Richard’s air.
Gizmo: Do you think maybe you want to go fuck yourself?
Klunk: Dude, just chill out. Don’t be a pain in the ass tonight.
Gizmo: Klunk, you wanna suck my noodle or something?
Klunk: I didn’t say anything about sucking anyone’s noodle.
Gizmo: Dude, fuck you!
Gizmo, jumped off the couch and grabbed Klunk by the throat. Gizmo made a sound like “naaaaaaarf”. Klunk started turning red while making a sound like “Grrrrrgggggtt”. Bucky and I knew better than to get in the middle of this. One time while trying to get Gizmo off of a random kid at a Hy-Vee he elbowed me so hard in the eye that I threw up. Klunk bit Gizmo’s finger, forcing him to let go. They both stood there breathing heavily for a few seconds.
Gizmo: Fuck this! This party sucks, you guys suck, and EVERYONE can go fuck themselves! I’m rolling out.
Gizmo reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys. Everyone in the living room was staring at us.
Me: How the fuck are driving home? You’re drooling.
Gizmo reached up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Gizmo: Dude, the bike knows the way home.
Klunk: That’s the fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
Gizmo: Wait, I’m not driving…yeah, Vicky is picking me up.
Bucky: If Vicky is picking you up, then why did you get your keys out.
Gizmo looked at the ceiling for a second.
Me: Gizmo, give me your keys, don’t be fucking stupid, you’re drunk and you just tried to end your friends life. You’re not thinking right.
He looked back at the ceiling.
Gizmo: No, I need my keys to pick up the bike tomorrow.
Me: How is she picking you up, you didn’t even call her.
Gizmo: We talked…earlier. About her, you know…if she wanted…I don’t know.
Me: Give me your keys.
Gizmo: No! I have to go to the bathroom before Vicky get’s here, get out of my way. Or does one of you want to suck my noodle!?
We all shook our heads no. Gizmo shouldered Klunk as he walked by. A minute later we heard a door slam.
Klunk: He just went out the fucking back door!
We ran to the front door and outside. Gizmo sat on his bike, his helmet on crooked. He gave us the middle finger as he started the bike. Bucky yelled obscenities at him as Klunk ran to try and grab him. Gizmo got the bike started and started rolling it backwards. He yelled something at us that to this day I can’t understand. I know the word “pussy” was in there somewhere, but everything else is a mystery. And it always be.
Gizmo accelerated so hard he left a deep,dark streak in the middle of the road. The bike roared as he tore down the street. The three of us stood and watched him drive off, completely silent. Half way down the street, he swerved hard to the right and drove onto a front yard before swerving even harder and going between two houses into the backyard. He was gone. Bucky sighed. Klunk looked at his shoes. I reminded everyone that the bike knew the way home.
Legend has it Gizmo drove through three backyard’s before driving through a fence and putting the bike down in someone’s backyard. Not wanting a DUI he supposedly stood, brushed himself off and walked 4 miles to his house.
This story is completely factual. The last paragraph is the only part that has not been confirmed. Supposedly Bucky and an acquaintance of ours saw the hole in the fence. Supposedly Gizmo had phone pictures. No one knew. We never will. Gizmo left after senior year and no one’s heard from him since. Last I heard he moved to California. He could be dead for all we know. Let’s hope, for his sake, the bike really does know the way home.