A few years back I was in Denver Colorado visiting an old friend at college. My lodgings consisted of an ancient couch in his basement, 7 feet from a Keg that was 4 months old and still half full. The ice at its base had long since melted. The smell was horrendous. All I could do at night to fall asleep was douse the thing in cologne, and put a fan near my head on full blast pointing towards that ghastly silver barrel. I’d then pull a blanket over my head, and usually this protected me from the stench enough to crash out. Under normal circumstances I would have used the couch upstairs in the living room, but there were other friends in town that had arrived before me, and their claim had been staked. However, it was my first time in Denver, and waking up every morning to see the front range of the Rockies was more then enough to make up for my less then desirable sleeping conditions.
And eventually we tossed a garbage bag over that wretched fucking keg and took it back for a deposit. This was in preparation for a party my buddies girlfriend was throwing. And so the deposit went directly into another Keg.
We arrived late to the party. And we immediately noticed that the entire back yard was littered with gutter punks. Dressed from head to toe in black, cliché band names pinned to their emaciated leather jackets, spikes dangling everywhere, no concept of hygiene in the slightest. There was even a handful of junkyard mutts on ropes, running around, tearing up a back yard they weren’t even invited into. And, god forbid, they were partying like animals. Spraying each other with the keg tap and propping each other up, feet first into the sky, to do keg stands.
We, evidently, were at a point in our lives where we were much more sophisticated then any of this. We had transcended this foolish behavior. We went inside and our friends said the punks had descended on the scene about an hour ago. They had already broken one keg tap. We asserted that the majority were underage, probably strays from the fucking Avril Lavigne show that had just got out up the street. Any attempts to make them leave had lead to a near violent conflict, and one girl had almost been bit by one of those damn dogs.
So we did the only thing we could do. The ultimate faux pas. We pinned our ears back, threw a shit ton of caution to the wind, and called the cops on our own party.
After the call I made each of us a stiff Stoly and tonic. We went out on the front porch swing and waited. It was a gorgeous night. A light wind blowing through the trees, a stark contrast to what the Midwest was like this time of year. There it was snowing right now, it was cold and cruel and ahead of schedule. We poored more drinks and shared a joint. In the back we could hear the echoes of the underage punk rock wannabes experiencing life outside their parents reach for the first time, trying to pretend they had it all figured out. We smoked cigarettes and pointed out the cute girls among the groups randomly arriving, then quickly leaving the party. And the swing pitched gently back and forth. We took turns giving little pushes with our feet to increase the swings momentum, and neither of us spoke. We just sat patiently and relaxed. Enjoying the porch, separated from the chaos of the back yard, waiting for our savior to arrive.
About a half hour passed and a cop car came slowly rolling down the street. We waved it down and he pulled over. A single officer emerged, clearly uninspired by his task. He was a big mean looking son of a bitch this guy, and we knew he wasn’t someone to fuck with. So we cut to the chase.
“Hello officer, there’s a bunch of guys back there starting shit, getting stupid. Breaking stuff. Won’t leave, and they damn sure weren’t invited. We’ve tried being reasonable but they wont have it.”
The officer rubbed his chin in a thoughtful way and replied. “Well I gotta be honest with ya. I really don’t feel like bringin a paddy wagon out here just to haul 20 juveniles in for doing what college kids do. Seems you got yourself in a mite predicament here.”
We nodded our heads in agreement. “Seems so.”
“Tell you what. These kids live around here?”
“Yeah” we replied. “Most are from the dorms just up the street.”
“All right then. Have a nice night fellas.”
He tipped his hat to us and turned around, walked back to his car and got in. We thought for sure he had bailed. Decided we weren’t worth his overworked underpaid time.
Then suddenly…his siren let out a shrieking banshee squeal as simultaneously his lights flickered and lit up the entire street in front of us. For a moment the whole neighborhood glowed red and blue. He tapped the button a couple more times with the lights and volume at full blast.
Seconds later underage punks emerged from around us like bees from a threatened hive. They came bolting out from everywhere. Hurtling the fence. Running through bushes. Running out the front door and the side. Scattering in all directions. My friend and I sat there on the porch, stoned, watching the flock scatter like a predator that had just leapt from the brush searching for prey. And then, just as suddenly as the siren had blasted…everything was quiet.
The officer gave us the two finger salute, common to small town cops, but rarely seen from a big city officer. He shouted “enjoy the party…well, what’s left of the party. Be safe”. He rolled up his window and slowly drove away.
I looked over at my friend. We nodded our heads in satisfaction, then went back to the keg and were treated to our spoils. Now sitting all by its lonesome in the corner, still half full.
But for some reason the mood was wrong. We had obtained our prize, but it seemed we had lost something in the process. Later we would discuss, half joking, that this was our turning point. The moment where we went from attending parties to calling the cops on them.
He held the stick of dynamite sideways. Tightly in the palm of his fist, so its length was parallel with the ground. The wick was off to the side, gently arcing downwards.
