My friend has a bit of a drug problem

This past Saturday my friend caught word that her roommate’s friend’s friend was having a birthday party at his daddy’s Park Avenue apartment. It was begging to be crashed. I was already having visions of myself getting inappropriately drunk and waking the next morning sprawled out on an Oriental rug with empty bottles of champagne around me.

My boyfriend and I arrived two ticks past midnight. Our friends were already there, dressed in gym clothes. They had started drinking after a devastating loss in touch football earlier in the day and decided that a trek downtown to change wasn’t worth it. Seeing them was a ridiculous study in juxtoposition — orange sweats and hoodies next to Gossip Girls with perfect hair and that rich girl sheen.

We took up residence in the corner with the remaining cans of Coors Light and a bottle of Jameson. The scene was so subdued I wanted to scream. I thought rich kids were supposed to be wild drug addicts? The extent of their partying consisted of drinking directly out of a bag of red wine that they had extracted from a box. I popped an Adderall and watched as they passed the ‘udder’ around.

I was wondering when we’d be “found out” — when the jig would be up. Some chick (let’s call her ‘Long Island’) plopped her ass down next to my friend in the orange sweats and asked her how she knew the guy having the party. My friend explained the situation quite diplomatically and ‘Long Island’ could only fire back with a question about the gym attire. While we dodged that bullet, I was quickly realizing that the guy next to me was going to be the real problem. He kept spitting on this crazy expensive rug.

At first I thought he was just going to be sick and needed to be dragged to the bathroom asap. But he said he felt fine and continued to spit on this rug. I don’t care where you are, but you can’t just keep spitting on someone’s rug. So I asked him what was up and he said that it was some sort of nervous compulsion and I felt bad for confronting him but still something needed to be said.

And then the party was clearing out and suddenly I look up and we’re the last people at this party. The birthday boy looked absolutely terrified of us. The Spitter kid was M.I.A. but we figured he was just up on the roof smoking a cigarette so we had to hang around. Finally we got word that he had just bolted so we were ready to make our grand exit. I threw on my red plaid jacket and approached ‘birthday boy’ to apologize for overextending our welcome. And for some reason, in a way of explaining our continued presence, said ‘I’m sorry but our friend has a bit of a drug problem.’

The kid’s eyes widened and ‘Long Island’ emerged out of nowhere to come to his aid. And we hopped in the elevator that opened directly to his living room and laughed our asses off the whole way down.