Vol. 78 No. 161
Eugene, Oregon 97403
V
June 7, 1977
Apartment parties: Hiya, how's it goin’?’
Although it was raining relentlessly, I pulled
back the hood of my jacket to help me pick
out the faint strains of “Court and Spark”
waiting between the fat, cascading drops. My
friend had given me the apartment number of
his party, but it was too dark and wet for me to
discern anything more than the outline of the
squat stucco building, so I had to depend on
my ears to guide me through the deepening
gloom.
By the time the shrill yodels of “Hein Me
had faded into the damp night, I was sliding
in front of the fiberboard door, watching the
sagging weatherstripping sway gently to the
music. I was nervous. It sounds silly, I know,
but 1 had never been to an apartment party
before, and I didn't know what to expect. The
only thing l knew for certain was that apart
ment dwellers pursued lives that were infi
nitely more intellectual, sensual and exotic
than the immature, let’s-go-raid-Boynton,
stick-this-beer under-your-coat, Linda-didn't
leave-till-three-last-night-no-kidding exis
tences that I and my fellow dorm residents
eked out Far beyond such childish pastimes,
I was sure that persons who lived in apart
ments cohabited with the opposite sex,
read NietecW^oluntarily, and took drugs
that helped them see God. With the convic
tion that I was about to experience a rite of
youth that would serve as the first step of my
initiation to a higher social order, I twisted the
knob and stepped inside.
The dense cloud of smoke that wrapped
itself around me as I entered made me sus
pect arson at first, but a whiff of the drifting
stuff told me that a less serious crime was
involved. Along with that powerful odor were
several more subtle scents: the brawny bou
quet of hops and barley, the pungent tang of
10-for-a-buck incense, the saccharine smell
of patchouli oil, and the ubiquitous fragrance
of decaying shag and dissolving plaster en
demic to Eugene apartments, apparently due
to an ecological commitment by campus-area
builders that restricted them from construct
ing non-biodegradable student housing.
I could not see the whole apartment, as it
was jammed with squatting, sitting, standing,
teetering and collapsing people, screaming
what I knew must be enlightened opinions
over the roar of four refrigerator-sized speak
ers. No one had approached me yet, so I
trotted over to the ice-packed garbage can
that held the keg, hoping that if I were seen
drinking a beer the stigma of my naivete
would be less obvious.
Sure enough no sooner had I filled my
plastic cup than a figure floated to me through
the swirling mist. It was a male, wearing a
caterpillar hat, wire-rim glasses, a large mous
tache, puka beads glistening around an un
seasonable tan neck, a Hawaiian shirt, mac
rame belt, Cheap Jeans, sweat socks and
Roots.
"Hiya, Pal,” he said, grinning. “How’s it
goin’?”
“Great,” 1 said grinning.
“Hey, that’s great,” he said, grinning.
“Hey, can I get you a beer?”
“No, no thanks,” I said, lifting mine and
grinning. “I’ve got one.”
“Hey, that’s great,” he said, grinning.
“Well, take it easy.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching him drift away.
Almost immediately another shape came into
focus. This one was dressed precisely like the
one that had just left, but he was slightly taller
so I knew it wasn’t the same person.
“Hiya, buddy,” he said, grinning. “How’s
it going for you? Can I get you a beer?”
“Hi. Great. No, thanks, I’ve got one,” I
replied, grinning with some effort.
“Great. Hey, that Ronnie Lee’s really
something, isn’t he?”
“He sure is,” I said. Things weren’t going
the way I had planned. Perhaps, I reasoned, it
Graphic by Jon Combs
was the newcomer who was expected to
bring up the more enlightened topics. “But to
tell the truth, 1 don’t follow Duck basketball
too closely. Lately I’ve been getting into some
of Nietzsche’s works."
“Really?” said the man. “Who does he
play for?”
For some reason the haze seemed to be
growing thicker.
“Uh, nobody,” I sighed. “You see,
Nietzsche was a philoso-"
“Well, see you later,” the man said dissolv
ing into the smoke.
I sighed again and refilled my cup. Maybe
I wasn’t approaching this from the right angle.
After all, the essence of a party’s function is to
bring men and women together. Maybe it
was the inter-sexual discussions that yielded
the most stimulating ideas.
With this in mind 1 began shuffling around
the dim living room until I found a male and
female pair who, by their intent expressions,
seemed to be discussing something of
monumental importance. Trying to remain
inconspicuous, I sidled over and turned an
ear toward them.
“So then,” the woman was saying, “1 saw
Jim after class ’n stuff, y’know, and 1 said ‘hi’
’n stuff, and he said ‘hi’ ’n stuff, y’know, and 1
said... I said...” the conversation was
halted here for several seconds as the couple
roared with laughter, “How have you been n
stuff and he said ‘fine’ ’n stuff, y’know, and 1
said ‘really’ ’n stuff...”
“Did you really say that?” her friend in
quired.
“I really did, ’n stuff, God, 1 swear 1 don’t
know why, I was just in a crummy mood 'n
stuff..
This party, I decided, had been a total
waste of my time, and I resolved to search out
the friend who had invited me and tell him so.
I snagged a passing form by the beads to see if
he knew where the host was.
“Hiya, pal," he said. “How’s it goin’. Hey,
can 1 get you a beer? Man, that Ronnie Lee s
really something, isn’t he? God, 1 was so
drunk last week 1 asked Deady Hall for a
date.’’
“Hi. Great. No thanks. He sure is. Wow,
that’s drunk,” I replied evenly. “But tell me,
do you know where 1 could find the host?”
“You’re looking at him,” replied the man.
“Terrific party, huh?”
“But you’re not. .. hey, is this 1464 South
18th?”
“Huh? No, man, this is North 18th. Man,
you must be drunk. But you couldn’t be as
drunk as I was last month when I went to late
Mass and took off all of my..
I didn’t wait to hear the rest. Dropping my
shredded cup, I zigzagged through die totter
ing throng, yanked open the cardboard door,
charged through the pelting downpour, dived
- into my four-tone Toyota, roared 28 blocks
down die slippery street, skidded into a park
ing space, jogged once more through cloud
burst, knocked on a carved oak door and
stepped into the correct apartment.
The subtle arpeggios of Bach’s “Air on
the G-String” bounced softly between the
mahogany-paneled walls, mingling with the
gentle scents of Flying Dutchman and
Puligny-Montracet ’73. Scattered about on
the flawless Chippendale was a striking con
tingent of handsome young people, clad in
tweed and silk and cashmere, enraptured by
the source of the music, a slender, intense
looking young man whose eyes flamed like
windows to an incandescent soul. As he al
ternately caressed and tortured the Reaming
Stradivarius he carried his audience from joy
to despair to joy once more, until even the vial
of white powder on the mantle behind him
seemed to tremble with the changes of emo
tional atmosphere.
Finally the ethereal performance drew to a
close, and after a respectful round of ap
plause a roomful of bright, clear heads turned
in my direction. A blonde gentleman arose
and shook my hand warmly. 1 was so dazed
by the opulence and exotic aura of the scene
that it took me a few moments to recognize
him as the friend who had invited me.
“Greetings, citizen and friend,” he said in a
well-modulated voice, through straight, glis
tening teeth. “How fortunate that you found
time to attend our gathering. My roommate,”
he indicated a blushing goddess, “and I were
discussing whether or not God might justifi
ably assert that Nietzsche is alive, which I view
as a refreshing analytic viewpoint. Now,
however, we are in dire need of a new third
partner in our discussion, because,” his voice
took on a discouraged tone, “we seem to
have reached an impasse.”
Such a visage of failure seemed horribly
out of place on my friend’s usually happy
face.
“Have you tried . .. everything?” 1 asked
throwing a glance at the vial of white powder.
(Continued on Page 12)
This special 12-page edition of the
Emerald contains a series of pieces written
by ex-Emerald-type Brad Lemley. A
young man turned cynic by four years and
North Salem High and a meaningless sex
life, Lemley is now in Michigan looking for
America, but he left us with this 12-part
series, a look at the life we all know. ed.
i ■■ --—