St. Pierre vs. St. Pierre: What Happened That Fateful Evening
I went down to North Adams, MA, the other weekend to go to Missi St. Pierre’s graduation party. It was a lot of fun. The car contained me, Tom, Heather, and Missi’s friend Joann, who was pretty cool.
Now, the party was a lovely affair. We bought Missi Thanksgiving tchotchkas from the grocery store. I got her some Indian corn, Tom got her a stalk of wheat, Heather got a gourd, and Joann . . . I forget what Joann got. Squash? I don’t know. We presented these to Missi at the party, which was held in what seemed to be a VFW hall. The party was mostly centered around Missi’s family, but that was cool. We were glad to see her and got to hang out together later. In the meantime, we enjoyed the cheap drinks and stuff.
[personal note: this party was much different than MY graduation party, which was a lovely dinner thrown by my parents. An older brother of mine came over with his wife, and it was real low key. The best exchange is as follows:
My Brother: So, you're graduating, huh? How about that, little buddy? Good deal!
Rick: Yeah.
My Brother: So where did you go to school?
Rick: . . . this place called Bennington in Vermont.
My Brother: Oh yeah?
Rick: Yeah
My Brother: What did you study up there?
Rick: Uh, writing, literature. That kind of stuff.
My Brother: Yeah?
Rick: Yeah!
My Brother: So you're into that kind of thing?
Rick: Yeah, yeah.
My Brother: Good deal.
Then we ate pumpkin pie. It was pretty funny. God bless 'em.]
Anyway, Missi had to do a lot of schmoozing with her family, who were all pretty clean cut, working class folks who were all really nice. Her Dad thanked us for coming, and made us feel welcome.
During the celebration, the four of us got progressively drunker, and noticed that there was another party going on outside.
See, the basement of this hall was a bar, and another branch of the St. Pierre family were having a party in a tent. I don’t know their relation to Missi, but it seemed pretty distant. It must ahve been. These people were like the Bizarro St. Pierres. They weren’t clean cut at all, but rather a bunch of scraggly looking ne’er-do-wells who were staggering around and yelling shit at each other.
SAMPLE INTERACTION: One of the guys had an undershot chin and was wearing a wifebeater. He staggered out of the bar and . . . you know how some people get so fucking drunk that it’s a mystery what the fuck they’re saying to you? I just sounds like “Muaarrr muaaar muaaa” and shit? Anyway, this guy had gotten to that stage. We attracted his attention, and he decided to talk to me and Heather. Here’s what I could make out from our conversation:
Guy: Wwww? Y’all bein buncha HAMMERHEADS?
Me: What?
Guy: Life’s too [indescipherable]. Fuckin’ ddddd.
Me: What?
Guy: GOT A FUCKIN’ DOG! Name’s Lazz.
Me: Laser?
Guy: Lazarus, you fuckin’ deaf? Feeble? Feeb?
The guy leads us around the corner of the bar, where he has a black labrador chained to a pipe. He throws a deflated soccerball at the dog, which the dog can’t catch because it’s too fucking big.
Guy: Catch it, dummy! cccCatch! Fucker.
At this point, the guy advances on the dog. He grabs it and starts throwing it up against the building, kind of like he’s playing with it, but also kind of like he’s actually angry. The dog rears back on its hind legs, and hits the guy with it’s paws. No shit! It looked really funny, like it kind of just slapped at the guy, who fell over. He was crawling around on the ground, yelling.
Guy: Fuckin’ faggot dog! You fuckin . . . arrghhm, fuckin’ faggot Lazarus! Oh, shit!
And the dog would knock him over again. They guy was limbs akimbo in the dirt, unsure of which way was up, and this little dog was prancing all over him. Tom suggested we take our drinks and crash the Bizarro St. Pierre party. We showed up, and this woman who looked like she had rickets yelled at us.
Woman: If you ain’t invited then get the hell out!
We took a hint. We were pissed, but I figure that she would probably die of rickets soon enough. Back to the normal St. Pierre part (already in progress), where we ate salad and cookies. We hung out with Missi, got breakfast the next morning, and then went our seperate ways.
It was a thoroughly pleasant evening of the kind that I so seldom have anymore. It was quiet and everyone was in a really good mood. That seems to be harder and harder to find, you know. I wish she’d graduate from something else.
October 7th, 2005 at 3:13 pm
I’m glad I read this, here in Canada. It kindof feels melodramatic in a way, like looking far into the past. Maybe it’s because I’m out of the country and haven’t checked my phone messages, or maybe it’s too much reality television and emails buzzing about a Bennington Reunion that bring the taste of sweet bile from the Bingham bathroom floor back so vividly.
I read the DaVinci Code. At first I liked it, but now I feel like a miserable slob, because of the lousy ending. I’ll be getting back to Harry Potter for the plane ride home, but in the mean time, I’ll be returning to my room for more of the spinning room of guitar and sculpey and my newest craft, Knife throwing. Years ago I made a heavy throwing knife out of steel in my parents basement and threw it at a board, but recently my friend at work and I looked up knife throwing on the internet, and picked up an exacto knife lying on the nearest workbench and found them to be perfectly balanced for the sport. Set up a piece of cardboard and hold the knife from the blade end (not necessarily the blade) from about 8 feet. Release the knife as it’s tail faces up and it should do a 3/4 turn in the air. This is highly addictive, especially if you have more than one knife to get into the groove. Trust me.
-Bizarro St. Jake