Consider The Fiasco

Posted by Minni

Recently, after a very embarrassing episode, I began to the consider ingredients that make up a good old, face reddening, melt-into-the-ground, fiasco. A lot of the time a fiasco is just an unfortunate series of events stacked precariously high, that comes crashing down on unsuspecting victims at the most pivotal of times. These instances include: important meetings, highly anticipated performances, a featured presentation, during an audition for a coveted part, or a job interview. Sometimes, no matter how prepared you think you are, you are subject to a deep, sharp turn in events that sends you down the hill in a barrel so to speak. It's like a domino effect, one thing goes wrong and then another and the next thing you know, you're watching in horror as the whole affair implodes before your eyes.

By the time people have reached adulthood, they've most likely been dragged down into the unrelenting currents of the fiasco a few flabbergasting times.

There's nothing quite as terrible as being on the wrong end of one, being misunderstood, and feeling utterly helpless as your carefully thought-through plans start to crumble along with your pride. On the other hand, in retrospect, there's nothing quite like the laughs a good debacle renders from the most cynical of audiences. I mean, if you can't laugh at yourself, then .... Mark Twain and Stephen Leacock certainly capitalized on this ideal. They basked in the hysterics of the everyday fiasco, and right now, so am I. I'd recount my most recent utter failure right here and now if it wasn't so recent. But today I will revisit a classic fiasco, one for the books and one that did not anyone in particular.

The faces were these:

I've never enjoyed being the host. I mean, having a few friends over is one thing. But hosting, hosting a party... That, my friend, is quite another. It was new years eve. They quiet day before the loud night. It started all well. I had the food almost ready, the drinks chilled. I even had the house clean and smelling great, with a giant fruit bowl in the middle of the living room simply for aesthetic value. And I brought out my only set of matching glasses and my mom's hand-me-down punch bowel. I stood back and admired my work with a smug face, arms akimbo: I was doing OKAY.

I should have stood there longer to thoroughly enjoy that smug feeling of accomplishment while it lasted. I would have, if I had known how long it would take before I felt it again and, perhaps, how far down into the depths of shame I would plummet.

At any rate, instead of lingering and enjoying my peace, I scurried into the kitchen to put on a pan of oil in which to fry some chicken. It was almost 7 p.m. and my friend Jay was set to be there son, to bring some beer among other spirits to the party. The vast majority of the people were not set to arrive until 9 p.m. or later so I was not feeling rushed. Then my cell phone rang. I picked it up. I answered. It was Jay, outside, needed help bringing in the drinks. I said OK. I put the phone back onto the kitchen counter and went out to give her a quick hand. I had a couple minutes before the grease got hot anyway. On the way out, I noticed a bag of trash sitting by the back door, begging to be taken out before the party. And I thought, "If i don't take it out now, I never will." So I grabbed the bag by the neck and instead of going out of the front door, I went out the back, to drop the trash off on the way to my friends car. The back door swung shut behind me. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when Jay and I returned with an arms full of liquor and beer, that I realized it had locked... from the inside. I tugged on the knob with my one free hand and tried to turn it. It didn't budge. My stomach turned a bit.

"It's probably just 'cause I have all this stuff," I said quickly, to my friend, who looked somewhat concerned. I set down the beer, the bags, the boxes, and turned back to the door. This time a gave it a good hard turn and tug, but to no avail. It felt like I had swallowed rocks and they were sinking fast into my stomach. I gulped. Through the thick paneled glass I could see the pan on the stove and from outside I could hear the grease popping over the heat. I knew for a fact that the front door was locked. And bolted. It was all I could do not to panic.

"Can I see your phone?" I asked Jay, who now looked at me with a hint of disbelief, perhaps even distaste. She handed over the phone giving my that look, like, "Are.You.Kidding." Kidding, I was not. I squeezed her phone tight in my hands, hoping beyond hope that I could remember my landlord's number. Or even my roommate's for that matter. And the more it dawned on me, the harder I held the phone: I was helpless without my cell phone. A spineless grovelling idiot who only knew three numbers by heart: 9-1-1 (and the chinese food place down the road by the dry cleaners). It was a few sconds before I realized I had been gripping her phone as if I believed the little device could be squeezed and emit numbers like an orange emits juice. I was completely lost without my cell phone. Locked outside of a house that had a pan of oil burning in it not to mention the very high flame. I was dead. So much for the new year.

*More to come, I'm tired for now.*


TBC