Page 55 of Fun at Parties
Nate is no longer standing at my side. He’s shuffled over to the left corner of the desk, where the view of the VIP campground is less obstructed. Logan is here, we know that. One of his friends posted photos earlier: a group shot in front of one of the fancy tents, with Logan front and center, and one of him at the first show of theday, his face turned up and his arms spread wide, inviting the rain.
If a golf cart dropped him off right now, we’d see him. But that would require perfect timing, which we don’t have, so instead we trek back to the car.
“You go ahead,” I say a quarter mile in. “I’m going to lie down and let the mud take me. When future generations discover my body, I’ll be so well-preserved they’ll put me in a museum.”
Nate reaches out a hand. “Let me take your bag.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. It would be a waste of the granola bars for you to keep it when you succumb to the elements.”
Around the halfway point, he makes a futile attempt to wring out his T-shirt. “I would agree to spend the afterlife at a Vegas pool party in exchange for the power to teleport away from here right now.”
“But would youswimat the pool party?”
“I’m already swimming,” he says. “Is this not swimming?”
By the time our car comes into view, we’ve deteriorated into foolishness, leaning into each other’s shoulders as we stagger forward.
“Remember when you thought the clown motel was the worst thing we were going to encounter?” I ask.
“Remember when you thought the trip had gone off the rails because you stepped on a Lego?” he replies.
“We handled The Floor Is Lava like professionals. Shouldn’t we be able to handle this?”
“I don’t know if I’d say we handled it likeprofessionals.” A pink tinge colors his cheeks, but his tone is playful.
I’m too delirious for that comment to fluster me.
We blast the heat and follow the concierge’s directions to the car camping lot, where it’s abundantly obvious that the masses came prepared. Different versions of the same pop-up canopy shield the tailgates of every vehicle, many set with folding chairs and tarps for floors. People have grills and coolers and lighting arrangements. Most of them seem to be planning to sleep in tents. The rest have air mattresses and piles of bedding in their trunks. Shit, what are we going to do without blankets?
Nate’s eyes are wide and darting everywhere, which means he’s ten seconds away from hitting the gas and not letting up until we run into the closest Courtyard by Marriott. “All the hotels nearby are probably booked,” I say.
He blinks. “I didn’t say I wanted to go to a hotel.”
“You’re good here?”
“I’m great,” he says. “Looking forward to”—he surveys the scene in front of us—“giving that Slip ’N Slide a try.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he mirrors the expression. “Wait, doyouwant to leave?”
“Nope. This is going to be an adventure.”
Once we park, things start looking up. This shitty little corner of this giant swamp is an instant community. Just add water, and the misery and music does the rest, apparently. We wander the rows, feeling out who seems friendly and social, and the answer is almost everyone.
A group of KU students holds court in the three spots next to ours. They readily share their sandwiches and beer, which we gulp down eagerly. Natty Light has never tasted so good. An older couple takes one look at oursorry state and gives us a package of wet wipes and a couple clean, dry towels. We Venmo a guy in an old Bronco twenty bucks in exchange for a sleeping bag, though we decline his offer of mushrooms.
The rain eases up around sundown, and the campsite glows an artificial yellow as the lights come on. Nate and I take turns shimmying out of our clothes in the car, drying off and scrubbing away as much of the grime as possible. I change into my denim shorts and new cowboy boots, admiring their metallic gleam while it lasts and throwing on a lightweight hooded jacket over my T-shirt to protect against the unrelenting wind.
When Nate ducks into the car, I head back toward our college student neighbors. “Un-fucking-believable,” spits a guy wearing a blue baseball cap on top of the hood of his red plastic poncho, his jaw flexing as he glares at some of his friends, who are gathered around the passenger seat of a Jeep. His anger is jarring, since the first conversation I had with him involved him cheerfully listing every food he believes to be improved by ranch dressing.
A curly-haired blond girl in cute yellow rain boots flashes me an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she says. “We’re having a bit of a situation. Did you guys want more beer?”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
The guy in the poncho is still muttering curses, so she angles herself away from him. “He’s pissed because someone just threw up in his car.”
“Oh, no.” One thing that woulddefinitelymake the car camping experience worse is unwanted bodily fluids in the vehicle.
She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. This guy none of us even know that well, who kind of invited himself. Between this and the weather, I don’t know if we’re going to make it until Sunday.”
