Wild Guests

My brain is ringing with echoes of foreign accents. They crossed several continents and oceans, a distant cousin and two friends. They wanted to see what an "American Uni" was like, and perhaps they got more than they bargained for.

For weeks before their arrival I had been rehearsing my one plea, "just promise me you won't get drunk and sick." Before we went out, I managed to squeeze out my request, but perhaps without the same gusto that I mustered while rehearsing. Either way my request feel upon at least 2 deaf ears.

It's not my "scene" at all. I don't go out dropping various alcohol bombs in restaurants, or practicing my aim with beer pong. Never done it, probably don't intend to... but as an overly accommodating host, I put myself in that position, staying beyond sober the whole time, and promising to watch over my hyperexcited guests.

It had to be the cousin, the one who lost control, the one who was spending the night in my room. I begged and pleaded while the night was still young and he was starting to look dazed and glazed. Please no more, please, please! But he was having too much fun and refused to listen, the fresh doses of alcohol continued to poison his veins.

Later that night at a party, he was beginning to slow down. He spilled a bottle of beer on the guy's couch and got up and walked away. Being the nice relative-host I tried to be, I began to clean up his mess, but then handed him some paper towels, "come help me clean." He stumbled my way, sloppily grabbed the paper towels and wiped the beer-stained ass crack on his jeans.

He could hardly walk home. He couldn't stand straight. "Right to bed," he mumbled. I tried to feed him water, but he refused. When I forced him, he took a drunk sip that just drooled out of his mouth.

We got to my room at 1:45 a.m. and he collapsed on my floor, "goodnight." He wouldn't even get in the sleeping bag, wouldn't change clothes, wouldn't brush his teeth, refused a sobering-cleansing shower. His friends said I should let him be, that he'll be fine in the morning.

Five minutes later I open my door and a fetid stench of vomit explodes from my door crack. My trash was full of an acidified and liquefied version of tonight's dinner. The morning will tell how much was left on the carpet.

I clean the mess and resort to my best: Mom. "I'm sorry for waking you up at 2 a.m., Mom. I'm OK, don't worry, but I really need your help... I've never dealt with drunk people like this before, don't know what to do!" She heard me out and referred me to Dad, whose slightly wilder years granted him a bit more say on the subject.

They helped. They calmed me down and gave me some tips. I got the other two hyper friends to bed, and now the last person to take care of is myself. Y'all, what a night. I'm the only one who maintained a grain of sanity, yet I'm so frustrated and embarrassed. Can anyone explain this to me?