Party on Wheels

So I found myself, not all that long ago and against my much better judgment, on a party bus.

As an independent fact, it wouldn’t be so bad – but the party bus in question was filled with newly hatched legal drinkers, and we were headed out on an all-night Boston nightclubbing adventure. At almost 30, it was literally the last place on the planet I wanted to be.

“Michael rented a party bus for when I’m in town,” my best friend Nicole had told me weeks before.

“No. There is no way in hell you’re getting me on that bus.”

“I know. But it won’t be so bad. We don’t even have to be around his friends. Plus we’ll barely have any other time to see each other,” she pleaded. “I’ll pay for your share – and it will be so much more fun with you there.” What could I say? She hit all my weak spots: flattery, guilt, brokeness. I had no choice.

The minute I stepped on the bus I knew it was going to be an 8-hour journey into the depths of misery. The boys fretted back and forth, navigating kegs up the bus stairs and around the built-in stripper pole. The girls, in too-high heels and too-low jeans, played with their hair and put on more lipstick. I just kept my mouth shut and silently screamed.

“We’re so too old for this,” Nicole whispered, eyeing me and her husband. “I know,” I said. “This is the worst thing that ever happened.”

The club itself – some multi-level sports bar in the shadow of the Garden - wasn’t so bad. Having been through several miserable college years of nightclubbing in horribly uncomfortable shoes and strapless bras, I had planned a cute and easy-to-wear outfit, and the three of us spent our time catching up and making fun of the girls hobbling around.

I was wrong, though. The worst thing in the world turned out to be the ride home. While we rode to Boston in a party bus, we came back in a vomit van. I had forgotten about those halcyon days of not being able to hold your drink. Some bleary-eyed girl stomped past me, then stopped in front of her boyfriend.

“Is someone going to rectify this?” she asked, shaking with revulsion and pointing at her shoe, which was covered in someone else’s puke. I closed my eyes, leaned against Nicole, and knew that when I opened them again I would never see the inside of a party bus in my life.