Party Crasher

It is so fucking hot. I can feel the sweat boiling off my
body. I’m walking from my grandparents’ home in swank East Sacramento
to a large park, trying to think of how to get away with wearing my
boxers in public. At the park, my dad and I are immediately put in
charge of grilling the meat, all bajillion pounds of it, despite the
presence of two-dozen adults with nothing better to do and droves of
children who love playing with fire. We slowly melt in the oppressive
heat; everyone else hails from hotter climates, but lacks the necessary
skill at combining flesh and fire.

Some of these people I haven’t seen since I first started growing
facial hair. Most of my adult family look shorter than I remember, and
they’re all a little crabbier, too. Cousins have spawned tiny progeny
who are running around, trying to give everyone sticks. Halfway through
the festivities, a cousin’s tiny dog pees on my leg. They swear
it’s the first time the puppy has ever done that to a human. More
blocks of meat arrive for the grill.

Things wind down with the conspicuous exit of a cousin whose
identity can’t be revealed for legal reasons, the disappearance
of what seemed like a week’s worth of leftovers for everyone, and
disagreements as to what constitutes personal property. I’m tired,
sweaty, and smelling like charred pork flesh. At the end of the
festivities, another reunion is scheduled for the same time next
year.

Want The Stranger to steal your neighbor’s lighter fluid
and get head-butted by a large canine at your house party?
E-mail the date, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.