Crazy McGee

A few years ago, a guy from church had a bunch of us over to his house for a get-together. He had a humidor in his living room and handed us all cigars. As we sat around his back yard puffing our smokes, I said, “You know, we should really do this more often.” My pal Justin thought this was an excellent idea, and that’s how Cigar & Scotch Night got started.

How Cigar & Scotch Night got ruined is a more elaborate story.

We had decided the patio in between me and Justin’s apartments was a decent place to hold get-togethers. The only other thing I used the patio for was ice-skating in the winter, and that was purely accidental. So Justin hauled over his 15 camping chairs and we decided everyone would bring his or her own cigar and beverage (I had just returned from Scotland and Ireland, which was why I thought scotch or whiskey ought to be involved in the evening).

We had recently listened to a message at church about getting more involved in the daily lives of our neighbors, and C&SN seemed like a prime opportunity to try this out, so every neighbor who wandered across the patio got an invitation. Only one neighbor actually took me up on the offer, though. That’s a woman we’ll call Lana.

At first, I was quite pleased that my efforts to be more neighborly were paying off. However, as the evening wore on, I realized that Lana was drunk and probably had been even before she arrived. She quickly became overly-intimate with me (which is my #1 Pet Peeve) saying she loved me and that we were exactly alike (because we’d attended the same local prep school and had fathers who were pastors). After Lana finally retired for the evening, I looked at Gigi.

“Was she plastered?” I asked.

“Uhhhh, yeah,” Gigi said. (I’d just wanted to be sure because I hadn’t been around a lot of drunk people, as you may remember.)

“Cool. I’m getting better at spotting drunk people!”

 It was an interesting night, but on the whole, really fun. We decided Cigar & Scotch Night was a success.

The only problem ended up being that instead of attracting the rest of my neighbors, the night seemed to invariably attract Lana, who got increasingly drunker and more chummy with each successive visit.

Cue, last Saturday.

Dan and I showed up early (and by early, I mean on time) to get things set up. Then we sat around playing Adult Truth or Dare by ourselves for awhile (it didn’t work very well; “Who is the most attractive person here?” only works if there is more than one person for you to choose from).  Suddenly this handsome African American guy wanders onto our patio.

“Hey, you guys know someone named Lana?” he asked. “I’m her Uber.”

Lana wanders out with a purple hairbrush in her hand. “Hey, girl, oh my gosh I love you so much and I’m so nervous and I just don’t know what to do I have a blind date and I look a mess and you gotta fix me up because I just can’t go like this…”

I just wanted her to leave. I had NEVER seen her this wasted before. I told her she looked fine and to have fun. But when she turned around, I saw her dress. It was completely unzipped in the back.

“WOAH,” I ran after her. “You can’t go on a first date like this! Your dress isn’t even zipped!”

“It’s because I’m fat,” she said. “Quit being such a bitch and make it look better.”

I tied her cardigan around her neck to try to cover the back of her dress and looked at the end result doubtfully. “Well, I think this is as good as it’s going to get,” I said. “Have fun.”

“I’ll be home soon,” she responded. “I’ll make it real quick so I can come back to the party.” (DAMMIT)

About 15 minutes later, Lana and Travis (her Uber driver) wandered back up onto the patio.

“I forgot my pipe,” she announced. “And here, have some brownies.” Travis shook his head at us sorrowfully. Eventually he managed to haul Lana away, and the rest of our friends showed up to the soiree. Everything was great until…

…Lana returned from her date. Her cardigan had come off, her zipper had unzipped itself to the full extent, and her dress was hanging from her shoulders about to commit suicide.

“He was such a douchebag,” she announced. “He only wanted sex!”

This effectively put a stop to Truth or Dare. After about an hour of arguing with her about the merits of going back inside her apartment and going to bed, I said, “You are drunk off your ass! I want you to leave, please!”

She became furious then, and wouldn’t stop screaming. It didn’t matter how hard I tried to ignore her, she just kept yelling about what a bitch I was.

You might wonder what the other guests were doing at this time. Well, Lily and Lucy (my sisters) alternated between hauling Lana back inside her apartment and trying to reason with her when she barreled past them back out onto the patio repeatedly. Dan instructed me in what to say to my landlady and the police (who were called 3 times). Tyler did his best to serenade Lana with songs on his guitar. Niki played a tambourine. One Courtney played on her phone while the other Courtney just laughed in bewilderment. Michael drank grapefruit cocktails. Justin and Alyssa begged Lana to go to bed. And then in a panic, Charlene and Dan doused the fire and hid the scotch, worried that we’d be in trouble with the police.

The police never came, but -- increasingly malcontent with Tyler’s guitar and Niki’s tambourine -- Lana became even more hostile.

“I’M GOING TO FILM YOU, YOU BITCH!!! YOU JUST GOT ME KICKED OUT OF MY APARTMENT! GO AHEAD! GO AHEAD! I’M GOING TO SHOW OUR LANDLADY EXACTLY WHAT KIND OF DRUNKEN PARTY YOU’RE HOSTING!!!!!!!”

“I don’t feel like I’m actually drunk,” I said from my chair.

But right then Justin, Charlene, and Michael (the only black people still present) jumped into the camera’s window. “BLACK LIVES MATTER!!!!” they yelled.

About this time, Lana’s dress fell almost completely off and someone pointed out that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

I sent the landlady a picture of this and she commanded us to all go inside because Lana couldn’t exactly be banned from her own patio. This brought our party to an effective end, but not before Dave could point out, “So the invite said Cigars and Scotch, but all I see is cigarettes and beer…?”

I felt badly about this. What kind of classy soiree involves cigarettes and beer and a half-dressed neighbor in her 60s?


“I’m sorry! We hid the scotch down here on the ground so we wouldn’t get in trouble with the police.”

I guess somehow I had convinced myself that it was less dangerous to be caught with cigarettes and beer than with cigars and scotch.

In any case, the landlady gave Lana an ultimatum…move out now with no blemish on your record, or wait until your lease expires in January but receive a bad reference.

For the sake of future parties, I hope she chooses the former. I don’t have high hopes though.