My Most Embarrassing Moment: A Murder Mystery Mix-up
Once upon a time, in a college town not far from here, my cousin Parley who was a few years older than I, lived in a large, beautiful apartment complex, while I lived in a sad rat hole.
Despite our differences in living situations, Parley and I shared a love for parties. And I don’t mean drinking parties. I mean intimate, hilarious groups of friends playing mind games on each other and stabbing each other in the back kind of parties. I mean, Murder Mysteries.
If you know me, you know I live to throw a good murder mystery. I write up bios for each of the characters, invent a game that involves searching the house for clues associated with each person, and send out the invitations weeks in advance so people can find the proper costume. It is legit, and I take these parties very seriously.
So Parley and I decided we needed to have one of these parties and both being single, he would invite all of his bachelor friends and I would bring my single ladies.
We began to plan.
“It sounds like you know what you’re doing for this,” Parley said, “So you be in charge, but you can throw it at my apartment if you’d like,”
“YES,” I replied, “That is perfect, your place is huge and it will be way more fun to look for clues in there.”
And so we set the date. We invited the friends. The day drew closer, and Parley and I chatted,
“I will be at work until 6,” he said, “But you can come over to decorate earlier if you’d like, and I’ll leave the front door unlocked.”
Perfect. That was fine with me.
Around 5:30, I enter his address into google maps, and follow the directions to his apartment, having never been there before. And good thing I did, because that apartment complex was a convoluted maze, and it took a genius just to find the front door.
Which was locked.
This was when the panic hit me. I had assigned myself the French Maid character, and brought along my roommate, who was dressed as Idina Jones, archeologist. And we could not get in to set up the party. I called Parley—and called him and called him and called him, but there was no answer. So in a moment of desperation I began walking around the house, thinking maybe he had left open a backdoor instead.
Sure enough, I got to the garage, and the side door there was open about a quarter-inch.
Success!!
I had to shove it repeatedly, since there were bikes and other things against the door, but eventually I opened up enough room to squeeze myself and my box of party supplies through the door, and my roommate, with my assurance that it was fine, this was definitely Parley’s house, followed in after me.
First we passed through the garage, which was packed full to bursting with bikes and tennis rackets and all sorts of college boy toys. But with careful stepping, we made it through the door to the actual house.
Upon stepping in, I nearly dropped the box of party supplies. The house that waited inside was a literal disaster. We are talking almost hoarder level. There was junk piled on every surface, and the crusty crusts of months of filth on the surfaces beneath pizza boxes and dirty shirts.
I gazed around, in shock, as the horror began to settle on me. Then, I felt my eyes turn red with rage. At this point it was 6:00, and I was supposed to throw a party in this house in one hour.
I called Parley again, with no answer. Not only that, he should have been home by now as well.
I took a moment, and breathed deeply, attempting to calm myself.
“It is what it is,” I thought. “There’s nothing for it but to start cleaning, I suppose,”
So I began FRANTICALLY putting things away.
There was so much crap. I had no idea where any of it should go, or if it even had a place it was supposed to go. So as I looked around, I saw the front hall closet and the broom closet. And I just began shoving stuff in.
My roommate helped me, but it was clear that even with two of us there was no way we were going to be able to tackle this mess in one hour. But it was also too late to cancel the party. There were 30 people whose schedules we had all worked out to be here tonight. And ONE HOUR in advance? We wouldn’t even be able to get a hold of everyone and tell them not to come. And it would be for such a lame reason too, “The house was too messy after all,” Just sounded like the worst excuse I had ever heard.
So I carried on. As my desperation continued to build, I wondered if maybe Parley was actually home, and was just playing a video game somewhere deep in the basement with headphones on. He should be up here to help clean as well, how did he live in this mess?? There was no way this was acceptable. And he had offered to me let me throw a party here? KNOWING his place was like this? Unbelievable.
However, I could not afford to take time to go look for him or call him some more, not with the clock ticking towards party time. Besides which, it wasn’t my house and I was not going to go snoop around the bedrooms. That was how you got scarred for life I knew, and that was my line.
So I started yelling his name. Loudly.
I trained in Opera singing for years and years. If he was somewhere in that house, headphones or not, he would hear me.
I continued to clean, as I periodically yelled for Parley. Protein powder? I checked the cupboards. No space. The front hall closet? Also full. In a moment of desperation, my eyes settled on the microwave. Before I knew what I was doing, I had shoved it in. The party guests weren’t going to open the microwave, anyway.
Then, from behind me, I heard a voice.
“Hello?”
It had been silent for so long, I whipped around, startled, and seeing a boy there, screamed bloody murder. And remember, I am an opera singer.
He blinked at the torrent of sound that hit him, and I covered my mouth in embarrassment.
This must be one of Parley’s roommates!! I thought
“I, uh…” I stammered, embarrassed at my scream. “Is…is Parley here?”
“Who?” the boy asked.
“Parley. He lives here.”
“I live here. And I don’t know anyone named Parley.”
My patience for this mess was already running thin.
“Isn’t this 1308 Arlington?” I said. He nodded. “Then…this is the address he gave me.”
“Let me see,” he said, then looked over at my phone. “OH. You must be looking for 1308 East Arlington. This is 1308 West.”
In that moment, I felt the blood drain from my face, as I realized my mistake.
This. Was the wrong. House.
This boy had come into his kitchen, to find a girl yelling at unholy decibels, in a maid costume. Frantically shoving his things into any open spaces she could find. And let’s not forget her friend, who was in a homemade Safari costume.
“There are two 1308 apartments? In one complex???” I said, my voice growing hoarse.
“Yeah,” he shrugged.
I began backing up towards the door, picking up the candlestick, Viking helmet, and socket wrench I had laid out on the table. “Weeeell then, I guess we had better get going, ha, I am soooo so so so sorry we broke into your house…”
“Yeah,” he asked, “How did you get in?”
“Oh,” my face was growing so hot I could have fried an egg on it. “We uh, came through the garage. It was open just a little bit,”
He stared at us in disbelief.
My roommate this whole time, was just staring open-mouthed at the boy, who was, I admit, quite attractive. Finally, she managed to stammer out,
“Let me bring you cookies. You know. To make up for this. Here’s my number,”
I pushed her out the front door, and just before I pulled it shut, I yelled,
“If you’re looking for your protein powder, it’s in the microwave!”
Then we ran. All the way back to my car. And sat in disbelief for several minutes, at what had just transpired.
“I guess,” I finally managed, “Parley’s apartment is just a block that way then. I HATE this stupid complex!!” I yelled.
“I love it,” My roommate responded. “He was SO HOT JESSICA,”
“OMG no,” I looked over at her in horror. “We can never ever ever see him again. I will LITERALLY DIE of embarrassment if I ever see him again. I think I am going to die right now.”
“I will just marry him, then it will all have turned out for the best,”
“OMG.” I shook my head, giving a shaky laugh. “Ok let’s just go set up for this party.”
When we arrived at 1308 East, the front door was brightly lit, and blessedly unlocked. I nearly cried when we walked in, to find this apartment spotlessly clean.
“Where have you been?” Parley said as we entered.
“YOU NEED TO ANSWER YOUR PHONE,” I responded. “Someday, when I am 80 years old and the embarrassment has faded, then I will tell you where I have been. But for now, suffice it to say, I can’t believe your complex has TWO apartments numbered 1308.”
“Oh ya,” He replied. “People get us mixed up all the time.”
“Ya no kidding,” I muttered.
In the end, the party was a smashing success, and one apartment of boys in 1308 West, got their kitchen cleaned for free.
