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living room, stuffing potato chips into people’s mouths, a high sybaritic priest awarding wafers. “Folk songs and political protests in the far bedroom … musical comedy in the near bedroom, and rock ‘n’ roll in here. Pick a tune or visit all three … no extra charge!”
    The guitars were a nice touch, kept things moving, Ron told himself. But next time he’d have to get real music; a phonograph to start people dancing … next time … perhaps a string of tiny white Christmas lights strung whimsically from one side of the ceiling to the other … His eyes glazed with plans: hors d’oeuvres, hot and cold, truffles and caviar. A midnight supper on the veranda, Lester Lanin’s society orchestra, champagne and coachmen, candelabra everywhere—a white-tuxedoed piano player at a white baby grand playing Gershwin; next time charge five dollars … no , fifty —five hundred! Next time …
     
    “Pardon me,” a small voice interrupted Ron’s flight of fancy. “I’d like my money back, please.”
    Ron whirled around and found Ellenor Robinson standing there, looking beautiful and overweight. Damn, Ron thought as he smiled down at her, if she were only thirty pounds slimmer, she’d really be something. “What’s the trouble, young lady?”
     
    “You promised me a good time,” said Ellenor, obviously as inebriated by now as everyone else. “Well, I’m not having one!”
     
    “No?” asked Ron.
     
    “No!” said Ellenor firmly. “I’m having the time of my life!”
     
    “Really?” Ron was suddenly interested in this conversation.
     
    “You guys sure know how to toss one hell of a blast, boy.”
     
    “Thank you.” Ron bowed.
     
    “There’s one small problem, though.”
     
    “What’s that?” Ron wanted to know.
     
    “One of the Kennedy brothers got sick in your bathroom, all over the bathtub. The place is uninhabitable.”
     
    “God damn …” said Ron, hurrying to the other side of the apartment to inspect the damage.
    Five minutes later, he was still cleaning, wondering what he, Le Prince, was doing mopping up the bathroom, amidst so much recycled Hawaiian glop.
    There was a loud rap on the bathroom door and the softest of feminine voices said, “We gotta get in there; could you open the door?”
     
    “Hold your horses!” said Ron, dousing the room with generous droplets from Gary’s after-shave. He opened the door and found two of Ellenor’s roommates, Linda and the Other Linda, standing there.
     
    “Aha!” said Ron. “Seattle society comes to shower.”
     
    “Not quite,” said the Other Linda. “We’ve come to powder our noses.”
     
    “Go to it, goils …” Ron stuck the mop behind the door. “Everything’s washed up, spic-and-span.”
     
    “That’s good,” said Linda, stifling a giggle. “Because someone else just got sick all over the bed next to the window.”
     
    “My bed?” cried Le Prince in alarm, as he again lunged for the mop.
    The bedroom was empty when Ron dragged his mop into it, everyone having flown the moment the sickly guest began gagging. Ron applied himself to the task at hand, mopping, sponging, absorbing. He stripped the lumpy bed of its sheets and hung the mattress halfway out the window.
    The party went on….
    And was soon too crowded even for discomfort. Ron’s room was empty, unapproachable even with the heady aroma of Old Spice clouding the stench of illness. The line of sickies waiting to get into the bathroom grew longer than the line to get to the Hawaiian punch. The air conditioner had long ago belched out its last hint of cool air and was now choking itself to death.
    One of the singing guitarists passed out on the floor in the corner, narrowing the choice of entertainment down to political protest and musical comedy.
    After receiving his one hundred and seventy-ninth complaint about the heat in the apartment, Ron half-jokingly suggested that everyone strip down to their underpants.
    Several people did.
    After helping pass