The Red Party

J's silver Ford Taurus expertly slices down slush filled streets lined with soggy trees. The ground is dewy, the air crisp, and the sky is a bowl of broken rain clouds. The car is filled with wild chatter as a Jew, an African American, a Korean, a Native American, and me wittily banter with each other.

Doesn't this sounds like the starting of one of those politically incorrect, yet pointedly humorous jokes people tell in hushed corners? Funny how life imitates humor sometimes.

We were going out after a long week of mentally debilitating college finals. We went out to be young and have fun - to paint the town red... Little did we know our youthful shenanigans would involve the Red Hat Society.

We arrive at the restaurant, wet brakes squeaking. Snatching the uber-umbrella from the rear seat, we walk toward the warmly illuminated door. Inside, we're escorted downstairs and sat near the closed off private party room.

The diet water, bread, and menus arrive. We playfully converse with one another; for the price of a two-for-one cocktail, we kept topping how terrible our tests were with more and more fantastic stories.

"Well, for my psych final, I had to bludgeon my lab partner with a DSM-IV manual so I could study how a catatonic state affects college students during an f-MRI scan."

"Oh yeah? Well, for my final, I had to learn how to speak Mohawk with Professor X, and then bootleg meds across the US/Canadian border using the 1952 Immigration and Naturalization Act."

"You two think those are bad? My physics professor had us develop a new mobile chair for Stephen Hawking that could travel through time without using a worm hole."

Dinner comes and goes. We are packing up the food, when suddenly, Native girl sees an elderly woman dressed in plum and cherry rush by into the party room. "Wow, how funky for an old upper valley lady," she thinks to herself. Then another woman pops out of the woodwork, this time with a red hat made of flowers. Then another, and another, and another, all dressed to the nines in violet suits, sashes, boas, dresses, shoes, purses, sunglasses, makeup, and topped off with rosy hats made of red feathers, apples, ostrich eggs, netting, and so on. It turns out there's a liberation army of funky red-hat wearing women, somewhat reminiscent of Carmen Miranda.

The instigation

So, Native girl picks up her red cloth napkin and decides to make a pirate hat. A few quick folds, and it's perched there, pointed to high heaven, on Native girl's head. Across the way is a ten year-old boy that looks at Native girl, then at the menopausal women, back at native girl, back at the women, and makes the connection. Immediately bursting into uncontrollable laughter, his fiery fore-head starts bouncing up and down, as he bangs it on the dinner table, attempting to squelch his laughter.

Noting the flush of blush through the young boy, I exclaim, "Oh, look at that kid! Maybe one of us could put him on our heads - his face is red enough from embarrassment." Meanwhile, his parents systematically look at him, wondering what he's cracked up on. The rest of us promptly grab our napkins and make red pirate hats as well, checking over our shoulders for hot and flashy danger.

A bony hand arrives unexpectedly on my shoulder. "Uh-oh, busted!" we all say in unison. The lady mutters something incoherent with a smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't hear what you said," I say, pulling off my half-folded red pirate hat.

"Anyone want to take pictures of us," she asks again with a smile. She glances at Native girl and screams, "Hey girlfriend! Come take some pictures WITH us!"

"I would love to take a picture with you and your phat red hat," Native girl responds, and follows the woman into the private party room. We enter. It's full of loud, laughing, vibrant energy, and a large violet cake. We weren't sure what to think, or what kind of group it was.

"WOO-WOO-ld you like some cake," one of the matriarchs says to our suited Jewish friend. He obliges. Charging the air with their unified voices, the women rejoice, whooping their battle cry, "WOO-WOO!!!!"

After a million and three paparazzi camera flashes, we ask them what exactly the red hat society is. "Don't worry, when you're older than 50, you'll understand, girlfriend," is all they can reply. So, we thank them, and make way toward the door, grabbing our black jackets along the way, smiling that we have now become our own club - the black jacket and napkin club, where we're all over 20. And, don't worry girlfriend, when you're over 20, you'll understand.