We’d reached the party’s intermission, the few seconds to take some deep breaths, soundtracked by guys idolizing an alcoholic musician who beat Christy Brinkley after he married her (still inexplicable). The bizarre tone shift provided just a moment for introspection, where you reassess everything and realize how ludicrous it is that you’re sitting in front of a piano watching two kids play Billy Joel songs while your girlfriend’s comatose, some kid is asleep in the bathroom, and two kids you barely know are making out on a bed directly behind you. Like I said, you’ll never forget this kind of stuff.
I never experienced a moment quite like that at a party in college, where you really think about the future, about drinking, about your parents’ expectations, and if you turned the porch light on before you left. Once you get past those high school days, you inevitably move forward into the dream that is higher education. In college, you become desensitized to heavy drinking and random sex within about half of a semester, usually to the point where you just discuss it at the diner the next morning calmly, like you just ordered eggs over easy. It plays out like this:
“Man, O’Malley, you were so fucking wasted last night. I can’t believe that after you booted in that sorority’s bathroom sink, you still went to the bar and picked up that girl...er, thing. I’d hardly call her a girl, man.”
[Laughter.]
“Yeah, I know, what a joke. Man, we did way too much last night. Hey...wait, fuck you, that girl wasn’t that bad.”
“She was, bro.”
“Shut up. Shit, Rick just kept buying everyone shots of bourbon. I don’t even think that was Jack, it was probably that Banker’s Club bottom shelf shit. Disgusting. My head’s still pounding.”
[Idle laughter.]
“Nah, Rick was buying Jameson, his taste is too good. It was Diego who was buying that crap bourbon. Oh, by the way, you see who Carrie went home with last night? Yeah, I know, you’re not going to believe it. Yeah, that guy’s like still a virgin I think...”
Your weekends (and weeks), consumed by fraternity parties and bar crawls and such, are like some kind of
You order some disgusting, greasy food from that glorified gas station down the road, put on Amnesiac, spark up a bowl, and bullshit about politics and German art films and that chick with the big tits in your psychology class. At this point, you’re as awesome as Shia LaBoeuf or Nic Cage—the last action hero who survives an entire night of liver abuse to enjoy the best shreds of conversation the entire process probably had to offer. You look back on the night, survey the wreckage. Kids fast asleep around you, you walk home and live to see another day.
High school parties weren’t like that I don’t think, and you felt a lot closer to everyone as a result. It was always your group of friends all stuck under one roof or in some kid’s basement. At one point, when most people had the right buzz, someone would do something random. Kroger used to just start making up his own dance moves, and they were so ridiculous, everyone’d just stop and watch for a few minutes. Three or four girls would randomly get into a wrestling match, and kids would just put down their drinks and check it out. It was a time for reassessment, thinking about shit.
Stuff back then unfolded like a two act play—after the ninnies passed out in the early hours, everyone else was standing around that piano, gearing up for the second act, which would undeniably be better than the first...
For some reason, things at Brenton’s house went smoothly for the next twenty minutes. A total fucking lull. The kids who went too hard (and too early) were asleep, the guys who couldn’t keep their hands off their girlfriends were already in bed. Kroger was still jamming away on the piano, though Keeley was nowhere to be found. I went into the upstairs bathroom, peed for what felt like five minutes, and came back out to find a new crowd emerging. The newest phenomenon was being soundtracked by Kroger, as Erica and Keeley were making out on the floor in the middle of Brenton’s den. Brenton, Ray and the rest of us were just sitting there, looking at the spectacle like it was some kind of goddamn magic show.
Keeley and Erica were really going at it on the floor, feeling each others’ every nook and cranny. It was the kind of action that our parents would call “necking and heavy petting” and should only be done in the backseat of a Buick or in your parents’ bedroom when they’re in
“This is fucking disgraceful,” Ray said with a wild grin on his face. “But it’s really, really hilarious.”
It was like being at a professional wrestling match, with everyone making stupid asides to each other, wondering if the subjects would ever get privy to the crowd and find a room. If things woulda gone much further, we could’ve filmed a sequel to Boogie Nights in Brenton’s den. Laughing to the point of tears, I covered my mouth and walked in to see if my girlfriend was okay. Thankfully, she was sleeping soundly. I kissed her on the forehead, apologized for being a total prick, and went back to do a shot with a couple of kids from my trig class.
Things started to fade significantly in the next hour, and I was left to amuse myself. Next to your girlfriend going down for the count in the first round, it was the worst thing to happen at the party. No one wanted to chill. I was completely amped while everyone else was settling into ‘70s soft-core makeout sessions all around the house. Bored, I decided to start knocking on the locked bedroom doors.
“Yo dude, open the fucking door!”
“Fuck off, asshole!”
“Dude, Billy, come do a shot, man! It’s only like 2:00!”
“It’s 2:56. Go to bed!”
Then I came up to one bedroom and for no good reason, I just kicked the door in:
“BRUCE LEE, MOTHERFUCKER!” I yelled. It was an unfortunate choice of doors—I got hit in the face with someone’s dress shoe.
“What the hell man? Go to bed you idiot!” The fucking shoe flew out, knocked me in the chin, and I decided that there were other endeavors worth pursuing.
But things weren’t much better downstairs. Ray was barely awake, but pointed out to me that Kroger and some really cute girl were cuddled up on the couch getting after it. Ray pulled out his digital camera and started filming it; in his defense, they were saying some really dumb shit to each other, so it was totally worth having it on celluloid.
“Heyyy...what are you doing?” Kroger said.
“We’re taping you. None of us are ever going to be able to run for president because of tonight. Shit, we probably won’t even be able to get into college,” I bitched back.
Kroger and his lady friend started giggling, so Ray called it quits and went upstairs to find a bed or piece of unoccupied carpet or something to pass out on.
I followed him back up to try to wake people up for a second time, but everyone who’d been hooking up earlier was passed out cold, drooling all over themselves, singing Foghat in their sleep. People were strewn across the dining room, living room, and master bedroom, some guys passed out face down without sleeping bags or even sheets over them.
After mixing the aforementioned Kool Aid & Captain combo, I went back downstairs hoping to just curl up on the floor and pass out. But, it was not to be.
I’m not the kinda guy who usually tries to screw with my friends when they’re getting business done, but with Brenton, it was different. He’d probably cockblocked me at least twice, and this was major revenge. If I’d been sober as a judge, I would never have tried to do it, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. The Kool Aid/Captain blend gave me the burst of energy I needed to pay him back.
“BRUCE LEE, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!” I shrieked as I kicked his bedroom door wide open.
There, in front of me was a nude art exhibit: Brenton right on top of Stace. Totally hilarious. I should’ve seen it coming, but for some reason, I never expected things to get quite that out of hand. She had a boyfriend, yet no one seemed to care. After this scare, I could feel the last drink of the night take effect—I was crashing hard and things got a little bit swirly. I curled up in a ball under a really warm blanket on the basement floor and drifted slowly to sleep. My last thought before I went to bed was strange: “Holy shit, I think that was Brenton’s first time.”
When I awoke, it was close to 6:30 AM and Keeley and Erica were making out next to me as though I didn’t exist. And it wasn’t like the basement was crowded—there were only a few of us outside of Brenton’s room. Couches and love seats were open for the taking. But, there they were squirming around and breathing heavy.
“Do you have a condom?” Erica asked Keeley.
I was tensing up now. I didn’t want to get up and piss on their parade, so I just rolled over and threw the blanket over my head. Sleep wasn’t coming quick enough, but things were about to get fucked up...again.
“No.”
“Okay...well, um, do you have something else?”
“What do you mean something else?”
“Well...”
I was dying, shaking with silent laughter, but the conversation was too good to get up and disrupt. There was no way I was ruining this moment. One of them was going to do something colossally stupid. No way to stop it now.
“Well, Brenton’s sister and her boyfriend are still up, I’ll see what they have.”
Minutes later, Keeley came barreling back down the stairs with a package of Saran wrap in his hand. “Here, this’ll work!” he exclaimed with what I imagine was a grin on his face. “My brother told me before that this stuff’ll do the job, no problem!”
For the rest of high school, neither of them lived that moment down.
I woke up the next day with my girlfriend somehow lying next to me. I got up for a second, went to the bathroom, and saw Brenton’s door wide open. Erica and Hammond, who was apparently fresh-up from his night with the porcelain Goddess in the can, had changed sleeping venues and were now curled up in bed with Brenton and Stace. Somehow, in the three or four hours I was asleep, two people on opposite sides of the house ended up in bed with two other people. Things probably happened early in the morning, but I never bothered asking. At this point, nothing would’ve surprised me in the slightest.
When I got up for good, I was ready to go as soon as possible—I needed to be somewhere else and quick. In a house full of one-night stands, empty bottles, and hungover girls, the only thing to do is bolt, get a bacon, egg and cheese, and go back to your basement couch. I got up later than everyone, my girlfriend got a ride with Tina and the hair-holding girl, and Ray, Brenton and I cleaned up the mess of bottles and cups. I was ready for the ten mile road back to reality. Car keys in hand, I walked at a quick clip toward the door. Keeley stopped me.
“Yo, dude, can you give me a lift back?” he inquired.
“Uh, sure man.” Didn’t know the kid, but whatever.
“Cool, thanks. Yo, I gotta get some shit downstairs.”
“Yeah, me too, man.”
“Yeah, my bag’s there too,” Ray chimed in.
We went downstairs to find Erica asleep...no longer in Brenton’s bed, but in her original position on the floor.
“How did she get here?”
“You got me. I woke up two hours ago and she wasn’t next to me.”
“Look, her one boob’s just flappin’ out in the wind here. Who even knows what happened last night,” Ray laughed.
“Yeah, I woke up twice this morning, and each time she was in a different place,” I said. We guessed that she must have teleported her way from carpet to bed to carpet again.
“What should I do?” Keeley asked.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘what should you do’?” Ray said indignantly. “Leave a tip or something?”
“A buck? Joking. Well, uh, well let’s just go, that might give her the wrong impression,” he mumbled.
***
If there was such a thing as a “drive of shame,” this certainly would have qualified. But on the bright side, the police never made it to our party.
I did my share of early-Sunday-morning walks across campus back at school, and some even longer walks when I was with a girl who lived ten blocks away from my place. College presents no opportunities for male walks of shame; they’re more like walks of triumph. You hobble out of a girl’s place after a Thursday night sorority cocktail, realize you’ve already missed one class, your red striped Brooks Brothers tie hanging around your neck underneath your crumpled-up navy blazer. It’s a little embarrassing, but shit, everyone knows what happened last night, and you just smile at the professors and administrators who walk by.
But, this drive of shame was ridiculous because you knew the second you pulled in the driveway you’d need an excuse for however wretched you looked, smelled, and acted. By that morning, after spending a night on low-pile carpet, I looked like absolute hell. My hair was shooting out in at least 90 directions, I reeked of three different kinds of alcohol, and I was nursing a moderate headache. I felt pretty much fine, but I must’ve looked like ten miles of bad road. Now I know how cheating husbands feel when they roll into the driveway to greet the wife and kids with clothes wrinkled from lying on the floor of their secretary’s walk-up and smelling of unfamiliar perfume.
“How was it?” my dad asked as I bounded through the front door.
“Uhhh...great, lot of fun, pretty cool, you know, the usual.”
“Well, good.”
No one commented on the fact that I looked like I’d been out in the wilderness howling with the wolves all night. (In college, I showed up to most of my 9 AM classes looking like this.)
Later, I told my parents about most of the things that happened. They were cool about it.
Going to class for six hours a day, five days a week made all of those high school parties something to really treasure, and even if things got out of control, I always walked out the morning after with a dozen good stories. The jokes that came out of that night and countless other weekends over the coming months made leaving high school difficult. Make fun if you want, but these memories are irreplaceable—everyone still gets shit for the time they made complete asses of themselves at a party like five and a half years ago.
College isn’t like that; not always. Too much free time gives you all kinds of excuses for drinking: parties (at a frat house, with the artsy kids, in the stoners’ pad, etc.), cocktails, bar hopping on a Wednesday, and whatever else. The constant stream of parties and bar crawls deafens the senses like sitting through the two-and-a-half hour running time of Transformers 2. Just like I couldn’t wait to get out of that movie, by graduation, I couldn’t wait to pack up the car and get the hell home.
When you leave for freshman year of college, you ump into it with stars in your eyes: the endless keg parties, the college women, the easy availability of whatever substances you care to experiment with. All this shit sounds epic. But it never lives up to whatever stupid expectations you have at 17 years old. And even when you think the college myths are gonna be the things you treasure forever, they’re not.
When I talked to a few of my good buddies from college on alumni weekend (about five months ago), we all remembered some of the shit we did over the past couple of years. The things we brought up were far removed from the crap perpetuated by the O.A.R.-listening, Abercrombie-wearing, necklace-slinging high school senior. None of us mentioned “that one sick rager at SAE” or “that amazing sorority cocktail where I did a keg stand for like 39 seconds.” These things were meaningless. Instead, we talked about some time we played pool on a Tuesday, drank a lot of pitchers and ended up at the diner until 6 AM. We remembered the power hours where we crammed 20 people into one bedroom and sang Hall & Oates songs (and only felt a little embarrassed). It seemed weak at the time, but the stuff we did before or after a party, or where we went on a Wednesday when there was “nothing better” going on—this shit was important.
I graduated, and it was great to come full-circle. After the car’s packed full of both useful and useless stuff on the Sunday of commencement, you give your best buddies a hug and swear you’ll keep in touch or see them soon. You wave a final goodbye to the guys you’ve lived with for the past year. You throw on your sunglasses and punch the gas, pulling away from the curb at twice the speed limit, windows all the way down, Marshall Tucker on the stereo. And, at that moment, all you want to do is go back to that time when you first snaked a couple of beers from your old man’s stash on a summer night, watched a baseball game, and said to yourself, “Man, could it really get any better than this?” I’m not sure. Back then, you still had to hide the cans under the coffee table so your parents wouldn’t kick your ass.
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