I try to avoid: fratboys, Christians and disco. So,
one muggy summer night, when those three things mixed
with just enough cheap red wine to make me loopy,
bad things were sure to happen.
was invited to a "retro-swingin'-cocktail" party at
Michele's. The last party I'd attended at her place
had caused me to (briefly) swear off drinking altogether,
as I had acted like a complete mongoloid for the duration.
My diary makes it plain: "Never again."
memory was so bleary I couldn't remember which house
was hers as I walked down her street. This was additionally
complicated by the fact that her next-door neighbors
were having a party - as were the people across the
street! I regained my focus, clambered onto her porch,
and went in. M. was studying for her Italian test
and things hadn't really started kicking yet. I drank
a glass of wine, smoked a Schimmelpennick and lounged
comfortably on the porch. A couple of people asked
me what my major was. "I'm a major asshole" was, at
that time, my standard reply. Punk rock, dude, y'know?
dressed up, came out; not many people had bought into
the "theme," but OK. Unlike the party across the way,
which looked like some frightening 70's thing, inexplicably
popular among today's youth. We were mostly sitting
and porch drinking, which was fine. I can't dance,
although I like to, if that makes any sense. A cop
drove down the street, ticketing cars.
we wound up going across the street. We wound up dancing
in the midst of a clot of confused retro-fratboys.
They all seemed...acute...for some reason. Lo and
behold, it was because they weren't drunk! A new thing
for fratboys, it was a Christian frat. All they had
was a keg of root beer, and that was almost tapped.
We retired, sweaty and pleased, back to the porch.
I smoked another and had another glass of wine. The
evening wore on. Around midnight, an obviously drunken
fratboy came up to the porch. His name was Tim.
you guys having a party here?" he asked.
partying across the street?"
I said, "they've got a keg of root beer over there.
You should get yourself some of that."
was drunk to the point of oblivion, thankfully, so
he couldn't ascertain that we were making fun of him.
He turned out to be some kind of soccer player, and
talked at great length about soccer - the strategy
involved, etc. He had the "I am attempting to get
laid" sign up, blazing fiery in the night sky. Michele's
friend Pete has brought his new girlfriend, who was
reveling in screwing with this fratboy; leaning close
to him, saying "Oh, that's interesting," etc. Obliviously,
he interpreted this mockery as sincere interest, and
began a drunken mack-campaign that seemed to have
no end, describing his soccer prowess in glowing,
romanticized terms. He was a veritable Gilgamesh of
the green, and he chose her to be his for the night.
Which, of course, she was having none of. He eventually
got restless and went across the street to the cold-sober
(and rapidly petering out) Christian frathouse. Pete's
girlfriend (I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name...)
went inside, as did Pete. It was just me, Michele,
her boyfriend Charlie and her housemate Mimi to face
the second assault of Tim, as he came lurching across
people are crazy!"
welcomed him back to the porch, and offered him a
cig. I smoked my third Schimmelpennick, passing it
around to the curious. He looked around.
where'd that other girl go?"
pause. I breathe inward, deeply. My mouth works faster
than my brain.
she's upstairs frantically masturbating and thinking
headed for the door of the house. He was implacable;
being refused entry, he simply pushed through us and
headed upstairs. I had really fucked up this time.
Charlie and Pete headed after him, as I sat on the
porch under disparaging glares. And I had been doing
was narrowly averted by Charlie promising Tim a cigarette
if he returned to the porch. Thankfully, the lure
of nicotine turned out to be stronger than the lure
of pussy. I kept my mouth shut.