PARTY” in green. The door was cracked so I pushed it open and entered.
As the meager light from the hallway fanned out on to a queen size bed in the middle of the room, two shadowy figures covered themselves with the blankets. They yelled “Get out!” so I did. My skull filled with warm anger. Then Tim and George appeared out of what I thought was a broom closet and George said, “Glad you found us, we’re going to go to a less compressed shindig two blocks away. More freshman and sophomores meat so we’ll have a chance to talk to some Betties. Maybe I’ll get lucky. But not you, you’re a freshman. Ha!”
I was glad they didn’t ditch me and was more than happy to leave. It didn’t seem as difficult treading through the crowd on the way out. The warm breeze from across the hills filled the air with the scent of over ripened apples from the nearby orchard. The wind evaporated the moist stench of the disgusting basement from me. The marble expression chiseled off my face and I didn’t feel the pricks of coke anymore.
After a couple blocks walk down the bending lanes, a smile peeked through. We came upon a three-story Victorian, which seemed out of place on this street, and it didn’t appear to be a college kid’s house. The newspaper gray paint was fresh and without sign of being broken down by the sun’s relentless stream. Then I heard Nuthin but a G Thang from the album The Chronic being played in the backyard as screams of “Chug!” flew by my ears.
Around the back of the house, we were greeted by a grinning burly guy in flannel who George called Bear. He took two bucks from us and said, “Enjoy. Beers at the back.” as he handed us blue plastic cups. One guy wearing blue shorts and a wife-beater next to him waved to me. Tim asked me to go get some beers, so I went to the end of the backyard to a row of Willow trees where a petite doe-eyed brunette was holding the black tap of the keg sitting in a red plastic tub covered in ice.
The line was small and it moved fast. The keg was full. I held the cups out and filled them.
“Hey handsome. You wanna take over this tap so I can go see my friends on the porch?” the girl said.
I nodded my head.
Tim noticed me standing at the end of the yard and stomped up, swiped the beers and shook his head as he walked back to growing pulsing crowd.
For twenty minutes, I stood there like a public fountain filling my cup and then the rest of the party. I introduced myself to everyone who came up. John, the horse-toothed leader of my orientation group, appeared out of the dense air and came up to me. He was wearing the same clothes from orientation.
“How in the hell did you get suckered into this job at this pathetic party? You can get a beer any time. It’s a good gig when the party’s raging but you should be trying to meet chicks,” he said while shaking a sprig of withered brown atop his bloated crown.
“Thanks for the advice man,” I said and killed the rest of my beer, filled my cup and continued, “Right, screw this, fill your own.”
I strutted over to a circle of people surrounding Tim.
Tim was on one knee holding a long clear tube above his head that was attached to a yellow funnel. It was called a beer bong or a funnel up north. Two wobbly wasted guys wearing the same Far Side t-shirt were pouring a bottle of cheap pink wine into the funnel along with malt liquor and some other opaque liquid. Tim lowered the tube and sucked it empty. He stood and bowed to the crowd but then his cheeks bulged. Hunched over, he held his finger in the air and tripped over to the army green garbage can on the pristine white porch. He burped, twisted his neck and with the explosive force of a power washer vomited.
The crowded screamed in delight as if he had just won a fight in the Coliseum of Rome. The surprising thing to me, but obviously not to anyone else, was that he returned to do another funnel and went on his soggy knees again as the cheers grew as an opening umbrella.
I sipped my beer as I decided to take a walk around the yard and saw a guy on the side of the house jamming his fingers down his throat next to his buddy who was puking beer foam. The puker waved. Ten minutes later, the puker and Tim were at the keg waiting for a beer. I had heard the media report this behavior as “Binge drinking”.
It is alcoholic Bulimia, binging and purging.
The foam tickled my lips so I turned away to the bushes to wipe my mouth. When I turned back, a stewed mob approached with Tim holding the beer bong high above his head. George began chanting my name and the others followed as the contraption was placed in front of my nose. I swiped the tube away from Tim.
“Fine. But no wine,” I said.
The funnel was filled as I grasped the bottom of the slick tube and held it high. As I knelt on the ground, I felt red clay squish. The foam fizzed and popped. A trail of cigarette smoke snaked into my nose and I fight back the urge to sneeze.
My mouth went around the opening like a baby sucking on a nipple and the cheers surrounded me. The beer bong was lifted and a forceful stream of fizzy beer rushed through the tube. I sprayed a little from the sides of my mouth as my cheeks bulged.
It hurt.
I stood victorious as my eyes watered and my nose burned but I held down the rising gas bubbles and foam in my stomach. The crowd hooted and hollered. I would be drunk soon, so I made the conscious effort to shut up.
Caveat, in vino veritas.
I sauntered over to four girls and engaged in meaningless babble about, “How they liked it here?” and “Where they lived?” None of them really interested me except the cute brunette from earlier. Then a figure of beauty, as if painted by Botticelli or Michelangelo, floated through the gate as if cherubim holding silk sheets suspended her. She was an image of such brutal beauty that it undercut the rhythm of my breath and my heart paused mid-beat, and for a moment I couldn’t see the color red.
I was entranced as if I was standing in a room with multi-colored strobe lights and did not dare move as she went by. Her long straight blonde hair was a garland adorned with tiny daisy clips. Under the porch lights, her eyes sparkled as purloined African emeralds. Her buxom figure could not be hidden by her billowy beige blouse or the darkness of the evening.
All I could do was turn away and sneak a look. She went straight to the keg, slipped a cup off the sleeve and took a piece of gum out of her mouth, put it on the bottom of the cup, and filled up the cup at an angle like a pro. She sloshed it down with one big swig. A little foam moustache glistened on her lip. She noticed, giggled, excused herself as she turned away from the small crowd, and wiped it off.
I was beyond blitzed tolerances so I couldn’t see imperfections. But I saw her smile, her teeth were large and her gums showed. On most girls that was a turn off but on her it made her real and made me think I might have a shot. I had to know more so I went to my only available sources in the feverish night, Tim and George.
They saw her before in the cafeteria and wanted to find out about her too. George knew a girl on her hall, but he could only find out what her name was. It was Elyssa Freund. The name was perfect.
“I can get her in bed before the semester is out,” Tim said.
George and I turned to each other and burst out laughing.
“So, you think you can do better assholes?” Tim asked out of the side of his face.
I rolled my eyes and chugged my warm foam. At that point, Roger and Cliff walked up.
“We’re going to our frat’s party. It’s starting in ten minutes. You guys should come and meet the brothers. It’s good to get in early with everyone before Rush. Follow us,” Roger said.
“Lots of beer and no ugly chicks,” Cliff said as he burped.
I didn’t want to leave but Tim did.
I wanted to stare at Elyssa and maybe go talk to her but I joined the exodus hoping to see the wicked and strange things that might appear or disappear that evening.