Faced
Oops - the weekend was so busy I failed to get a story submitted on time. And so, as I have done in the past, I’ll make it up to y’all with a doozy.
Against better judgment I composed the following and - even worse - am now going to post it. Well I know y'all want to hear about the first time I got drunk. It's epic. Okay here goes.
[Note: Some names changed to avoid needless embarrassment]
During my high school years, my experience with alcohol was slim at best. I found myself frequently attending after-show parties with hordes of musical theatre types, supping on wine coolers and the like. I achieved nothing even coming close to a buzz at these gatherings (because wine coolers are gross), and on hindsight wished I got properly plastered so I could have mustered the guts to stir some shit up.
So that meant I entered college without ever really experiencing drunkenness, and as fate would have it I ended up living on the most inebriated floor in the entire community. In short, lots of jocks. My first night at school I was privy to the vodka fueled antics of my dormmates, including one guy who threw up into a drawer full of his roommate's shirts.
I pretty much steered clear of all this activity until the whole floor organized a party. We emptied out an entire room and made a surrogate bar out of a desk. Everyone chipped in and got gallons of alcohol in all shapes and sizes. Being a (needlessly themed) formal party, we were required to dress up. I had absolutely no fashion sense then (like I have fashion sense now), and didn't own any nice clothes. So I arrived at this party wearing black pants, a white undershirt, and a faux tie which was really the fuzzy blue belt from my bathrobe.
My friend and floormate, John, more or less babysat me this entire night. We arrived at the party together, along with his roommate, Brett.
Upon entering the party we were all handed kamikaze shots. I had never done a shot before at this point in my life, especially one with such an unfriendly name. I held the small glass in my shaking hand for about fifteen seconds before throwing all caution to the wind and tossing its contents down my throat. As the alcohol soaked into my tongue and my esophagus I became blinded by the memory of the last time I threw up.
It happened about five years earlier, when my mother and two sisters were vacationing in Detroit, leaving behind me, my older brother Ben, and my dad. With the women away the Lebofsky men could bond. The first night alone our dinner was McDonald's to go. I ordered the nine-piece chicken mcnuggets and a large fries. Normally I would have gotten only six mcnuggets, but tonight I was feeling like a man amongst men, and how could a real man be satisfied with only six measly mcnuggets?
We brought our greasy booty home and feasted like kings. It felt great up until the last few fries which I crammed down into my stomach. Soon I found myself lying on the couch, moaning, clutching my bloated and aching gut. Ugh. My father entered the den, checking my condition. I rolled off the couch and onto the floor, and quickly belched a pile of used chicken mcnuggets onto the carpet. My poor dad, hoping to have an easier week with only half the kids to manage, now had to deal with fast food puke of all things. He picked me up and threw me into the bathroom where I finished the cleansing of my system. Ben, always with the razor wit, laughed throughout this episode, happily announcing that his younger brother "mcgurgitated."
The memory faded and I returned to the present day, holding an empty shot glass. I felt no signs of nausea or brain damage. I felt no desire to run screaming towards the bathroom. In fact, I felt like having another one of those kamikaze shots, and quickly did so, chased by some vodka/sprite concoction created by my roommate, Pete.
"So this is what it's like to be drunk," I thought to myself, surrounded by my peers who were attaining the same buzz. I now fully understood what friends previously mentioned regarding the lack of balance and the shedding of inhibitions associated with the consumption of alcohol. John seemed to be having a good time as well, and we left the room full of sweaty young men to enjoy our high elsewhere.
It just so happened tonight on campus was a midnight showing of the movie, "Altered States." How fitting. John, Brett, and I made it a plan to go see this flick earlier before the party, but Brett drank a little more than he could handle and crashed out for the evening. We instead enjoyed the company of Bruce, a metal dude down the hall with long blonde hair who played bass and really liked Metallica.
After Bruce stuffed his face with pretzels and popcorn to soothe his queasy stomach, we headed out across campus to the lecture halls where the movie would be presented. On the way we passed the main quad, and Bruce found this to be as good a place as any to empty the contents of his full bladder. John and I stood there, pretending not to notice anything, as passing students gasped at the sight of Bruce pissing onto the shrubs right outside the Student Union building. Once finished he zipped up and we were back on track.
We reached the lecture halls safe and sound and waited in a long line with fellow movie-goers. Though I hadn't imbibed anything for an hour or two at this point I was still pretty much out of it and not very talkative. While closing my eyes and concentrating on the psychedelic din of people chatting around me in line, I was approached by Jaime, a girl who - given alphabetical order by last name - always sat near me in homeroom back in high school, and also ended up here at the same college. She was nice but outside of this shared experience we had little in common, we never spoke to each other, and I hadn't seen her since graduation. However, bless her heart, she chose to be friendly and say hi as she recognized me in the crowd. Unfortunately I couldn't return the gesture, as every utterance that fell from my lips made no sense to anyone, including myself. She quickly disappeared and I then realized I still had the bathrobe belt draped loosely around my neck.
The theatre finally opened and John, Bruce, and I poured in with the crowd. We found seats near the front and I let Bruce sit on the aisle as to yield extra room for his large frame. I talked with John and we kept blathering, even as the movie started. Bruce, however, passed out in his seat.
The first ten minutes of the movie were intense, and I remember not knowing what the hell was going on, but being completely rapt as well. But I soon became distracted by the sight of Bruce rolling happily in the aisle, having recently fallen out of his seat. With all my strength I pulled him back into his chair, and then his big ol' head landed on my shoulder. I leaned him forward in his seat as to lower his center of gravity and hopefully keep him put. John didn't notice any of this.
About twenty minutes into the movie, Bruce's eyes shot wide open and he turned to me with an expression of deep sorrow and apology. I read his sad face and knew exactly what was about to transpire. He twisted away and let fly the longest stream of projectile vomit I have ever come to witness. A fire hose of barely digested vodka, pretzels, and popcorn flooded the aisle as people within seven rows of us screamed and scattered. Had I not been so sedated I might have panicked or swooned from embarrassment. Instead, I got John's attention, notified him about the situation, and we made the quick decision to leave.
We picked Bruce up from the ground as people stared in horror. We carried him out of the lecture hall with his arms around our shoulders and into the foyer. Bruce raised his head, took one look at the students still sitting at the ticket table, and yakked onto the floor by their feet. They groaned, and we moved on.
All told, Bruce puked about five more times on the long trek back to the dorms. He repeatedly told John and I that he could make it home himself and we should return to the lecture hall and catch the end of the movie. As if we yearned to return to the "scene of the crime," so to speak.
Once back we plopped Bruce in his bed, and revealed the details of our little escapade to the few dormmates who were still awake and wandering around. I drank some water and headed to my room, thereby ending my first experience of being drunk and promptly beginning my first experience with painful bedspins.
The bedspins evolved into a glorious hangover which I dealt with upon waking the next morning. John, Brett, and I washed up and dragged our sorry asses to the dining hall where I could barely touch my pancakes and hash browns. Instead I sat and listened to the people at the neighboring tables discussing the guy who threw up all over the place during the movie last night. Oh, my head.
Bruce didn't remember anything the next day, which is sad, since this turned out to be a minor piece of history at the University of Binghamton. For the remainder of my college career I would, once in a blue moon, overhear people discussing Bruce and the "Altered States" incident, and some even recognized me as one of the guys who helped carry Bruce away.
So that's the first time I got faced. Honestly, I've never really that much of a drinker. It feels crappy. And to this day I have been completely successful in knowing when to stop drinking once I've started, and have never ever thrown up due to alcohol consumption. This is one of my super powers, I guess.