July

1999

Fratboys, Christians, Disco

Things 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.

I 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.”

My 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?

Michele 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.

Anyways, 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.

“Hey, you guys having a party here?” he asked.

“Yeah, sort of.”

“They partying across the street?”

“Yeeah,” I said, “they’ve got a keg of root beer over there. You should get yourself some of that.”

Tim 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 the street.

“Those people are crazy!”

We 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.

“Hey, where’d that other girl go?”

A pause. I breathe inward, deeply. My mouth works faster than my brain.

“Oh, she’s upstairs frantically masturbating and thinking of you.”

Tim 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 so well.

Date-rape 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.