With the world as his toilet... pt. 2
He rumbled back into quiet Davidson, on vacation from his University, a dumptruck hellbent on soiling his family name, the fabled Fatty McSlagle, flushing away nothing but a reputation.
On that mid March night, 2005, a gathering of friends converged upon the common room of my Junior suite, lounging on our black leather couch, stretched across our green leather lounge chair and matching ottoman, sitting backs to the wall or standing in corners, playing cards, beers, and shot glasses in hand, smashed empties and stains, stale and fresh, decorating the carpet, crushed chips and crumpled bags scattered across the dorm floor. Rowdy voices bellowed and howled above the blaring, bass heavy music, spikes of profanity and genuine laughter constantly piercing the drone, heavy thumps and crashes, probably with accompanying sly glances checking if the accident had attracted any interest, which, from the intoxicated crowd, invariably it wouldn't, punctuating the steady roar.
The sounds of activity dwindled as the clock approached and passed 10:00 pm, the crowd filtering out of the room in small groups, venturing toward the court, frat row, where the promise of free Milwaukee's Best and, this night, a treat, André, the finest of inhibition eliminating elixirs, enticed. The campus of overworked students and their excited visitors flocked, desiring dance floor dry humps and tongue twists, and, if lucky, the covert and grossly common mid-crowd upskirt exploration. For the more boisterous, a fight could be found, though everyone, always, wanted to make it back to their room with an everything but (for some, actually) unconscious peer they might never again acknowledge but could always brag about to their friends, a slobbering duo panting to salivate and gyrate in inebriated disharmony. Even if the conquest meant being among the last fifteen creeps at the party, after the lights came on and the campus police began ushering out the yet unpartnered, a shady straggler looking to poach the sweaty girls with vomit stained blouses or the ones whose eyes regularly rolled back in their head as they struggled against strangers' bodies for support, squirts of semen, but, ultimately, alcohol, might mask the shame.
Bart, Colin, and I flashed IDs, then, wristbanded, descended toward the cellar of fruity champagnes. We jostled our way to the bar amidst a sea of spilling solo cups, performing perfunctory greetings in response to shouts and hands flashing in the periphery. Arriving at our destination, without a drink for the 10 minutes prior, thirsted and sobered, I demanded relief.
"Hey, sexy baby," I cooed across the counter to a familiar coed, "can I get three of the peach and three of the strawberry?" She moved toward the stack of red plastic cups, "Bottles, please."
I registered her reaction to the unconventional request. "Don't worry, I'll stay in the basement, so fuck the solo cups," I reassured in practiced form, smiling and winking for good measure, nodding toward the friends flanking me, "It's not all for me."
Our trio extended arms like robots, empty hands accepting bottles with the same functional need a car does gasoline. Our masculinity surging, noting we'd separated ourselves from the room's solo-cupped masses by double fisting bottles, obviously ignoring exactly what we were actually drinking, we fueled our blackouts in unison. Half a bottle later, I lowered the glass rim from my overflowing lips. Leveling my head without wiping the fluid rushing down my chin and neck, soaking my shirt, I screeched, spraying a fine mist, my eyes and head jumping and lurching in maniacal uncoordination. We, idiot friends, invincible, exchanged glances and reembarked, this time to empty our first bottles.
Eventually tiring of the subdued downstairs crowd, on the brink of alcohol poisoning, we crawled back upstairs, eyelids half shut, drooling, and not just for college-age pussy. As the stairs opened up into the party, we combed the crowd, each eyeing a honey we'd like to spread. Splitting up without saying goodbye, we staggered toward our targets, all destined to repeat the clumsy, classless accosting countless times to find fittingly drunk and willing conspirators.
Minutes later, while my hands made progress against and all over an exposed midsection, I recognized the unmistakable pitch of a riled Bart. Letting my fingertips linger, I turned my head quickly enough to see Colin, the responsible redhead, and my occasionally terrorist roommate, Usman, step between our enraged friend and a wildly gesturing, crooked-hatted, jersey-outfitted fratboy. Dropping one hand, my other hooked the bottom of the barebellied girl's tight, chest covering cloth excuse of a shirt, and I pulled her toward the developing fracas, more interested in a good show than intervention.
Edging my way into the encircling crowd, still dragging my catch, I heard Bart muster the most ridiculous overstatement of entitlement in history, "I'm a Slagle. Do you know what that means? That means I rule the world." The subject of his ire, probably realizing he was engaged with an opponent who had drunk himself retarded, backed away, a glint of uncertainty arresting his previously confident eyes. My smile became a laugh, giving way to shrieks that required I seek my friends shoulders to stay afoot, allowing my scantily clad catch to slip back into the sea of writhing bodies. "A vintage Bart night," I shouted, glowing, staring but not speaking at Bart. Colin and Usman shook their heads, everyone else in the party already disinterested in the near brawl. It was barely 11:30.
The next hour or two was uneventful, at least enshrouded in a blank haze, but Bart would make sure the rest of the night wasn't so boringly unmemorable. As the clock neared 2:00am and parties closed down, students streamed out of the houses, more than usual on this night for the attendance boosting and retaining power of free champagne and uncharacteristically good music. Standing on the front steps of the frat, scoping girls to approach, or, for Plan B, something to vandalize, I happened to follow Bart's gaze toward a pack of males, the majority significantly larger than myself, therefore dwarfing Bart.
Convinced Bart was entirely heterosexual, but concerned about the confusing effects fruit flavored champagnes might have upon one's sexuality, I nudged his shoulder, hoping for clarification. But, at my touch, like a cyborg initiated into action, he walked toward the loud, cigar smoking group.
"What's up?"
"Huh? What--?" A chorus of "Who the fuck is this?" and snickers followed.
Bart said something else, inaudible to me, but one of the group responded, casual and amused but still serious, "Get the fuck out of here, man."
It was just the trigger Bart's never-say-lose, never back down, temperament needed.
"WHAT?" Bart sputtered, Colin already headed to diffuse the situation, "This some kinda race thing? 'Cause I'm white?" As if on cue, the dark faces cocked sideways and stared. The man in front removed his flat brimmed hat, looked over one shoulder, then the other, people behind him responding with shrugs and headshakes.
I leaned back against the brick wall of the frat house, settling in for another round of entertainment, assuming a vantage point from which I could simultaneously evaluate females who could accessorize my bed that night. Considering the advice an unusually pretty female friend had proffered before her exit, "Don't hook up with any ugly girls," I shivered when I spotted a 300-pounder I was rumored to have made out with, on the dance floor, in blackout mode, just weeks earlier, a few people even claiming to have seen me walking her back to my dorm. The only thing preserving my sanity: knowing I didn't wake up any morning with a sore, tired penis that indicated some unremembered hand rubbing, sucking, or fucking the night before.
A general raucous revived my attention. Colin was now facing Bart, marching him back toward my post, Colin's back to the group of guys, Bart, backpedaling, still busy exchanging barbs. "Dude, they're leaving," Colin observed with a glance over his shoulder, the second time with exasperation, "Bart. DUDE. They're walking away. Shut. Up."
"Fine," was all Bart would say, his eyes following the distancing bunch. He must have relaxed, untensed, because Colin let his hands fall from Bart's shoulders. And Bart took off, Colin scrambling after him, both too drunk to be running, a conclusion I had reached for my stationary self. Bart screamed, large males turned around, menacingly, and Colin, in better shape than Bart that particular evening, tackled the fighting Fatty to the ground. Colin barked something toward the reapproaching men, some combination of apology, instruction to get as far away from Bart as possible, and declaration that this wasn't, to be sure, a race issue, unless they were referring to the race to finish as many bottles of champagne as possible, then maybe it was a race issue.
The group left again, this time finding refuge inside a dorm with carded entry, presumably safe from the cardless Bart. But the indefatigable Bart was not to be barred, again escaping Colin's grasp, forsaking friendly good sense, sprinting toward the slowly closing door, screaming at an innocent student, unaware of Bart's impending doom should he again molest the crimeless bandits, "HOLD THAT DOOR!" Colin put his hands on his hips and watched Bart disappear into the distance, for a drunkard, streaking, into the dorm past the startled Samaritan holding the door. Bart bounded up the staircase, exhaling heavy streams of breath that, might a spark have ignited, would have perfected the mindlessly raging fairy tale dragon.
Steadily gaining on the posse ascending at a saunter, Bart flashed by staircase windows on the first, second, then third floors, never appearing past the fourth. About a minute later, Colin observed Bart slinking back down the stairs. Finally reunited, Bart's face was red about the eye.
"I got punched in the eye."
"You," Colin paused, turned his head toward nothing, then returned to Bart, "are a fucking moron."
Bart pulled a beer from his pocket and popped the tab, foam rushing from the mouth of the can, frothing over his hand, collecting on the ground. The duo turned back toward my dorm and started walking, separating with a silent handshake at the parking lot, Colin heading toward his car, Bart continuing toward my room where he'd spend the night.
As it turned out, yet unsatisfied with the havoc he'd wreaked.
On that mid March night, 2005, a gathering of friends converged upon the common room of my Junior suite, lounging on our black leather couch, stretched across our green leather lounge chair and matching ottoman, sitting backs to the wall or standing in corners, playing cards, beers, and shot glasses in hand, smashed empties and stains, stale and fresh, decorating the carpet, crushed chips and crumpled bags scattered across the dorm floor. Rowdy voices bellowed and howled above the blaring, bass heavy music, spikes of profanity and genuine laughter constantly piercing the drone, heavy thumps and crashes, probably with accompanying sly glances checking if the accident had attracted any interest, which, from the intoxicated crowd, invariably it wouldn't, punctuating the steady roar.
The sounds of activity dwindled as the clock approached and passed 10:00 pm, the crowd filtering out of the room in small groups, venturing toward the court, frat row, where the promise of free Milwaukee's Best and, this night, a treat, André, the finest of inhibition eliminating elixirs, enticed. The campus of overworked students and their excited visitors flocked, desiring dance floor dry humps and tongue twists, and, if lucky, the covert and grossly common mid-crowd upskirt exploration. For the more boisterous, a fight could be found, though everyone, always, wanted to make it back to their room with an everything but (for some, actually) unconscious peer they might never again acknowledge but could always brag about to their friends, a slobbering duo panting to salivate and gyrate in inebriated disharmony. Even if the conquest meant being among the last fifteen creeps at the party, after the lights came on and the campus police began ushering out the yet unpartnered, a shady straggler looking to poach the sweaty girls with vomit stained blouses or the ones whose eyes regularly rolled back in their head as they struggled against strangers' bodies for support, squirts of semen, but, ultimately, alcohol, might mask the shame.
Bart, Colin, and I flashed IDs, then, wristbanded, descended toward the cellar of fruity champagnes. We jostled our way to the bar amidst a sea of spilling solo cups, performing perfunctory greetings in response to shouts and hands flashing in the periphery. Arriving at our destination, without a drink for the 10 minutes prior, thirsted and sobered, I demanded relief.
"Hey, sexy baby," I cooed across the counter to a familiar coed, "can I get three of the peach and three of the strawberry?" She moved toward the stack of red plastic cups, "Bottles, please."
I registered her reaction to the unconventional request. "Don't worry, I'll stay in the basement, so fuck the solo cups," I reassured in practiced form, smiling and winking for good measure, nodding toward the friends flanking me, "It's not all for me."
Our trio extended arms like robots, empty hands accepting bottles with the same functional need a car does gasoline. Our masculinity surging, noting we'd separated ourselves from the room's solo-cupped masses by double fisting bottles, obviously ignoring exactly what we were actually drinking, we fueled our blackouts in unison. Half a bottle later, I lowered the glass rim from my overflowing lips. Leveling my head without wiping the fluid rushing down my chin and neck, soaking my shirt, I screeched, spraying a fine mist, my eyes and head jumping and lurching in maniacal uncoordination. We, idiot friends, invincible, exchanged glances and reembarked, this time to empty our first bottles.
Eventually tiring of the subdued downstairs crowd, on the brink of alcohol poisoning, we crawled back upstairs, eyelids half shut, drooling, and not just for college-age pussy. As the stairs opened up into the party, we combed the crowd, each eyeing a honey we'd like to spread. Splitting up without saying goodbye, we staggered toward our targets, all destined to repeat the clumsy, classless accosting countless times to find fittingly drunk and willing conspirators.
Minutes later, while my hands made progress against and all over an exposed midsection, I recognized the unmistakable pitch of a riled Bart. Letting my fingertips linger, I turned my head quickly enough to see Colin, the responsible redhead, and my occasionally terrorist roommate, Usman, step between our enraged friend and a wildly gesturing, crooked-hatted, jersey-outfitted fratboy. Dropping one hand, my other hooked the bottom of the barebellied girl's tight, chest covering cloth excuse of a shirt, and I pulled her toward the developing fracas, more interested in a good show than intervention.
Edging my way into the encircling crowd, still dragging my catch, I heard Bart muster the most ridiculous overstatement of entitlement in history, "I'm a Slagle. Do you know what that means? That means I rule the world." The subject of his ire, probably realizing he was engaged with an opponent who had drunk himself retarded, backed away, a glint of uncertainty arresting his previously confident eyes. My smile became a laugh, giving way to shrieks that required I seek my friends shoulders to stay afoot, allowing my scantily clad catch to slip back into the sea of writhing bodies. "A vintage Bart night," I shouted, glowing, staring but not speaking at Bart. Colin and Usman shook their heads, everyone else in the party already disinterested in the near brawl. It was barely 11:30.
The next hour or two was uneventful, at least enshrouded in a blank haze, but Bart would make sure the rest of the night wasn't so boringly unmemorable. As the clock neared 2:00am and parties closed down, students streamed out of the houses, more than usual on this night for the attendance boosting and retaining power of free champagne and uncharacteristically good music. Standing on the front steps of the frat, scoping girls to approach, or, for Plan B, something to vandalize, I happened to follow Bart's gaze toward a pack of males, the majority significantly larger than myself, therefore dwarfing Bart.
Convinced Bart was entirely heterosexual, but concerned about the confusing effects fruit flavored champagnes might have upon one's sexuality, I nudged his shoulder, hoping for clarification. But, at my touch, like a cyborg initiated into action, he walked toward the loud, cigar smoking group.
"What's up?"
"Huh? What--?" A chorus of "Who the fuck is this?" and snickers followed.
Bart said something else, inaudible to me, but one of the group responded, casual and amused but still serious, "Get the fuck out of here, man."
It was just the trigger Bart's never-say-lose, never back down, temperament needed.
"WHAT?" Bart sputtered, Colin already headed to diffuse the situation, "This some kinda race thing? 'Cause I'm white?" As if on cue, the dark faces cocked sideways and stared. The man in front removed his flat brimmed hat, looked over one shoulder, then the other, people behind him responding with shrugs and headshakes.
I leaned back against the brick wall of the frat house, settling in for another round of entertainment, assuming a vantage point from which I could simultaneously evaluate females who could accessorize my bed that night. Considering the advice an unusually pretty female friend had proffered before her exit, "Don't hook up with any ugly girls," I shivered when I spotted a 300-pounder I was rumored to have made out with, on the dance floor, in blackout mode, just weeks earlier, a few people even claiming to have seen me walking her back to my dorm. The only thing preserving my sanity: knowing I didn't wake up any morning with a sore, tired penis that indicated some unremembered hand rubbing, sucking, or fucking the night before.
A general raucous revived my attention. Colin was now facing Bart, marching him back toward my post, Colin's back to the group of guys, Bart, backpedaling, still busy exchanging barbs. "Dude, they're leaving," Colin observed with a glance over his shoulder, the second time with exasperation, "Bart. DUDE. They're walking away. Shut. Up."
"Fine," was all Bart would say, his eyes following the distancing bunch. He must have relaxed, untensed, because Colin let his hands fall from Bart's shoulders. And Bart took off, Colin scrambling after him, both too drunk to be running, a conclusion I had reached for my stationary self. Bart screamed, large males turned around, menacingly, and Colin, in better shape than Bart that particular evening, tackled the fighting Fatty to the ground. Colin barked something toward the reapproaching men, some combination of apology, instruction to get as far away from Bart as possible, and declaration that this wasn't, to be sure, a race issue, unless they were referring to the race to finish as many bottles of champagne as possible, then maybe it was a race issue.
The group left again, this time finding refuge inside a dorm with carded entry, presumably safe from the cardless Bart. But the indefatigable Bart was not to be barred, again escaping Colin's grasp, forsaking friendly good sense, sprinting toward the slowly closing door, screaming at an innocent student, unaware of Bart's impending doom should he again molest the crimeless bandits, "HOLD THAT DOOR!" Colin put his hands on his hips and watched Bart disappear into the distance, for a drunkard, streaking, into the dorm past the startled Samaritan holding the door. Bart bounded up the staircase, exhaling heavy streams of breath that, might a spark have ignited, would have perfected the mindlessly raging fairy tale dragon.
Steadily gaining on the posse ascending at a saunter, Bart flashed by staircase windows on the first, second, then third floors, never appearing past the fourth. About a minute later, Colin observed Bart slinking back down the stairs. Finally reunited, Bart's face was red about the eye.
"I got punched in the eye."
"You," Colin paused, turned his head toward nothing, then returned to Bart, "are a fucking moron."
Bart pulled a beer from his pocket and popped the tab, foam rushing from the mouth of the can, frothing over his hand, collecting on the ground. The duo turned back toward my dorm and started walking, separating with a silent handshake at the parking lot, Colin heading toward his car, Bart continuing toward my room where he'd spend the night.
As it turned out, yet unsatisfied with the havoc he'd wreaked.
posted by Mr. Pibba at 12:30 PM
2 Comments:
i know this is a story about me and not you but are you going to mention the part about breaking a window with a champagne bottle or the face that everybit of this story is a comeplete falsehood and that it never happened?
post the next part, i am bored at the library...
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