“God damn, god damn,” I yelled as we careened down the suburban street. “Alistair, the night is young and we’ve got too many god damn great things to say to it.”
Alistair sat in the passenger seat of the car, Melodie in the back. It was an odd night for the three of us. The rest of the gang was holed up at home working on projects or trying to get some sleep in. Not us. I was hopped up on whiskey and caffeine pills and secure in the knowledge that there was nothing left to care about in this town. We’d just left a sad little get together at Colin Packard’s house — Packard was on his way toward being a state trooper, and he was smashed out of his mind.
“Dan, man, you wanna go grab a pitcher at Patches? Last call’s in 15 minutes,” Alistair said, digging around his pockets. “We’ve got plenty of time and I’ve got some cash.” The cash that he pulled out of his pockets was dirty money. A few months ago, he’d embezzled some 600 dollars in twenties from the rugby team he played for. They would have bought beer with it anyways.
“Sure thing Al,” I said. “Mind if we make a pitstop before we drop you off, Melodie?”
“I don’t care,” she said. Her friends had abandoned her at the party, we were giving her a ride home.
“Patches it is!” I said and gunned the engine.
Patches O’Rourke was full of the usual crowd: A bunch of 25-something guys wearing polo shirts who were busy hitting on 22-something girls wearing bleached smiles. We ordered a pitcher of the fanciest thing they had on tap with the rugby team’s money. It tasted like oranges.
“Last call,” said the bar tender — an Italian chick who wearing a shirt designed to earn tips.
“Fuckin’ eh, man,” quipped Al. “We just made it.”
“So what’s next?” I asked, filling up my plastic cup with beer. “I’m far too awake and close to graduation for this night to be over.”
We looked at each other. This night had been a no-go from the beginning. Al and Melodie pulled out their cell phones and began scrolling through their contact lists, hoping for some name to light up a memory in their minds. Nothing.
Then, I remembered a conversation I’d had two weeks ago with a guy named Jim. He was a friend from my hometown who also went to LOPI, and he was having a graduation party that night. There was hope. Without so much as a word, I finished the pitcher, and motioned to Al and Melodie that it was time to leave.
Jim’s apartment was on campus and within walking distance of the bar. We stumbled down the road, singing a loud, but surprisingly on-key rendition of “Closing Time” into the night air.
“Hell’s bells, Al. Mel. What the hell am I going to do with my life after this?” I asked rhetorically. I had become an existentialist in my old age.
“I don’t know Swarles,” said Melodie. She called me Swarles because of a TV show. “You’ll probably just end up back here, drinking with us until we graduate.”
“Good point.” I said. It wasn’t, I was getting the hell out of dodge the second I got my diploma.
“Yeah, or you could head back to New England and pay stupid taxes and chop down trees,” suggested Alistair.
“Good point.” I said again.
We were at the door of the apartment. With a determined hand, I flung open the door. It was customary in those days to leave the door open if you were having a party. Only cops knock.
Jim was standing by his fiancé, who was a medical student down south. She could do much better than Jim, but they were happy. I kept my mouth shut on that one.
“Danny!” Jim yelled above the din of software engineering students.
“Jim!” I yelled back. It was 2 in the morning. We hugged and I asked him when the wedding was. They still hadn’t set a date.
The party was still in full swing. One of my writers from the magazine was there, as well as a few kids I’d had class with over the years. I felt secure in the knowledge that wherever I went at LOPI, I would know at least three faces in the crowd. What I didn’t realize was that it didn’t really matter.
Alistair and Melodie melted into the party, as we munched on free snacks and drank down free beer. Software engineers were lightweights and also very generous with their alcohol. We took advantage of that.
Before I knew it, Al and I had both found two girls to hit on. Al’s was a very drunk girl with blue eyes and brown hair. They didn’t do a lot of talking before her tongue was down his throat.
I, on the other hand, found a cute brunette girl sitting in the corner of the living room, staring sullenly at a bottle of hard cider.
“What’s the news?” I asked, sitting down next to her with an excited look on my face. I never understood why anyone would be sad at a party. She looked up, confused by the question.
“Oh, you know, just hanging out with a friend from high school,” she said, nodding toward Al’s new friend.
“Ah, I see. Stranger in a strange land.” I was drunk and making Heinlein references.
“Something like that. You a software engineer?”
“Not on your life, I’m a writer. A journalist.” I said with bravado.
Her eyes lit up. “You’re kidding me. I’m a journalism major at SUNY Stonybrook.”
“Would I lie to you?” I would.
We spent the next half hour swapping war stories. Melodie saw us and gave me a thumbs up from across the room. But, Alistair’s floor show was getting a little out of hand and so my journalist brunette excused herself to bring Al’s new soulmate home.
The party was wrapping up. Al, Melodie and I all pocketed a bottle of beer and walked out into the now cool night air. This would be our last great adventure. Across the street, in front of an aging apartment complex, we spotted a table and a couch sitting on the lawn.
“Shall we have a sit?” I proposed.
So we sat. The table was piled high with styrofoam clamshells and half-smoked packs of Camel Lights. We lit up the free cigarettes and sat underneath the stars drinking free beer.
“What the fuck,” said Alistair.
“What the fuck.” Melodie and I repeated.
