Over a delicious meal of pho with a friend of mine on a rainy Wednesday not too long ago, I was regaled with utterly amazing stories about her dad, and how he was on a crusade to liberate his community from the scourge of Canadian geese.
Utterly entranced by her storytelling, we headed back to Arlington and discussed the types of stories we’d like to write about. Completely out of nowhere, I got a blast from the past; a memory I hadn’t visited for ages, but an experience nonetheless that served to shape me, for better or for worse:
What it was like to get shitfaced, 1994 style. Wow, 1994... a heady year of lousy music and shitty fashion. A year I was lucky to make it into junior college due to my horrible high school academic record.
Now, before I, as the French say, "go somewhere with this," I’d like to get something off my chest first. It’s my personal belief that alcohol consumption in America is a lot like nudity in America. You and I can’t handle it. You see, you and I aren’t to be trusted. Now, who in America knows what's right and wrong for us without the benefit of having actually knowing us?
Jesus freaks and soccer moms.
I came to this conclusion like so: I distinctly remember Janet Jackson’s infamous “wardrobe malfunction” a few years ago. Specifically, I recalled the exact thoughts that were running through my mind when I saw her breast, laid bare for the world to see: “holy shit! Tits! I wanna gun down a Sunday school and come home so I can cheat on my taxes!” Ugh! We’ve let personal freedom and freedom of choice get held hostage by a bunch of damn holier-than-thou types.
At any rate, for all the negative things I could say about my parents, they never once treated alcohol like forbidden fruit. I remember when my dad was going to technical school when I was a kid, and he had a part-time job at a liquor store to bring in a few extra bucks. One day, I saw a commercial for Busch (“Head for the mountains… head for Busch beer!) and asked my dad what it tasted like. He said he’d try and wrangle a stray can and let me have a sip.
Now, for all the bad shit I could say about my father, he was really chill about certain things, and wasn’t afraid to treat me like an adult provided I didn’t abuse this privilege. So I took my first sip around the age of five, and immediately made the connection beer=nasty! I’d be permitted to take the occasional sip or 4 ounce glass of beer once in a blue moon, but I never really developed the taste for it. In high school a friend and I got the bright idea to mix wine and soda (blech!) and in my senior year, I’d buy the occasional can of MGD off of an acquaintance of mine. But I never went crazy with it. I’d say over the course of my high school career, I drank the equivalent of about half a bottle of wine, and maybe a six pack.
That all changed one fateful day. I was a student senator at my junior college, and the activities board hosted its annual retreat for the student leaders of each major campus organization (student senate, foreign language clubs, Phi Beta Kappa, the school newspaper, etc.). It was a two day retreat held in December 1994 somewhere up in the Catskills in New York State, specifically at a Jewish resort whose two claims to fame were (and I have no way of confirming this) that it was the inspiration for Dirty Dancing, and supposedly had the country’s first indoor heated swimming pool.
We did the normal bullshit icebreakers and teambuilding exercises on the bus ride up. Several times during the journey, they cautioned us that there would be hell to pay if we were caught visiting the resort’s bar if we were underage. I honestly thought nothing of it. I wasn’t there to drink… right?
Well, being the anal retentive type that I was back then, I changed into a suit after checking in. I really have no idea why, aside from the fact that I thought I ought to look professional (which is funny, because I absolutely hate having to wear suits nowadays. Funny how 10 years in the working world will change your views like that). So after the various workshops, etc. we were left to our own devices after dinner. I remember walking down to the lounge area and joking with one of my friends that I ought to try heading up to the bar and asking for a drink. Hey, I was the only one in probably a 50-mile radius wearing a suit, right? So you just know I’ve gotta be legit! After a bit of encouragement by my friend, I made my move.
I recall being nervous. Very nervous. Trying to bluff your way through your first underage purchase is like putting your hands down your girlfriend’s shirt for the first time: you’re trying to play it all calm and cool, but meanwhile all you want to do is make a beeline for your drink/her tits. While I knew fuckall about what I should get, I intuitively knew not to order beer or some trendy cocktail. Something that’d get the bartender’s antennae up. No way... I gotta olden it up a bit.
“Beefeater. On the rocks. And make it a double!” I had no damn idea what I just really ordered. I knew most late teens didn’t drink gin, and asking for a double on the rocks sounded a bit more middle-aged, like something out of a black-and-white movie. And I made sure to say "make it a double" as an afterthought while I proceeded to light up a cigarette. I figured there'd be something so casual yet mature about this. Like that extra thought into putting some acting talent into my drink order would help out. Well, it did. I got my drink and promptly got the hell out into the hallway and away from the bar, eager to not only whet my whistle on the demon drink, but to also giddily brag to my friends that I, GQ smooth, the epitome of grace under fire, just got served.
Turns out leaving was a good thing. Someone I knew who was at the bar at the time told me the bartender did a double-take as I was leaving. “Man, I should’ve carded him. But he was wearing a suit!” was how my friend described the bartender’s reaction.
I decided not to push my luck, and in any event, some of the college admins (including a few deans) were still up and hanging around. I gracefully quaffed my drink and retired for the night. It was a good thing I got nice and rested. Because the next day was absolutely insane.
Turns out the last evening we were at the resort, the deans and professors were strangely absent after we were done for the day. So a few of us work up the nerve to try to get served, and this cool-as-shit older bartender (a WWII vet) was serving everybody, including one of my friends who honestly looked to be in his early teens! Naturally, since about 80 percent of the students on this trip were underaged, we were tipping like crazy. While I won’t go into complete details about the night’s debauchery, I will say that I managed not to throw up that night or the next day.
In retrospect, I have to believe that this all went on with the knowledge and blessing of the college administration. I’m sure they figured hey, we’re out in the middle of nowhere with about four feet of snow on the ground. We don’t have cars and we can’t wander off even if we wanted to. Why not let ‘em cut loose for once? Trust me, the resort wasn’t that large, and it would have been damn easy to bust us (especially since I’m pretty sure I saw the president’s wife watching the proceedings at one point. They knew we were getting our jollies off in a secure environment, and the resulting hangovers that pretty much all of us were sporting turned out to be an appropriate penance. And I must say the bus ride home was damn quiet!
I tried the whole suit business a few more times at bars by my house in the months afterwards, as well as when I went to my four-year school the following year. Eventually I tired of it, and decided that my luck would run out at some point. Better to quit while you're ahead, right?
So, what did I learn from all of this?
1. Don’t order beer (ESPECIALLY Bud or Miller) if you’re trying to get served and you’re south of 21. Dead giveaway! Don’t order any trendy mixed drink crap like Sex on the Beach or a margarita. This also ties in nicely with step 2, which is...
2. Don’t go to anyplace that serves the gimmicky drinks in step one. Go to some shitty blue collar dive (and not a hipster “blue collar” dive. You want the real deal). Order stuff like boilermakers, Old Fashioneds and Manhattans. Don't try to make small talk, but don't make it look like you don't belong, either. Sip your drink in peace.
3. For god’s sake, don’t dress like a broheim or sorority bim! I’ve seen at least one person get busted with fake IDs that might have gotten away with it, but they were dressed in stupid shit like a polo and shorts and a backwards baseball cap. In December. Amateurs.
They say you never forget your first. Ahh! To be young and completely in love… with your first glass of Beefeater. On the rocks. And a double!
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