Here's a rough draft of a story I'm working on. It's too long right now and needs some work but I thought I'd post it anyways (I've gotta post something, now that the Hughes Hubbard reception story is gone):
When Drunken Law Students Attack
One night in the December of my second year at Duke Law, me and some friends, confined by the utter monotony of Durham life coupled with the doldrums of law school exams, hatched a not-so-daring plan to roll out to the party-mecca of Tobacco Road known as Chapel Hill. Our goals were pretty vanilla: drink some beers, hit on some chicks, raise some hell. The usual.
The pre-partying, defined here as three dudes playing Playstation, began at around 8:00 p.m. in Durham at a spacious yet disgustingly unkept two-story house known affectionately as the "fraternity halfway-house." The three dudes playing Playstation were Poke, a big, smiling dude from Wyoming and halfway-house resident; Marco, a tall, heavy-set guy from San Diego and also a resident; and me, a nondescript stocky guy from Florida and a non-resident but frequent squatter at the halfway house, which doubled as the sole venue/rehearsal space for our "band" (picture four drunk law students–PWJ was occasionally one of the four--in a basement playing marginal covers for an enthusiastic group of 25 or so drunk law students). Deviating from typical blogger protocol, I will not be the protagonist of this story. Marco will fill the role, and fill it well.
(Quick background on Marco: when inebriated, Marco is loud, gregarious, an unadulterated thrill-seeker, and generally the life of the party. He also possesses an uncanny ability (perhaps derived from his Irish Ancestry) to drink most people under the table, and is infamous for impressive Jackass-esque maneuvers at parties (e.g., one time, during a twelve hour bender capped by the requisite 3 a.m. pizza binge, I witnessed Marco nonchalantly roll up a twenty-dollar bill, which he then used to snort an enormous nostril-full of red pepper flakes. The repercussions were both grotesque and beyond hilarity--I have never seen a man in so much pain.))
By losing the first game of Madden I am designated the evening’s driver, so I am taking it easy (maybe four or five Busch lights in a couple hours). Poke is drinking steadily but temperately, probably six to eight brews. Marco, on the other hand, is (inexplicably, considering the presence of beer) into the cheap wine, and has been for some time. So, by the time we departed for Chapel Hill at around 10:00 p.m., Marco had downed at least a bottle and a half. And I'm not talking the standard-sized bottles. I’m talking the handle-sized bottles of the white rotgut that your half-crazy Aunt Sally buys when she comes to family reunions - not quite wine in a box, but close. Well-accustomed to the drink, Marco remains the picture of composure as he climbs into the backseat of my car. The only sign of anything amiss is the ginormous bottle of cheap white wine protruding from Marco's closed fist. It would be a while before Marco would again enjoy the safe confines of the halfway-house.
Approximately twenty-five mintues later, as we cruise past Woody's and 23 Steps on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, cute passers-by are intrigued but somewhat discomfitted by the 6'4" Caucasian dude in a San Diego Super-Chargers T-shirt (circa 1984) leaning out of the back passenger side window of my car belting out "Power of Love" by Huey Lewis at the top of his lungs, with his right arm waving an empty bottle of grocery store chardonnay in perfect time to the music. He releases the bottle, which smashes in the middle of Franklin Street, and pronounces his arrival with a triumphant "Viva la Chapel Hill!"
After staking out the strip and meeting up with some other friends and acquaintances who are unimportant for purposes of the story, we settle on "Top of the Hill," a somewhat high-end (for Chapel Hill, at least) brew-pub on the third floor of one of the various old buildings along Franklin Street (to reach this bar, we have to ride an elevator. This will become marginally important later). We saunter in and order drinks. Poke and I drop a couple of pints of whatever imitation Newcastle that the brew-pub is hustling. Meanwhile, Marco drops four pints, and orders a round of Irish Car Bombs. All of this with two handles of Cheap Chardonnay already festering in his gut. Marco has thrown down the gauntlet.
Not one to ignore a gauntlet toss, and since I had recently cast off my role of designated driver without designating anyone in my stead (a common downfall of mine during law school and to the present day), I decide to go Car Bomb for Car Bomb with Marco. I'm curious just how much Marco can stomach before either (1) vomiting, (2) passing out, or (3) doing something enormously stupid, so I keep a mental tab of his alcohol consumption over the course of the evening (which, as drunken evenings are wont to do, flies by in a distorted haze). Sum total of Marco's drinking by my tally (I was only with him perhaps 3/4 of the time we were at the bar): 3000 milliliters of cheap white wine, 7 Irish Car Bombs, 2 shots Jagermeister, five or six pints of fake Newcastle. Even for the most experienced drinkers (read: Nicholas Cage, Leaving Las Vegas), that is a Booze-tastrophe of epic proportions.
By 1:30 a.m., we have lost track of Marco. We last saw him standing by the bar talking to two chicks, with his pants and boxers inexplicably around his ankles. (Editor’s Note: Marco is the token drunk naked guy. There's one in every crowd. It is as if as his BAC rises he must shed clothing in order to maintain bodily equilibrium). Poke and I are outside on the balcony and Poke has honed in on a couple of tipsy UNC physical therapy grad students at whom he is throwing game, with a moderate degree of success. I'm winging for Poke, trying to counteract the annoyingness of this other guy we are randomly hanging out with, we'll call him "Dude." Dude's only redeeming quality is that he pays for everything. Poke is about seven-eighths of the way to convincing the cute PT girls to accompany us for late night pizza, etc. It is at this time that Marco returns.
Marco staggers over, pulls up a stool, and plops down. I have never seen him this affected by alcohol. Marco is fucked-in-half drunk. He listens to the conversation at the table for about three minutes while slowly swaying back and forth on the stool and then loudly declares, "These girls are ugly and boring. Why are you talking to them? Let's leave."
The PT girls are appalled by his frankness. Poke explains that we are thinking about going across the street for some pizza as soon as the bar closes, in half an hour or so. Unsatisfied with this answer, Marco angrily retorts: "I'm hungry NOW and these girls are ugly and boring and stupid. Let's leave NOW!!!!" Marco then pounds his beer down on the table, expelling it's contents onto PT girl number one, and departs, toppling his stool and slamming into several innocent bystanders in the process.
Even when ridiculously inebriated, Marco generally retains a sharp wit and prefers subtle antagonization of dull-witted, but attractive, women (which does not necessarily destroy the hook-up attempts of his brethren) to outright alienation (which crushes such hook-up attempts and is just not right). Disconcerted by Marco's uncharacteristically caustic and borderline belligerent behavior, I instruct Poke to pull the plug with the PT girls, which he reluctantly does. We must abide by the old fraternity mantra of "Bros before hoes." We head for the entrance, in hot pursuit of Marco. We didn't have to travel far.
When we discover Marco, he is laying on his back on the floor of the elevator, which is stuck on floor 3 because Marco's long legs are hanging out of the elevator door. Marco is paralyzed by spasms of hysterical laughter. Apparently, somewhere in between the balcony and the elevator, Marco transformed from an angry anti-social into a blubbering, giggling pile of goo. The unamused bouncer informs us that Marco, in his determined quest to stagger onto the elevator, had swayed a little too far in one direction and, unable to regain equilibrium, had tumbled into the elevator, a circumstance which Marco found wildly amusing. I spend five minutes discussing with Marco the relative merits and pitfalls of passing out in elevators. Surprisingly, Marco is now quite lucid and persuasive in his arguments, and almost convinces me that this is acceptable behavior.
Fighting his magical power of persuasion, I am able to convince Marco that it is time to stand up, and, with the help of Poke, manage to drag Marco to his feet. We ride the elevator down to the first floor, and walk Marco out into the open air, at which point Marco escapes our grasp, immediately devolves into a wild beast, and begins screaming maniacally/falling all over himself/crawling around on all fours trying to tackle/bite/claw/otherwise injure me, Poke, and Dude (who for some reason is still with us). Marco has quickly turned the city streets of Chapel Hill into some weird drunken grad student version of Lord of the Flies. Fortunately, Marco's motor skills have been reduced to the level of a four year old handicapped girl and we easily dodge and parry his attacks, while simultaneously fueling his futile advances with our laughter and merciless taunts. After about five minutes of Tasmanian wrath, sheer fatigue finally subdues the feral Marco. I glance around and notice that we have drawn a crowd, consisting of about twenty drunk college kids and, to my dismay, one sober police officer. Poke and I again peel Marco off of the ground (he is in the process of passing out half on the sidewalk and half in the street). Marco is too winded and groggy to struggle. I explain to the cop that Marco is okay, that he's just had a long night and that of course we will take good care of him. The cop, who as it turns out is a really good guy, doesn't give us any trouble.
As we leave and the crowd disperses, Dude suggests pizza; we agree and drag Marco into the late night pizza joint across the street. Dude buys each of us a couple slices, which we devour, except for Marco, who instead falls asleep on top of his slices. Nothing earth-shattering transpires; idle drunken chatter ensues; it appears that another quasi-amusing but otherwise uneventful night of debaucherous behavior is drawing to a close. After the pizza disappears (except for the piece lodged between Marco's face and the table), we file outside. Poke pries the nearly comatose Marco out of his chair and drags him outside. They are the last through the door and Dude and I are looking back and laughing at the waste of humanity that is Marco.
What transpires next probably took two seconds in real time but, for me, the moment always plays back in my head in slow motion. Marco, apparently reanimated by the evil spirit of some long-dead pagan God of Booze, springs to life and sprints straight at me, shoulder lowered. I have never seen Marco achieve such speed. He reaches terminal velocity in about a quarter of a second and since I am only two feet or so from him, I prepare for the impending impact rather than attempting to dodge. Underestimating his profound drunkenness (I was expecting at least a halfway decent effort on Marco's part; what I got was a wet sack of potatoes), I crouch down and proceed to lay a perfect, Singletary-esque form tackle on Marco, lifting him up and then flattening him in the middle of the sidewalk. I'm pretty sure I see snot bubbles. Poke later told me that it looked like a surreal parody of an NFL films highlight reel, with the "players" wearing street clothes and, in a strange role reversal, the running back body-slamming the linebacker. A wave of hilarity immediately engulfs my comrades. Dude doubles over. Poke, as is a regular habit of his, falls to the ground in spasms of uncontrollable laughter.
Never one to miss such a grand opportunity for ruthless taunting and celebration, I spout a few choice words into Marco's ugly mug as he lies there on his back. Surprisingly, in spite of the barrage of insults to his manhood (probably accompanied by spittle) pouring out of my mouth and the fact that I just pancaked him on cold concrete, Marco's face displays neither anger nor pain. He utters nary a sound. As he stares in my direction (but not really at me - more like past me or through me), I realize I have never seen a blanker _expression. Then, all of a sudden, he shakes his head like a cartoon character who just had his bell rung, sits up, rubs the back of his head with his hand (as if considering what to do next), and then grins that ridiculous protruding-jaw Marco grin (picture Buzz Lightyear). It dawns on me that he intends to grapple some more and is simply taking a moment to gather himself. That's when I spot the viscous red liquid that can only be Marco's blood pooled on the ground where his head just was. We are not talking a little red splotch on the sidewalk; this is a fucking LAKE of blood. It is deep enough that I can see my reflection in it. Appalled, I quickly glance back at Marco and notice that blood is literally pouring out of a gaping wound in the back of his head. I look back down and when I see the square base of the black lamppost with the sharp, red corner my alcohol-addled brain puts two and two together.
Sobriety sets in faster than a Ben-Johnson-steroid-enhanced 100 yard dash and a spectrum of conflicting emotions simultaneously assault my brain: guilt, panic, confusion, fear for my friend's life, etc. A quick survey of the immediate vicinity reveals the nice cop from earlier about a block up the street. Dude and I sprint over to Officer Friendly while Poke runs inside to try to procure some paper towels or something to stop the bleeding. Marco remains seated on the sidewalk, now Indian-style, staring bemusedly at the red stuff on his palm. Although clearly unaware of his own head wound, Marco appears to realize that something is afoul.
I inform the cop, who remembers us from earlier, that our crazy friend just lost a fight with a lamppost and is bleeding all over the place from a gaping hole in his head. We sprint back toward Marco with the cop in tow. Officer Friendly surveys the scene and immediately radios for an ambulance. By the time the EMTs arrive a few moments later, Marco remarkably has regained both marginal lucidity and an impressive level of drunken charm and is enthusiastically recounting his muddled version of the events surrounding the demise of his head to the bewildered but amused cop, who is currently pressing a grisly wad of muddy-red, super-saturated paper towels to the back of Marco's head. The two EMTs shuffle Marco off to the ambulance (Poke tags along for the ride to the emergency room). Dude and I wander off to retrieve my car and head to the emergency room to meet Poke and Marco.
Details of the ambulance ride (as related to me by Poke): Semi-lucid Marco (who to a layman would appear quite sober) quickly befriends the EMTs, and innocuous banter between Mike, Poke, and the two EMTs results. The EMTs are amused and impressed by the happy, talkative drunk with blood spurting out of his head like a fountain and his giggling, crimson-cheeked companion. After affixing some sort of device to the back of Marco's head to control the bleeding, the EMTs as a precautionary measure insist that Marco lie down. Marco explains to the EMTs that this is a very bad idea. The EMTs force Marco into a prone position and proceed to strap him onto the stretcher. Marco persists in his admonition that this is a very bad idea, but the EMTs are undeterred. A profoundly sad look comes over Marco's face, and then he raises his head slightly and expels a voluminous geyser of black, rotten-milk smelling vomit (remember the Bailey's?) up into the air, which naturally pours down right on top of him. Marco's hair, face, and shirt are now covered in both vomit AND blood. A good portion of the vomit also splatters on the EMTs, who are leaning over Marco.
One EMT manages, "FUCK, Marco, I thought you were our FRIEND!"
Marco, sheepishly shrugging his shoulders: "I told you it was a bad idea. You didn't listen."
Needless to say, Poke melts to the ambulance floor giggling like a little girl.
At the emergency room:
(1) Marco registers a .29 BAC approximately two hours after his last drink;
(2) Marco's badly lacerated noggin requires four staples; and
(3) Doctor approximates that 5-6 pints of Marco's blood were left behind on the streets of Chapel Hill. (For those of you that failed biology, that's about a third of the blood in Marco's body).
Epilogue: Two days later, Marco completes take home examination in difficult Intellectual Property class; he scores a 3.9.
posted by Jeff at 2:19 PM
