Breaking the Chains: College Growing up and Finding Myself

By John F. Nargi

“Breaking the Chains” starts off where “If I fell” ended, and is an illustration at how friendships develop, devolve, and sometimes end. From diffidence to recklessness, follow John as he tries to navigate the choppy waters that is college life at Umass, Amherst. From trying to overcome his fears and phobias, to meeting the friend of a lifetime, this story encapsulates what life was like, coming of age, for an awkward, shy, introvert, in the nineteen eighties.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781669800453

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Copyright © 2021 by John Nargi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/10/2021

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CONTENTS

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1

W ell, here I am , I thought, as I dropped my duffel on the bed. The only living boy in Amherst. I laughed to myself, knowing not many people would get that song reference (Simon and Garfunkel). Great. Now I can’t get it out of my head . . . CRAP! Another song reference! Midnight, on the water . . .

Another year at UMass. This time, on the sixteenth floor and, this time, in my own room. The uneasiness that I usually feel when starting in a new place feels less since my best friend, Eric, is going to be living just a few doors down the hall. We made the change from the eighth floor because I wanted a single, and this was one of the only openings available. He talked Marty, another floormate from last year, into joining him.

I walked down the hall to Eric’s room and knocked on the door. I waited a few seconds and knocked again. Nothing. I knew I was early, but I figured Eric, or Marty at least, would be here by now. I mean, it took nearly forty-five minutes to get all my belongings up here. I looked at my watch—10:51. Man, I am early. I went back to my room and started putting my stuff away. I plugged in my stereo and hooked the speakers up. Then I took my Replacements cassette (the one Bill made for me) from my baby (my new, auto-reverse, RQ-V185, Panasonic Walkman) and put it on full blast. As I bopped around the room, playing air guitar and singing into an invisible mic, I started the consternate task of unpacking and organizing. Ughh . . . I hate this part of moving in. While in the throes of musical heaven, I couldn’t help reminiscing about how I’ve changed from an introverted, recessive, hesitant (are there many other ways to write shy?), apprehensive (yes!), freshman, to a more self-assured junior.

I started thinking about Eric, and how I was scared of him. I remember thinking, Stay away from that one, after I met him. That’s exactly what I did for the first couple of weeks. I may have nodded a hello, or even said hi, but that was it. He is my polar opposite. He’s six feet tall, muscular (comparative to me), he has long hair (mine is short), he is loud (I am quiet-ish), he is outgoing (I am an introvert), and so on. For those reasons, I kept my distance. Then one day, for no conceivable reason, everything changed. It was a Friday night, late September, and I was returning from who knows where (I rarely went out—to parties, the library, ANYWHERE, at night, alone). I walked through the stairwell door, marked 8 (yep—I was afraid to take the elevator in fear of having to share it with people I didn’t know), turned left, and made an immediate right to go down the hall and to my room. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of Eric, in Marty’s room, and he looked like he was crying. What the fuck is that? I thought. I continued on my way, then, suddenly stopped. What possessed me to do what I did next still causes me to lose sleep. How different my life would be had I just kept walking like I always do. Instead, I, completely out of character, turned on my heels and walked back.

You, okay? I asked as I poked my head in the doorway.

Eric, sitting on Marty’s bed, his head was in his hands, sobbing. Yeah.

All I could think was, someone’s died. Again, going against everything in my nature, I pressed, What’s up? Is everything all right? Do you need someone to talk to? As I said this, I looked around, and couldn’t find Marty anywhere.

No, it’s just . . . Eric started, taking a couple of tissues from a box off the desk, and blew his nose. I don’t know . . . I just, I don’t know, just, really miss my girlfriend.

I took a few seconds to process what he said, then answered, That’s it? I thought someone died!

I don’t know why I’m feeling this way either. He sobbed.

Maybe it’s the fourteen beers you drank tonight, I guessed to myself.

Where’s Marty?

He’s asleep in David’s bed. He’s fucked up.

He is? I laughed to myself.

You want a beer? he asked, tossing me a lukewarm Stroh’s from the desk before I could answer. I caught it and opened it. He opened one as well.

My name is John.

Eric. The Destroyer, he answered with a little laugh.

I guess I’m ‘John the meek’ then. We both laughed.

Why are you in Marty’s room?

My roommate . . .have you met him yet? Matt?

The skinny guy?

Yeah . . .he’s got Cystic fibrosis, so he doesn’t party, and likes his quiet. So we came here after going to a frat party, and Marty passed out on Dave’s bed.

I got up and looked around the corner. There he was, in his tighty-whities, lying face down, spread-eagled, on the bed. I shook my head and walked back to the other side. You sure he’s okay?

Yeah, just so long as he doesn’t wake up looking for Mary.

Mary? Our RA?

Yeah, he’s got a thing for her.

Mary? Really? Mary was as plain as, well, plain yogurt. She was nice and all, but I didn’t see anything other than a future librarian. She was a 5'3, maybe 140 pounds, brownish, straight hair, a few freckles adorned her chubby face. She wore contacts during the day, but later—at night—, she wore her glasses, hence my librarian" comment. She dressed in long skirts, baggy shirts or sweaters, and flat shoes. She usually had her hair tied back in a ponytail or up in a bun. If she wore makeup, it wasn’t noticeable. I know she didn’t wear lipstick. I was certain of that. She wasn’t extremely outgoing, and her lack of humor was always on display.

Really, Eric repeated, bringing me out of my mental assessment of Mary.

When he has a few beers, I have a hard time controlling him.

So, what’s up with your girlfriend? She cheat on you?

WHAT? Eric said, spraying beer everywhere. Why would you say that?

I don’t know. Why are you crying then?

I’m not ‘crying,’ I’m just sad. I miss her.

That’s the oddest thing I’ve ever heard. You, Mr. popular. Mr. Party man, crying about a girl. I don’t believe it. How far away is she? What school is she in?

She’s still in high school, in Bath, Pennsylvania.

Where the fuck is that? I asked, then thinking, Please don’t kill me for saying that.

It’s near Allentown.

That narrows it down. I have no idea where that is. I know the song from Billy Joel, but all I got out of that was that there were steel mills, and they were all being closed down. I must have made a face, because he added, An hour away from Philadelphia.

Oh. Okay. How long does it take to get here?

Four hours. I won’t see her until Christmas.

That sucks. At least you have a girlfriend to go home to. Why don’t you call her?

I can’t. My phone bill is already up there, and my parents are going to freak when they see it.

Write her a letter.

Yeah. No, he said and laughed.

He opened another beer as we continued to talk. We ended chatting for a couple of hours. Most of the stories involved girls, and the problems encountered in relationships. All the while I listened to the chorus of Billy Joel’s Allentown playing, over and over, in my head. I gave him the abridged version of my relationship with Karen, and even he agreed with Bill and Walter.

She sounds awful. The best thing for you was for her to dump you.

How the fuck would you know? You don’t really know her, and I’m sure I’m not doing her justice. We ordered a pizza from Avanti’s, and when they called the room to say there were downstairs, I offered to go get it. I walked down the eight flights of stairs, opened the door to the lobby, and spotted the delivery guy by the security desk.

Eric? I made Eric call (I didn’t like talking to strangers on the phone either).

Yeah, I mumbled.

Six dollars and seventy-five cents, he said as he took the large pepperoni out of the bag.

Here you go, I said as I handed him eight dollars.

It’s all set.

Thanks. He answered as he handed me the pie.

I snatched it and made a beeline for the stairs. I ran the entire way, two steps at a time. The smell was heavenly, making my stomach grumble, as if I hadn’t eaten all day. As I came to the door marked 8, I heard someone yelling. I couldn’t make out the words, but I tell it was Eric’s voice. I opened the door to see Marty, still dressed in only his underwear, up against the wall, trying to squeeze past Eric, screaming, Mare-we. I want Mare-we.

I stood in the doorway for a few seconds when Eric saw me and said, Go put that down and come help me get him back to his room.

Okay, I said jogging to Marty’s room. I put the pizza on the desk and ran back to the elevators.

I wanna fuck Mare-we.

Grab one of his arms, Eric instructed and I did as he asked. We, each with an arm, turned Marty and pulled him towards his room. The whole time he shouted for us to let him go get Mary.

You. Can. See. Her. Tomorrow. Eric said, one word at a time, as we struggled to move him. For a drunk kid, he was strong. He’s Eric’s height but weighed at least fifty pounds less. He’s milk-white (like he’s never seen the sun), has medium length, blond-reddish, hair. Freckles, like Mary. He isn’t skinny, but he isn’t fat either. I guess you’d call it a medium build. After a couple of attempts to escape, he gave up, and walked with us, peacefully, to his room. He fell on his bed and was out. For now.

Man, you weren’t kidding, I said, opening the pizza box.

Were you here last weekend?

No, I was working, why?

He did the same thing. It took us twenty minutes to calm him down, and Mary was not happy.

No way. When I see him, he seems quiet.

He is unless he has a couple of beers. All bets are off after that.

We ate, drank another beer, and talked. When the pizza was gone, it was a little after two I said I needed to hit the hay and was glad we talked. He said the same and I went back to my room. As I walked, I realized that we had a lot more in common than I originally thought. Who would have guessed? As I closed my door, I heard, Mare-We . . . Mare-we. I opened it back up, in time to see Eric pushing Marty back into his room, yelling, Go to bed MARTY! He shut the door and held onto the knob, so he couldn’t get out. He looked down the hall at me and shook his head, smiling. After a few seconds, he let go. I watched as he stood at the door for a minute or so, and then, when satisfied that Marty was down for good, he looked toward me, and gave a nod. I nodded back as I stepped inside my room and closed the door.

2

O ne of the best things to come out of my new friendship, for me, was going to the UMass football games. I never went as a freshman and hadn’t gone to any this year. Eric knocked on my door, a little after eleven in the morning. Tom answered. I couldn’t make out what was said, but then I heard Eric’s voice. I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes, and was about to get up when he came around the corner.

C’mon, get up. Let’s get lunch and go to the game.

What game? I asked.

FOOOOOOTTTTBALLLL, he yelled while striking a muscle-man pose.

Oh. Right. Yeah, okay, I answered, I gotta go brush my teeth, and get dressed.

Hurry the fuck up, then.

I grabbed my toothbrush, paste, and towel and walked swiftly past toward the hall. I stopped at the door and turned to Tom, You wanna come?

UMass football? No thanks.

Okay, I said, what about lunch then.

Naw. Not hungry.

LET’S GO! Eric bellowed from my side of the room.

I turned and saw him thumbing through my albums. I’m, going, I’m going, I said and left the room. I got ready fast, and within a few minutes, we were at the elevators. I opened the doors to the stairs, and Eric said, Where are you going? The elevator will be here in a second.

I like taking the stairs, I said, not wanting to tell him about my phobias just yet.

Whatever. I’ll meet you in the lobby, he said as I bolted down the steps.

I came out of the door and didn’t see him. HA! I beat him, I thought, trying to catch my breath. He appeared in a little under a minute and saw me.

Fast muthafuckka, aren’t you? he said, laughing.

As we walked to the dining commons, Eric mentioned Tom, What’s wrong with your roommate?

Wrong? Nothing, why?

He’s got ‘serial killer’ written all over him.

What? Tom? No way. He’s just really quiet.

Really quiet? That’s the most words I have heard him utter all semester.

Yeah, he doesn’t really talk to many people.

He talks to you.

Yeah, I don’t understand that either. Maybe because I’m sort of shy as well. I haven’t given it much thought. We hit it off last semester, just started talking one day. Now, we’re roommates. Go figure.

Not even going to try, he said as he opened the door for a couple of girls who were coming out of the dining hall.

Thank you, they said in unison.

You’re welcome, Eric said. I looked away as fast as I could and bolted into line.

Hey, wait up, Eric said and got behind me.

What was that? he asked as I was showing my ID to the lady at the desk.

I pretended not to hear his question as I grabbed a tray and started filling it. When I had enough, I went searching for an empty table. There were plenty, and I grabbed one near a window. I sat down and looked around for Eric. I scanned the expansive room and finally found him. He was standing in the middle, looking around, carrying a full tray in his hands. I stood and waved my arms, but he didn’t see me. By the second time he looked, he saw me and started walking over. As he put his tray down and began to sit, he said, Couldn’t find a table farther away.

I wanted to sit near the windows.

He looked at all of the empty seats, near windows, closer to humanity, then back at me. Okay then.

He shook his head and started eating. We ate fast and each took an extra sandwich with us to bring into the game. We bussed our table and made our way to the stadium.

You know, he started, that girl was giving you ‘the look.’

What ‘look’ would that be.

I don’t know, just a look like she liked you.

Yeah, right, I countered. Did she smile at you or not?

Not. At least, not at me. She was just smiling because you held the door for her and her friend.

She was looking at you, not me. I was kind of pissed.

I don’t think so. Doesn’t matter anyway. Who are we playing today? I answered, successfully changing the subject.

Northeastern, I think.

Are they any good?

"I’m not sure, all I know is we’re undefeated, and it’s going to be packed in there."

Great. That’s all I need, I thought and answered the best I could, Cool.

We lined up at the student gate, where we met Marty.

Hey, Eric and I said together.

Hey, he answered, hands in his front pockets, looking down at his Converse sneakers, sorry about last night, I was a bit drunk.

No biggie, Eric answered, you’ll get Mary one of these days.

I didn’t say anything, and we didn’t mention it again. We got into the game and found seats around the twenty-five-yard line, a few rows up from the field.

Is she here? Eric asked, out loud, as he stood and scanned the field.

I think she’s over there, by the goalpost, Marty observed.

Who are you looking for? I asked.

Oh, you’re going to love her, Eric said.

She’s one of the baton twirlers . . . Marty started explaining when he was interrupted.

THERE she is! Eric shouted and pointed to one of the Majorettes.

What’s so special about her? I asked, guessing she must have massive breasts or something along those lines.

She sucks at baton twirling! She drops it, at least, 75 percent of the time! he explained.

So what? Why do you care?

It’s HI-LAR-IOUS, Eric said, enunciating every syllable.

I couldn’t see why that would be so funny and he noticed my dubiety.

You’ll see. He offered as we waited for the game to start. It turned out to be a thriller, with UMass holding on for a 31-28 win. Eric was correct about it being packed as well as the announced crowd was over 13,000. He was also correct about the majorette. She was horrible. In fact, I couldn’t understand why she would even want to do it. She was a good-looking girl, probably five foot one, maybe five-two. Thin, and had a pretty face. Her long blond hair was fashioned in a ponytail that came out from under her majorette’s hat. It was hard to tell anything else as the uniform was not the type to show off her body. I guessed it was pretty good, but it was just that. A guess. Anyhow, at halftime—when the band was on the field, she and her companions lined up on the sideline, five yards apart from each other, facing the crowd. They did their routine, twirling their batons to the music. The first time they had to throw it up and catch it—she threw hers up, and it came down behind her. She did the rest of the program without it, prompting Eric and Marty to shout, HEY? Where’s your baton? I laughed, and got in on the fun during the next routine. They were still five yards apart from each other, but now they formed a line, each facing the back of the majorette in front of them. They were twirling, and dancing, and then, for the big part of the show, they were to throw their batons to the person behind them. Eric knew the routine and told me, Watch. Watch.

Watch for what? I asked.

You’ll see. Just watch. Here it comes.

And come it did. Our girl didn’t disappoint. She tossed her baton ten yards behind her, just missing a majorette who was reaching up to catch the baton from the girl in front of her. She caught the one she was supposed to, right as our girls’ baton landed four inches from her head. To make matters worse, she didn’t catch the one she was supposed to, prompting me to yell, YOU dropped the baton, YOU dropped the baton.

Eric and Marty joined in, and as others noticed, they joined in as well, pointing to the girl twirling the imaginary baton. By the time the routine was over, at least a third of our section was chanting to her. I was cracking up, never realizing I was doing to this poor girl what I was scared to death of nearly every day of my life. But I was eighteen, and it wasn’t me everyone was chanting and pointing at, so I didn’t see the problem with it.

Walking back to the dorms, Eric asked what we were doing tonight. I never had any plans. Tom rarely leaves the floor on weekends. Tim, my old roommate, has a single on the floor, but he rarely did anything either. Nothing. I offered.

Me either, Marty added.

One of the guys I work with (Eric has a job in our dining hall) is having a party tonight. He lives off campus.

Sounds like fun, I lied, What time?

He said any time after nine.

I looked at my watch. Four fifteen.

We need to get beer, Eric said.

That’s going to be tough for me, seeing as I’m only eighteen and look fifteen.

Eric laughed. Don’t worry—I got you guys covered. What do you want?

I had to think about it. I didn’t really have a type of beer at that time. It all seemed the same to me. Do you want to split a twelve-pack? I asked Eric.

He stopped walking and stared at me. I stopped and said, What?

No. I don’t, he said, shaking his head.

I will, Marty chirped. Couple of fucking lightweights. What kind do you want?

I looked at Marty, hoping he would bail me out. He didn’t offer a suggestion and, with Eric staring again, I blurted out, Bud.

Gross. But okay. Sure, you don’t want a case?

No, Marty and I said together.

Twelve’s enough, I finished as Eric’s eyes said, Lightweight, again.

We got back to the dorm and up to our floor. It was a little before five.

I’m going to veg for an hour, take a shower, and then head to eat. You guys want to go to dinner around seven? I asked.

That works for me, Eric said, looking over at Marty. He just looked at us.

Well? Eric asked.

Oh. Yeah. That’s fine.

Well? Eric asked, again, only louder.

Yeah. I said it works for me.

Marty huffed. No, dumbass. Money. I need money for the beer.

Oh, we said in unison, How much do you need?

Well, since you’re only getting a twelve-pack—$20.

I honestly couldn’t remember what beer cost. Especially out here in Amherst, where I figured package stores gouged the students. I began fishing out a ten as did Marty.

You two are something else. A twelve-pack of Bud goes for $6.

I wanted to say, How the fuck would I know that. But only said, Oh, I didn’t know.

I gave him my ten and told him to bring back some change. Marty only had a ten as well, and said, He’d owe me.

Fuck you, change. You’re helping pay for mine. I’m the one who’s going to get it, and has to get it past security.

I didn’t argue and turned to go to my room.

I’ll be back in about an hour, Eric said, and I put up a hand to say okay as I kept walking.

I opened my door, put the keys on the desk, and plopped on the bed. I cannot believe I’m going to a freakin’ party tonight. Off campus, no less. This is going to suck. Eric will probably find his friends and I’ll be left on my own. With Marty. Another one who is socially graceless. I got up, found the Beatles’ Let it be album. I took it out of its sleeve, opened the dust cover to my turntable, placed the record down, positioned the needle, and pressed start. The needle went down as I turned it up to seven and laid back down on the bed. Two of us started playing, and I closed my eyes. I tried not to think about tonight. What I actually was thinking about was my brother Jimmy—I wondered what he was doing right now. He was married, to his high school sweetheart—Tina, and was living in Virginia. Going from Jimmy, I thought about my other brother, Rob, who was in the navy—I think he’s on a cruise right now, and won’t be back for a few more months. I thought about Janice. She was in Worcester, MA, studying nursing at Saint Vincent. Then I thought about my little sisters. Karen was a freshman at Tantasqua now, and Andrea was in eighth grade. Man, does time fly. Two of us ended, and Dig a pony started. I nodded off not long after Lennon sang the opening refrain.

3

T he party was jumping when we got to the door. I could make out Bon Jovi’s unmistakable, bubblegum-guitar pop, You Give Love a Bad Name. I sang in my head, You give rock a bad name —but never told anyone that. Eric knocked and the door opened on its own. We walked in and put our beer down in the kitchen, on the counter—funny, there was just enough room for it. I grabbed a Bud for me and one for Marty, but couldn’t find him . That’s strange. He was right behind me . I looked around the room and didn’t see anyone I recognized. Where’d Eric go? I knew it! I’m on my own, and we’ve been here for all of two minutes. I cradled the beers, opened one, took a long pull, and went looking for my friends.

Funny thing—I didn’t feel self-conscious like I normally do. Maybe the beer is already doing its thing. I walked into the living room where Bon Jovi was now screaming about Livin’ on a Prayer. A bunch of girls were bouncing to the music, so I started dancing as well. The song ended, and I Will Dare by the Replacements came on, and I went nuts! More people joined in and we were having a blast! The song seemed to last an eternity. I was now dancing with a very pretty brunette. She had her hands on my shoulders and I had my arms outstretched, eyes closed, belting out the words. I was bouncing to-and-from, and, surprisingly, not spilling my beer. When the song ended, Kerry kissed me.

WOW! This is amazing! What a kiss it was. It lasted minutes, and when we came up for air, I asked her name.

It’s Kerry. Is that beer for me?

Sure. I answered, wondering how I knew her name before she told me. Someone must have yelled it at some point.

I’m going to the kitchen to grab another one.

Okay, I’ll come with.

We walked, hand in hand, around one corner, then another, and boom—we were in the kitchen. I grabbed another Bud, wow—still cold! I opened it and took a long guzzle. I looked around and, as I did, I saw someone I haven’t seen in, at least, four years. It was Mark Tantappio. From Danbury.

Mark? I yelled to him.

He looked over, looked me up and down, and went back to talking to some chick.

MARK! IT’S ME. JOHN—FROM DANBURY.

He looked over, again, and I noticed we were the only people in the room.

What’s up? he asked.

Nothing, what are you doing here? I thought you worked at the restaurant in Newtown.

I do, he said as he got up and, grabbing the hand of the girl he was talking to, led her out of the kitchen.

I stood there for a minute, thinking how odd that was.

He’s just a dick, John. I heard and looked over, and there was his brother—also named John.

Hey, John! What are you doing here?

You know, just hanging out. How’s your family? Everything good?

Yeah. Everyone is fine. How about yours?

All good, man. All good.

The next thing I know, I’m back dancing with Kerry, and I will dare is still playing. This is weird. As we’re dancing, someone started pounding on the door.

POLICE! OPEN UP.

I froze. I looked around and everyone was gone, except me and a couple of people I didn’t know. The police busted in the door and immediately cuffed me.

Why are you arresting me? I asked.

Underage drinking, driving while intoxicated, and listening to crappy music.

Driving? I asked, I don’t even have my license yet. I don’t own a car.

Tell it to the judge, one of the officers said as two of them led me out into the hallway.

As I was being walked out, I noticed Mark. He was smirking at me, and winked as I went by. As I was being led to the cruiser, I noticed Eric and Marty. And Kerry—she was kissing someone else. I called to them, but they ignored me. I was put in the cruiser and the door slammed. It slammed again. Then again. What in the hell is going on? I closed my eyes and heard, JOHN. BAM. BAM. BAM. JOHN!

I opened my eyes and looked around. I wasn’t in a police car. BAM! BAM! BAM!

JOHN. OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR.

Someone was knocking on my door. I was in my dorm room, on my bed.

Where in the hell is Tom? I thought as I got up, shaking off the cobwebs, and opened the door.

What the fuck? I was knocking for five minutes, Eric said, walking past me, and putting my beer on my desk.

What time is it?

He didn’t answer my question, only saying, I thought you were taking a shower.

I am going to. Now. What time is it?

I don’t know. Get a move on. I’m hungry.

I’m going now, I just told you, I said as I put the twelve-pack in my fridge. I looked at the clock by my bed. It read 6:13.

Cool, he said, I’ll be in Marty’s room when you’re ready to go.

Okay. I’ll be ten to fifteen minutes.

Be closer to ten.

I’ll try, I answered thinking, What? Are you my dad?

He left and I grabbed my shower bag and a towel. As I walked down the hall, I realized I had slept for almost an hour and a half. And what a weird dream I had. Boy, I hope I meet Kerry tonight. That was all I could think about as I showered. Also, What the fuck did I do to Mark? We were friends since we were in fourth grade. By the time middle school came around, we drifted apart—he was one of the cool kids, and I was, well, I was one of the socially inept ones. We were good friends when no one else was around. We hung out, played Atari, listened to comedy albums, went fishing (five o’clock in the morning), stole the wardens of Danbury Federal Prison’s boat on Candlewood Lake, walked or biked the four miles to Portofino’s (In New Fairfield) for pizza, amongst other things. We played basketball, baseball, and football with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, but when we’re in a group, he didn’t really acknowledge me. Still, I thought of him as a good friend. My dream didn’t make sense to me.

I was done showering, changed, and ready to go. I walked down to meet the guys and we went to get some food. It was 6:24—so fuck you Eric—I was thinking as I was running down the steps to the lobby.

4

W e ate and were back in Marty’s room by seven.

What do we do now? I asked as Eric opened a beer and gave me a duh look.

Do you want one, Marty? I asked, walking to the door.

Have one of mine, Eric said, throwing one to me, and then handing one to Marty.

You want to start now? Marty asked.

Pre-gaming, he answered, then proceeded to down his beer in thirty seconds.

ARRRRRWAERRRRRA. He bellowed and opened another.

I looked from Marty to Eric, and back to Marty. We all laughed and settled in.

Where are you from, John? Marty asked. I told him my story, about moving a lot, and finally ending up in Sturbridge.

Where are you from? I asked, to be polite.

Dorchester. Only it came out, Door-chesta.

Where is that? I thought I knew, but wasn’t sure.

Near Boston (bahstan).

What an awful accent, I was thinking, when Eric grabbed another beer.

Either of you two pussies want one?

I checked mine, still half full, took a mighty swig, and answered, Sure.

Marty took a drink, made a face like he just bit into a lemon, and said he was fine for now. Eric tossed me one, and it went off my hand, hit the wall, opened, and started spraying everywhere.

Pick it up and shotgun it. FAST! he instructed. My face said all he needed to know and he leaped up, grabbed the can, put the opening to his mouth and pulled the tab. He downed the beer faster than I have ever seen anyone drink one.

HOLY SHIT that was fast! I announced.

Eric let out a belch, crushed the can, and spiked it. Now we’re cooking! he yelled.

He grabbed a beer and walked it over to me. He held it out and when I went to take it, he grabbed my arm at the wrist, and gently placed the beer in my hand. Do not drop it, he said as he slowly let go of my arm.

Ha-ha, I said as Marty shot beer out of his nose, laughing. He hit his head on the wall and fell out of the chair.

What is wrong with you guys? You, he started, pointing at me, have had one beer. And you . . . less than one. This is going to be some night.

Show me how to shotgun a beer, I said, handing it back to him. He handed it back to me, grabbed one for himself, and asked, Marty?

No, I’m good, Marty answered, getting off the ground and finding a towel to clean the floor.

Okay, Lightweight Eric said as he grabbed a pen off the desk. He gave it to me and looked for another.

Take the can like this, he said as he held it in the palm of his left hand.

I’m a lefty, I told him.

So, what. It doesn’t matter which hand you use. Now, point the end with the opening away from you, making sure the tab is facing up. I did this. Take the top off the pen and poke a hole at the far end. When you poke the hole, wiggle the pen around to make it bigger, then drop the pen. When I count to three, cover the hole with your mouth, and in one motion, stand the can upright and pull the tab.

Okay, I said.

You ready?

As ready as I’ll ever be, I answered, feeling a little adrenalin rush.

Okay, make the hole.

We each stabbed our beer, simultaneously, and made the hole larger. We dropped the pens, in unison, as well, and I covered the hole with my mouth.

When I count to three, tilt your head back and pop the tab.

I nodded.

One. Two. THREE!

We both swung our heads back and popped the top. Beer went straight down my throat as I stared at the ceiling. Some went down the corners of my mouth as I gulped as fast as I could. It was over in three seconds, but the rush lasted longer.

WOW! I yelled.

Let’s do that again!

I’m game. Marty? Eric asked.

I’m good, Marty answered.

Fuck you. You’re doing one, Eric said, and we got ready and waited as counted down from three.

YEAH BABY, I yelled as I threw my empty can to the ground and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. I felt liberated! I wasn’t drunk, but felt better than buzzed. It’s hard to explain. I drank two beers in less than a minute and wanted to do another.

No. No, Eric said.

I want you guys to make it to the party.

What time is it? I asked.

Not even seven thirty, Marty replied.

How long does it take to get to your friend’s house? I asked.

We gotta catch a bus from campus center. From there, it’s about twenty minutes to the stop closest to his house, and a five-minute walk there. All told, about forty minutes.

We decided to take it easy until it was time to go. Eric had had six beers already, I had three, and Marty one and a half. When it was a little after eight, Eric announced that it was time to make a move. I started walking toward my room when he asked, Where are you going?

To get the beer.

For what?

To bring to the party.

Dude, there’s going to be kegs. We just have to give him a few bucks. Haven’t you been to a party before?

Yeah. Just not off campus, I lied. I had been to one, last Halloween, but didn’t remember the protocol.

Why did you make us buy beer then? I asked.

Make you? What does that mean?

I mean, why did we need to buy beer if there was already going to be some at the party?

To pre-game. I thought I made that obvious.

I really am a novice at this, I thought as we made our separate ways to the lobby.

Within fifteen minutes, we were at the bus stop. It was a cool night, a little breezy, but the stars were out in full force. The moon was full, and it looked a little too close. I was thinking while brushing dried, burnt-orange leaves back and forth between my feet. Within a few minutes, the bus was pulling up. We climbed aboard, each showing the driver our UMass ID. We didn’t say much on the ride, and like Eric said, we were dropped off in front of Puffton Village apartments.

It’s not a five-minute walk. The building’s right there, I said as I pointed to the complex.

Wrong place, genius. He lives in Brandywine, behind these, and up the road a bit.

How would I know that? I asked.

You wouldn’t. You should have asked, huh? he said, leading the way to his friend’s place.

It took, almost exactly, five minutes. I know this because I was counting to myself, hoping to tell him when it took longer, but I kept my mouth shut. He was right. We made our way to building 16—Joe Montana, I thought and smiled. You could hear the music from the front door. It wasn’t Bon Jovi (thank heavens)—it was Motley Crue—Home Sweet Home. Great. I haven’t heard this song in almost an hour, I thought as we climbed the steps to the door. It was askew, and Eric knocked as he entered. I had a feeling of déjà vu as I followed with Marty bringing up the rear. We walked through the hall, and immediately to the right was the kitchen and the dining room. Eric’s friend, Josh, greeted us.

Eric! You made it, he said, giving him a bro hug.

Hey Josh, these are my friends—Marty and John.

Marty, Josh said, extending his hand to me.

John, I corrected him, that’s Marty.

Sorry bro, thanks for coming.

Thank you for letting us, I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t. Josh proceeded to shake Marty’s hand as Eric asked, What do I owe you for the beer?

Ten between you guys is fine, he answered as Marty took out his wallet and said, I got this, guys.

Thanks, Eric said. I didn’t say anything because, well, he owed me.

Kegs and cups are out on the balcony, Josh explained, just off the living room.

Thanks, we all said, separately, as we followed him into the living room.

The place was dark, with music blaring, and light coming from down the hall just was enough to keep you from running into something. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed a couch up against one wall, and a chair moved up against another wall, next to a TV on a stand. There were movie posters on the walls, a pin-up calendar with a buxom blonde leaning over motorcycle handlebars, displaying her massive cleavage. Motley Crue turned into Cinderella’s Nobody’s Fool, as I followed Eric through a maze of people to the balcony. He handed me two cups and I looked at him.

For Marty, he said, filling his cup. Oh! I turned and handed one to him.

The balcony barely held the two kegs, and we were getting pushed. I turned to say something, but I noticed it wasn’t Marty. People were just impatient, and were trying to get to the kegs. I got my beer and squeezed back into the living room. I lost Eric like I predicted, but within a few seconds, Marty was standing next to me. I looked around the room and noticed many pretty girls. All of which, I already knew, I would not be talking to. There was one in particular that I noticed first. She was short, with shoulder-length brown hair, and brown eyes. She had a slender built, and was wearing a short skirt and a baggy sweater. The skirt looked out of place with the canvas Converse sneakers she was wearing.

You should go and talk to her, I told Marty, pointing at the girl and her sneakers.

No way, he said, blushing a bit, and smiling.

You both have the same sneakers on.

Hers are blue. Mine are black, he commented.

Yeah. Worlds apart, I said.

Maybe later, he lied.

Can you see Eric? I asked.

No. I’m going to go look for him. With that, he walked away. I looked over at Converse-girl, and she looked away quickly. I looked around the room and confirmed to myself that I did not know anyone else here. I walked back to the balcony and lined up for another beer. After refilling, I walked around to see if I could find Eric or Marty. No luck. The place was packed, and more people were entering from the hall. I found a corner to lean against, and listened to the music and