www.morgypoo.com

Tale of college humor

Candy was a wild one at the Palace. I'd swear every eye in the place was on her as we danced. She was so free and easy, and it was contagious. Dancing, laughing, partying, she was a fun one. But there was another talent this woman possessed, a skill which would soon have all of us men begging for mercy: Quarters. That woman could bounce five, six, seven quarters in a row into a beer glass. She joined me and the Boyzz at a table next to the dance floor for perhaps an hour, and in that time span, she nailed each of us several times. "That chick is deadly," Banjo Jim groaned when she finally bounced on down to another table. An hour later we were all slouched upon our bar stools, too wasted to move, and there was Candy playing quarters with a different group of men. Poor bastards.

Yeah, she made the rounds, that girl. A real social butterfly. I couldn't get jealous about that, though, for it was her nature. I accepted it, or tried, and so I endeavored not to tie Candy down, but only to fly with her on occasion.

I always enjoyed drinking during the daytime. Somehow the buzz was more mellow that way, and Saint Patrick's Day would be no exception. Macomb actually celebrated Saint Pat's Day a week early because the real holiday fell during spring break. Thus, we students had two shots at getting completely drunk and stupid. I could hardly wait. This called for some focused recruiting efforts. So after an early breakfast, I trotted down to the 5^th floor and did my best to rouse the Babes out of their slumber, shouting, "Wake up, ladies! It's Saint Patty's Day! Green beers for a dime! And blue beers for a nickel!" I was expecting the doors to fly open and women to come running out like minutemen. After all, these were the Babes, Macomb’s Power Drinking Team. But no one stirred. Either they were choosing to sleep in, or they had already left for the bars. I was hoping for the latter.

I had better luck with the Boyzz. As I got to 8^th floor, I spotted Banjo Jim, that wonderful and faithful companion, standing in the hallway and wearing a shirt with a slogan that fit the occasion: Beer: It’s Not Just For Breakfast Anymore. I could have hugged him. "Is anyone else coming?" I asked.

Banjo Jim shrugged his shoulders and said, "Let’s start shaking some beds." He butted into Lance’s unlocked room and did his best revelry impression. Me, I quietly sneaked down to the end of the hall and into Musky’s room. Musky was lying in bed with his back to the door, apparently asleep. Yet without turning around, Musky asked, "What’s up, Morgy?"

"How in the heck did you know it was me?" I asked.

"I felt your force field, Morgs," he said, like some kind of psychic. Don’t ask me, I still don’t understand it.

The campus bars opened at nine o'clock Saturday morning in honor of Saint Patrick, the patron snakester of Ireland. Lance, Musky, Banjo Jim and I stood in line at the door of the Ritz wondering if this was such a good idea. "Goddam, I'm still hurting from last night," Musky moaned. Me, I was lucky, I’d kept partying until four in the morning, so my buzz was still going from the previous night, just like MacKenzie had taught me. He was my Obie Wan Kenobe, my instructor in the ways of getting hammered. He was gone, but his influence still remained.

"Okay, go nuts!" the bouncer shouted as he opened the doors. A large crowd of dedicated alcoholics swarmed the bar with orders for green beers, anxious to take advantage of the incredible price of ten cents each.

"Ten beers, please, and whatever these guys want," Lance directed the bartender.

"I'll have the same," Musky nodded.

"Ditto," Banjo Jim added, as did I.

The bartender drew forty green beers in little plastic cups and lined them up in front of us. "That'll be four dollars." Lance pulled out his wallet and paid the man, acting like he buys his friends forty beers all the time.

"Thanks, buddy, I'll get the next round," Banjo Jim offered.

I suppose we would have been okay if we stuck to beers, but Lance enticed us into doing shots of whiskey, not your usual morning fare. Those shots must be what turned my legs into slinkies by late afternoon. Three, count 'em, three times I fell back on my butt for no reason at all. I never had a problem with balance before, regardless of how much I drank. All I know is I was standing there talking to Shellypoo, then wham, I was lying on the floor looking up. But I'm a gamer. Each time I rose to my feet, took a standing eight count from Banjo Jim, then got back into my drinking stance. "Are you okay, Morgypoo?" Shelly begged while trying not to laugh.

"I'd be all right if the floor quit moving. Holy shit am I drunk!" As a means of survival, I draped my arm over Shellypoo's shoulder and held on for dear life. "You know, you're a good chick," I said to this woman supporting me. "Did I ever tell you that, Shellypoo?"

"Hundreds of times, Morgypoo."

"Holy shit am I drunk," I again pronounced, like no one would know that by looking. "Did I mention that I'm drunk?"

"I think you're fully krausened, Morgypoo," Shelly smiled.

I liked that Shelly. We were pals. We could tell each other anything. We rooted for each other, especially in the love game. She encouraged me to ask girls out, and I did the same for her. And when we were hammered, we were the best of buddies.

Soon that little voice inside told me I might get sick, so I finished my beer and staggered outside for a few minutes. The fresh air helped, but I wasn't quite ready to go back inside and resume drinking. Food is what I needed, something to absorb all that alcohol. "Yes, food," I mumbled. "Eat. I must eat." Higgindome was out of the question; I'd starve trying to walk that far. Hmmm, I could stalk and kill my own food in the woods across the street, I began thinking. As I weighed out my options, some freshman came walking up to me--with a Zagnut bar in his hand! Ho, ho, I wanted that thing!

"You look twenty one," he said. "You mind running into the liquor store and buying me a twelve pack?"

"Hand over that Zagnut bar and you've got a deal." The kid handed it over, then jumped back as I tore through the wrapper and devoured it whole, making growling moans as I chewed. The guy stared at me like I was rabid. "You got any more?" I asked.

"No," he exclaimed as he put his hands up in defense.

As long as I was in the beer store, I thought I'd do my own grocery shopping, so I picked up a twelve pack for that long walk back to Higgindome. The trip was a difficult one, as I knew it would be. I couldn't for the life of me stay on that skinny, wobbly little sidewalk. First I staggered across the parkway into traffic, then I overcompensated and veered into the mud on the other side of the sidewalk. I finally gave up altogether and laid down on the parkway, a couple of feet away from University Drive. "Yeah, I'll just pull over and sleep it off," I told myself. And so with the twelve pack for a pillow and passing cars as background music, I faded off to sleep in no time.

Musky later spotted me lying unconscious on the parkway as he drove by toward Higgindome. He pulled over and tried to help me into his car, but according to him, I adamantly refused to get up. "No way!" I snapped. "You just want my Zagnut bar!"

I recalled nothing of Musky's Good Samaritan efforts. I must have been off in some other dimension when he came upon me. And seeing how he was pretty wasted himself, he wisely chose to leave me alone, clutching my imaginary candy bar and laying amid a dozen scattered beer bottles - some full, some empty. When I awoke, several pedestrians were gathered around me. "Are you okay?" a girl asked. "We thought you got hit by a car."

"No, I’m just taking a nap. Want to join me babe?" I asked smoothly. She somehow resisted. What will power. I gathered the beers back into the carton and slowly rose to my feet, several times. Bravely I stumbled back to Higgindome, rode the elevator up to 8^th floor and staggered into my room. Dicky Jay and Dad were there, playing foosball, since I’d left the door unlocked. They kept playing as I climbed into bed, my journey now complete. "Don't wake me until Tuesday, wait, Wednesday," I told them. But those plans changed a moment later when my stomach got woozy. I lifted my head and announced, "I'm gonna throw up!"

Dad smiled and said, "Good, then I can turn the Kermit award over to you."

Ah, the Kermit award! I forgot all about that thing. It was a very prized possession on our floor, going to the most recent Boyzz member to toss cookies. The trophy was a little plastic Kermit the frog that bent at the waist with his hands over his belly and his tongue hanging out. It actually looked like Kermit was throwing up. And Lance had done a masterful job of mounting Kermit to a wooden plaque - next to a miniature toilet that he stole from his little sister's doll house.

Thoughts raced through my mind. Yes! That award will be mine! I'll be famous. All of Higgindome will point to me and say, "Look! There's that guy who threw up! He holds the Kermit award!"

This called for nothing less than a toilet, so I rolled out of bed and landed face first on the floor, my nose cushioning the impact of the fall. I then scampered into the bathroom where seconds later I could be heard shouting, "I've done it! The Kermit award is mine! All mine! Ha ha ha!" And I even added another kermit as icing. Green icing.

Dad gladly presented me with the trophy as I returned to Morgy's Playhouse. "I'd like to thank the academy for this award," I said as I crawled through the doorway. "And I'd like to thank the bartender who never stopped believing in me, even when I was on the floor."

Dicky Jay interrupted my acceptance speech to relay a message. "Morgy, your new girlfriend called while you were in the bathroom."

"Did you tell her where I was?!" I beamed. Dicky Jay nodded. "And what I was doing?!" I followed. Again he nodded. "And was she proud?" I asked, though trying not to sound too cocky.

"Uh, sympathetic. She said to call her back when you're feeling better."

"Better? Better?! Are you kidding? I just won the Kermit Award. It doesn’t get any better than this!"

I was beaming with confidence and pride as I staggered down to Candy's room. I told her all about my great accomplishment, and of the celebration party I was going to host that evening. Deb was congratulatory, but she insisted that I lay down in her bed for a nap, seeing how my legs were still like slinkies. I gladly hopped under the covers, expecting her to join me, right? Nope, she gave me a kiss on the forehead, and headed out to the library. That’s not at all what I had in mind. I wanted to pick things up where they left off on our first date, heated and sensual. But maybe I wasn’t in any shape for that. Within moments I dozed off and caught a couple hours of shut eye. When I awoke, I felt much better, and I still had a decent buzz going. This was like a cool head start on the evening drinkers.

"Bring Home The Kermit" was the party's theme. The beer would flow freely tonight. Just one problem: drinking was allowed in our dorm, but kegs were outlawed, since it was believed that they attracted large crowds of rowdy people. Of course they did, that was the point. Sometimes I just didn’t understand school administration and policy. Lance and I drove to the liquor store with Hoss, our designated keg handler. You could just see the pride in his eyes as Hoss casually hoisted the 15 gallon drum onto his shoulder and exited the store. This was his moment. This was his major.

Sneaking the keg into the dorm required a team effort. Musky took the lead, setting up four look-outs and two advance scouts, with code words that none of us could remember. So when an R.A. came walking into the vicinity, the look-out would simply say, "Oh shit!" That was as good as any code word; Hoss would turn around and head back down the stairs until the coast was clear. This only happened a couple times. Even so, Hoss seemed to tire by the time he had climbed to the 8^th floor. No one questioned his strength, but his aerobic conditioning seemed a little suspect. His face was red, his breathing was frantic, and once the keg was safely hidden, Hoss chose to lay down on the hallway floor for a spell. "That’s what I call a hero," Lance said. "He gave his life that others might drink."

Since kegs are illegal, and Morgy's Playhouse was marked as a trouble spot for R.A.'s, we had to get creative about hiding the goods. That was Lance’s job. He put the keg in Dad’s room, ran the hose out the window, and into my window. Pure genius. And it worked beautifully. When Sheriff Ted, the overzealous R.A. stopped by to investigate, he thought he had us nailed. There were pitchers of beer and cups of beer, but no bottles or cans. He searched the room three times, certain there must have been a keg present. Meanwhile, Musky had ditched the hose out the window, leaving no evidence whatsoever. Ted was so disappointed. "Where did this beer come from?" he demanded to know.

"The Beer Fairy," Lance pretended, knowing he was driving Ted nuts. The floor cop shook his head as he left.

Dad, the reigning Kermit holder, presented the coveted Kermit trophy shortly after we started. "I promised myself I wouldn’t cry," I declared as I accepted the award. "Thank you!"

Linda and the Babes were in a pretty happy mood as they arrived at the party. They kept laughing about my recruiting efforts earlier that day. "So why didn't you guys come out and join us this morning?" I asked Linda.

She rolled her eyes and said, "No way! We were all too hung over to get up and start all over again. We just wanted to sleep."

"Geesh, what a waste of a day," I teased.

Cindy was probably the most trashed that evening. She wasn’t the same person as when I dated her a few months earlier. Back then, she seemed so quiet and sweet, with a hint of mystery; now, she was rowdy, loose and happy. It’s like somebody flipped a switch, and she was transformed from mature and graceful to a wild party chick, always on a quest for fun and laughs, usually the liquor enhanced kind of fun. She was just like me, I suppose, which meant we were becoming pretty good friends. But it also meant I lost any romantic interest in her. She was a party buddy. We could share tons of laughs, but there was nothing to discover beyond that.

"I've got to stop getting so smashed," Cindy told herself as much as me.

"It's the Babes," I told her. "They bring out the lush in you, just like the Boyzz bring out the wild man in me."

"Yeah. This isn't like me, though," Cindy explained, almost with regret. She didn't have to say another word: I knew exactly how she felt. She was being sucked in by all the fun and craziness of college life, and in the process she didn't know who she was any more. Her inner self was abandoned in favor of a party self, and now she felt lonely in the midst of the best times of her life.

"Hey Morg, where's your chick?" a drunk Flick cut in.

"I don't know, buddy. I think I'm stood up."

"Candy?" Cindy asked, almost looking jealous. "We saw her at a party on North Wing." North Wing. All men. Ah well, a woman needs her space, and a ramblin' woman needs the galaxy. If I wanted to date a fun loving chick, I had to be ready for sharing her.

Bring Home the Kermit really packed 'em in for an impromptu party. We must have fit thirty people in that little dorm room. A great time was being had by all, especially a new Babe named Jamie. "That’s one tasty morsel," Banjo Jim declared as he eyed her from across the room. That means she was hot. Several of the Boyzz admired this new girl, most of all Disco. Disco got Jamie to try one of my Hurricane drinks, New Orleans style, made with 151 proof rum. That means 75% alcohol. And poor Jamie liked the mix. That petite little lady actually polished off two tall glasses of the stuff in less than an hour. Naturally she tossed cookies after that, earning her the illustrious nickname of Hurricane Jamie. "Stand back, she's gonna blow!" we would tease ever after.

Candy, my new lady, didn't show up until after midnight, and stayed only a few minutes before returning to another party. I knew she was a social butterfly like myself, but still, I wanted to see more of her than a glimpse here and there. But life goes on, and so do parties.

Come daylight, only the true die-hards remained: Lance, Musky, Banjo Jim, Flick the Night Owl, and myself. We made a pact with one another to stay up and drink until the keg was killed. And just to amuse ourselves, Flick and I laced up my boxing gloves and staged a tough man contest, a true slugfest in every sense of the word. We set a grueling pace right from the start, when I decked Flick as Musky was tying his gloves. But I was very careful not to hit to the body for fear that Flick would win my Kermit award.

We were afraid all that physical activity might sober us up, so Flick and I vowed to chug a beer between each round. The match was scheduled to last until the keg was gone, or until one of us was dead - which ever came first. Banjo Jim had his hands full officiating the boxing, what with all the fouls and illegal use of textbooks, and Lance scored the chugging. The bout was fierce, and it would have been called a draw, except Flick had a point deducted for spilling beer after the furious fourth round. That's a cheap technicality, I admit, but a rule is a rule. With the keg dead and us two gladiators exhausted by all the action, we called a halt to the party and settled down for the afternoon.

I was moving in slow motion when Candy came over for a "study date" that evening. Obviously the agenda was her choice. I didn't have the nerve to tell the woman I don't study, so I cracked open one of my books and faked it. I chilled out for a chapter or so, then tossed the book aside and got down to business, cuddling up close to Candy. I guess I was expecting instant romance, like that first night when this woman's passions were sizzling. But Candy didn't respond this time. She turned a page and read on as I caressed her. What changed, what made her so distant? Why couldn't we pick up where we left off before? Why couldn't we go even farther, soaring to new heights?

Something was missing this time around: Candy's free spirit. She didn't want it to happen now. Eventually Candy confided in me. "I feel like you're getting too involved too fast." That sounded awfully familiar. And I knew the next line by heart: "I want to keep seeing ya, but I want to see other people, too. Okay?"

Other people, again. What a drag. I never did like other people, but I wasn't about to lose this spunky lady out of jealousy. So I said okay. "Yeah, sure, we can see other people."

"Good," Candy smiled, "I'd like to keep seeing ya; you've got a nice ass." With that compliment, she goosed my buns, gave me a quick kiss and departed. I wasn’t sure if I should be depressed or turned on after that. What a woman. Even in asking for space, she finds an excuse to get loose and grab for some gusto.

Spring break means one thing to any fun-loving college student: Florida. Nights are filled with tavern-jumping and wild partydom, days are spent recuperating on the beaches and arguing about whose tan is darker. Then there's the student like myself who drinks away all his spending money before spring break. But what the heck, I would have peeled anyway. So I settled for catching a ride home to Chicago with Banjo Jim and Sir Lancelot.

Lance was the most experienced driver among us, having totaled four cars, so we appointed him as Flight Commander. Like any road trip, it was fun and wild. We polished off thirty six bottles of beer while in flight, and Commander Lance didn't want empty beer bottles lying around in the car. "That's just asking for trouble," he wisely pointed out. So to be on the safe side, I tossed our empties out the window.

"Watch, I'll nail that sign," I pledged with the first empty bottle.

"Way off, Morgy," Banjo Jim reported as I let go with a late throw. I also missed with a second throw, and a third, and so on. You might think I'd get the hang of it after a few throws, but it seemed the practice was negated and offset by the effects of alcohol.

"What's the count, now?" Lance asked as he handed me another empty.

"Sixteen misses and no hits," Banjo answered.

"Okay, pull closer!" I ordered our flight leader as we approached a nice big road sign. This time I became determined. He veered onto the shoulder and passed within inches of the sign, so close that I was afraid to stick my hand out.

"Did you get it?" Lance asked.

"Nope. I was close, though!" I bragged.

"Close?" Banjo Jim teased. "Morg, you could have spit on that sign if you wanted. You're hopeless." Hopeless indeed. Before reaching home, the tally would be 0 for 36.

"I just need more practice," was my alibi. "We gotta do this more often, man."

"Maybe we could get a summer league going," Lance suggested.

While this was an entertaining and demanding sport, a part of me felt really lousy being a litterer. That wasn’t me. It was out of bounds in my book. But I couldn't pass up on the laughs. It seemed like that line between right and wrong was getting fuzzier all the time.

The bigger criminal violation came when we stopped at a Hardee's. Lance was tugging at an antique rifle on the wall when I came out of the bathroom. "Is it loose?" I asked him.

Lance must have thought I was a manager. He jumped a foot, then said, "Geez, Morg, you scared the hell out of me!"

We cased the joint, locating the employees and exits; it looked like a piece of cake. "No problem. There's no way we'll get caught," I said. Lance agreed.

"Okay, here's my plan," he instructed, his eyes shifting back and forth. "I park the getaway car out back so no one sees you get in. You pull the rifle off of the wall and mow down anyone that gets in your way. And if you get caught, you don't know us." He was a good planner, I’ll give him that.

The section near the bathroom was deserted, so I made my move. With a couple good yanks, I tore the rifle away from the wall, then burst through the door commando style. A woman in the parking lot quickly grabbed her little boy and threw her body over him, thinking I was carrying live heat. I streaked through the lot, around the building, and into the getaway car. Vroom, Lance's car lit up her tires and hit the open road.

Alcohol prevents me from recalling it, but I'm told that I rode shotgun for the rest of the trip. Each time we got boxed in by slow drivers, says Lance, I pointed the rifle at the driver along side us. Invariably each driver slowed down and dropped back several hundred yards, allowing us to change lanes safely and find daylight. This, too, was entertaining to my buddies, but this was a stunt I never would have pulled just six months earlier. I loved the laughs it got me, yet somewhere buried inside my hidden emotions was a sense that I'd violated my own sense of right and wrong. Again. My quest for fame and laughs was consuming me, and I had no control any more. It was becoming a thin line, that distinction between having fun and being a jerk.

I did my best to look sober when I got home, but still my folks gave me funny looks as I walked in the door carrying a suitcase, a rifle, and a cheesy look in my eyes. They stared long and hard at me, and I think they were starting to figure out what I was spending all that, hiccup, money on down at school.

Last week's Saint Pat's celebration was merely practice; the actual holiday fell during spring break. My brother Bob hosted his annual Saint Patty's party for all of his Polish drinking buddies. I brought a couple of friends myself, also Polish, and together we got quite wasted and sang old Irish drinking songs. The beers flowed smoothly that evening, and soon I was falling down with regularity. Ordinarily, that’s not a show stopper. But unfortunately there were some responsible adults at this party, and they saw fit to carry me to the bedroom where I could sleep it off. That didn’t make a bit of sense to me. You work hard all evening at reaching just the right level of social readiness, and when you get there, people cart you away? What’s up with that?

About that time, Candy showed up with a friend of hers, so my brother sent her into the bedroom where I'd been dumped off. Boy was I glad to see her. "Hey, Deb, you made it!" I said as I tried to sit up. "Great party, huh?"

"Yeah. Looks like you're feeling no pain," she wisely noted.

"No, not at all. I was having a great time out there, but everyone felt I should be put to bed. It's not fair. Just because I can't stand up, they think I should stop drinking. Heck, in Macomb everyone lets me crawl."

To my surprise, Deb wasn't so amused. I thought if anyone could appreciate being trashed, it was this gal, but not so. She seemed disappointed. And before I could even muster up the energy to get out of the bed, she said, "Well, we have a couple other parties to hit, so I'll see ya back at school sometime." And poof, the chick vanished.

I lay in bed for a moment, wondering if maybe she was upset about me not being mobile. Probably. Damn it, I had to show her that I was capable of standing. So I summoned all my energy, got up, and trotted out to the parking lot, too late. Candy and her friend had already split. I stood there feeling like I blew one of my last chances with the woman.

In a fit of frustration, I climbed into my Mom's car and fired it up, hoping to catch up with Deb down the road. I peeled around a tight curve in the parking lot at Warp Four. I must have hit seven G's as my back end kept skidding sideways, and I kept pulling it back in line. Dale Earnhardt would have been amazed. It was truly a terrific speed for such a sharp turn, and I would have pulled it off, had the gravity not pulled me over into the passenger seat. "Whoa shit!" I stretched my foot over toward the brake and pumped it from a prone position. All I could see was dashboard, of course, so I steered to where I thought the road might be. The overpowering G force still prevented me from sitting back up. I was almost stopped when it happened: a jolt and a bang. I held the turn just a hair too long and bounced off someone's bumper. Now the last thing I needed was a D.U.I. So I quickly drove a couple blocks away and parked.

As I walked back into the party, I was no longer mad, but rather embarrassed with my stupidity. "I would have made that curve," I told my brother, "if only I didn't fall over onto the seat. I guess that's another good case for wearing seat belts, huh?" Bob just smiled and suggested that I give him my car keys and spend the night. "Does this mean you're going to put me to bed again?" I asked him.

Turn to Chapter 8:Hitler’s Treasure … http://www.morgypoo.com/ch8.htm