Drunken Fury (The Penn Birthday Party) part 3
Part 1: http://www.misreply.org/2008/drunken-fury-part-1-the-ordination/
Part 2: http://www.misreply.org/2008/drunken-fury-the-penn-years-part-2/
Unsure whether I should laugh or wince in pain, I got up from my fetal position on Bill’s bed. I looked up and Firn was still holding that damned chair above my head. “Dude…really…”, I barely made out in between fits of laughter, “chill”. Twice now had that chair been dropped on my head. The first was a sucker punch of sorts; I really wasn’t expecting him to actually do it. Bill egged him on a second time, as my egg shaped head met the cloth of the backrest yet again. Once for each case, Firn, good job.
“Why are we in here, my room is like six times the size.”
“Yea good point…I really have no idea, I just wanted to bust Bill’s balls about Diablo.”
“The kid failed Calc because of that game, and you are going to continue to torture him about it?”…I paused a bit and realized the comedy of my own statement, “Yea…good point.”
This seemed to be the trend that year. While it was in no way a regular occurrence, the few nights of debauchery that we had were well worth the year at Penn by themselves. This particular time, the second of our aptly named “Drunken Fury” get-togethers, happened to end with a chair on my head, and a session of Quake (You can truly tell a geek when some semblence of geekdom can shine through even after consuming enough booze to drown a small country).
A few weeks before that, Ryan’s girlfriend (actually,she was already his fiancee at the time…now an ex) had come up from Florida to visit us to celebrate our birthdays. Older than me by two weeks, her birthday being on the first of February and mine on the 16th, she decided to visit in between those two dates to bear witness to the genesis of Drunken Fury.
Preparations had been going on for the last week or so for this event. It was a typical faux Philadelphia winter; temperature varying from the uncanny 70 degree days in January to the negative 5 degree temperatures that week…but no snow. There’s just something not right about a NorthEast winter without snow…
“But dad, I want to build a fortress!”, I screamed as I looked at the four feet of snow outside.
“Yea…well, first you have to get the damned door open.”
After a few minutes of pushing, I stepped outside and breathed in the cool crisp air. I’d add “clean” to that list, but we’re in Philly, not Montana, and your chances of finding clean air are about as likely as getting the opportunity to bang Megan Fox tonight (unless you are banging Megan Fox tonight…in which case, I hate you). At age 11, wrapped up in three layers of clothing, a heavy waterproof jacket, hat, gloves, and boots, there is really nothing better than diving into a four foot mound of soft fresh snow. I don’t think anything else during the Blizzard of ’94 was more fun than that day in Fishtown.
That is the feeling that was missing that day. A cold February morning, no snow on the ground, just the knowledge that the days are going to be short and boring…but at least we had a dorm fridge full of Heineken, a bottle of Grey Goose, a fifth of Captain Morgan, and the loveliest liquor of them all: Bombay Sapphire.
“You going to help me with this shit?”, asked Ryan as I lazily looked up from whatever book it was that I happened to be reading.
“What are you talking about?”
“My TV…moving it in here.”
“Oh yea…give me a sec.”
Of the four of us at VP-313, Ryan tended to be the most impulsive of us all. In 2001, having a high definition TV was symbolic of godliness, so of course he had to have one. It arrived on a Saturday morning, and I felt bad for the Best Buy guys that had to carry the 150 pound juggernaut up three flights of stairs, as our dorm had no elevators. Helping carry it during move-out day, and subsequently moving it to my room at Doyne’s a few years later, I now know the torture those brave men faced. It’s not that it was really all that heavy, but it was unbalanced. What did you expect…it was a CRT, with heavy glass in the front, and oddly shaped plastic all around. A CRT…unheard of these days, but it was high def, goddamit (Not that the original XBox, Dreamcast, Gamecube, or the PS2 that we collectively owned would take advantage of it).
I felt bad for Bill…I really did. His girlfriend was over that night, so he wasn’t even able to fully enjoy the get together. Additionally, her random button mashing in Soul Calibur was coasting her to easy victories against Bill. I never really understood the term “whipped” until I saw the extent to which their relationship took it.
“Ok, who wants beer and who wants liquor?”, I asked as I grabbed a Heineken.
“Nothing for me”, replied Bill as Ryan grabbed the Bombay and poured it into a Styrofoam cup, filling it.
Everyone looked at Bill, anxious for his followup, “She’s not letting me drink yet.”
After fifteen minutes, Bill walked back into the room, followed by his girlfriend. Sharpie marker in hand, she laid out her terms. “He gets to have one drink, but I’m going to write shit all over his face.” As funny as we found it that she drew a few down arrows and boldly wrote “small penis” on his forehead, I wasn’t sure whether I was laughing at the sight of this or the sadness of the state of affairs. How could he let her do that…a man has to have some limits.
I took out the Italian Rum Cake my mom bought me and placed it on the chair. Within minutes, the sheer amount of rum in that cake had begun to seep through the box, staining the chair. “Well… I guess I’m not sitting on that one.”
We ate cake…then they left. I honestly did not even notice if Bill washed his face or not before leaving.
