No One Was Expected To Die.
When Kay, my sorority “Big Sis,” transferred to a different college, I got a new Big Sis in my sorority.
Kathy was cool. She was beautiful and wicked smart, and laid back in a way that said: Nothing to see here; move along. But we all knew there was plenty to see. Kathy was funny and clever and just plain sharp. And Kathy became my new Big Sis.
As a kind of initiation, we all sat on her dorm room floor and did shots. I think it was peppermint schnapps.
Or at least, I did shots. The way I remember it, I was supposed to do one shot a minute for an entire hour. So … 60 shots in 60 minutes.
Looking back, though, I think this level of drinking would have killed me. So maybe it was half an hour. Or maybe it was one shot every five minutes. I’m fairly certain no one was expected to die that night. The word “hazing” isn’t a Mount Union term.
I remember taking a shot and laughing – lots of people laughing. I remember taking another shot. Then another. I remember the next one seemed too soon. I drank it anyway.
Kathy was timing them: “Drink!” she’d say, handing me another shot. I’d drink. A millisecond would go by and she’d say, “Drink!” again, as if time had passed.
Kathy was drinking, too, but was she taking shots with me? Was anyone else drinking all these shots? There were a lot of people there; who was drinking shots? Was it only me? I was getting double vision – nothing unusual – but still drinking, drinking, drinking.
“Drink!”
Again?!? Really?!?
I drank every single shot that was handed to me, for whatever time was specified. I drank shot after shot after shot after shot. I was proud of my tolerance – but this occasion stands out: I was supremely glad when Kathy said, “Last one!”
I lived.
Another day, I learned to “shoot” a beer – something that made me very, very proud. I’d cut a hole near the bottom of the can, put that hole to my lips, and crack the top – which made the beer pour very quickly down my throat.
Once I learned to do that, I could finally stop tasting the beer – its rank, putrid, yeasty flavor. I hated the taste so this was perfect for me.
Also I could drink from the giant funnel at frat parties. The funnel would be on the second floor – yes, literally – and the tube hung over the railing down to the first floor. Someone upstairs would pour a full beer into the funnel so someone below could chug it.
I am still amazed that – at least during my tenure – no funnel-holders fell over the railing.
My pride in mastering the funnel trick was blown to smithereens when, in my senior year, I was so drunk, I couldn’t remember how to do the funnel trick. I started to choke and spewed beer on the people who were standing too close. Everyone hooted with laughter. This was the reason for the funnel after all – to watch the failures.
But I’d never failed before; I was humiliated and never did it again.
I was sober for years before I heard the term “alcohol poisoning.” I saw a boy walking past my house … then – bam! – he was face down on the sidewalk. He was rushed to the hospital and had his stomach pumped. That’s how I learned about the dangers of drinking.
I sure didn’t know it was dangerous when I was doing it. It never even crossed my mind.