I Mostly Knew What To Expect.
For at least a year, I spent my weekends gallivanting around with friends, often venturing into the local college town. Until one night when we almost drove head-first into an oncoming car, it never occurred to me that anyone was driving drunk.
I remember playing beer pong at Carnegie Mellon – the closest I ever got to “attending” the elite school. I’m not sure what kind of party it was, but I remember loving the combination of sports and alcohol. This meant that I didn’t have to speak to anyone – the music was too loud anyway – and I got to drink a lot.
We went to concerts, too, rushing the stage as was the custom back then. We saw the hugely popular Styx and Ted Nugent, and the less popular Axe and Tommy Tutone whose 8-6-7-5-3-0-9 stood the test of time way longer than any of us could imagine. I caught a backstage pass during Cheap Trick’s show and met the band afterward. Music was a solid backdrop to all of our events.
I don’t know when we started frequenting The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which played every weekend on Fridays and Saturdays, but this was an incredibly exciting time. We’d go to the bars beforehand, who served us long before the laws eliminated some of that underage drinking, and then we’d go to the show. For me, seeing the movie over and over again – screaming at the screen and delighting in the actors – was not only fun, it was almost comforting. I mostly knew what to expect.
I say “mostly” because one night I slugged my dear sister, Tracy, during the show. She did nothing to deserve it; I have no idea why I wasn’t able to communicate anger without fists in my youth. Drinking was already beginning to change me, and my family was beginning to feel the brunt of that change.
I went to parties at friends’ houses, too, which often involved drinking. I was particularly concerned about my friend Laura’s party because her dad was a pastor. I didn’t think there would be enough alcohol for me. But that party turned out to be a wild success, with alcohol flowing everywhere. I’ve often wondered how and why Laura’s parents didn’t destroy her for this event.
At another party, somewhere far from home, I remember only one piece of the evening: Robby. A high school freshman, maybe 15, Robby had long black hair that swooped over his eyes and made him look even younger. What I remember is Robby sitting in a porch chair, passed out and absolutely impossible to revive.
I stared and stared at him. His head lolled to one side, dried vomit covered the right side of his face. Robby’s baby eyes wouldn’t open and he didn’t appear to be breathing. I thought he was dead.
My friend, Bernie, who didn’t drink alcohol, assured me that Robby was alive. He laughed it off and told me that I should “just think of him as being asleep.” But Robby didn’t look like he was sleeping. I’d never seen anyone who looked so dead.
As an adult, I think back and wonder: why didn’t anyone do anything? Robby probably had alcohol poisoning; he could easily have choked to death on his own vomit. But I just stared at him.
I drank while I stared. I thought, he’s so young. At 17, I thought he was young.
Somehow, we all made it home alive.