Brilliant … But Bouncy

“Kiss-A-Me!”

After my disastrous run-in with Larry’s ex-girlfriend, I begged Larry to find the infinite parties that surely awaited me during my spring break.

Where could I find the sun-drenched college kids and keg-infested parties? We were in Florida! I thought I’d be surrounded by half-naked college kids everywhere; I thought that was how spring break worked.

Apparently the entire state of Florida is neither a beach nor a party.

In fact, I hadn’t even seen a beach – just a million scrawny palm trees and miles and miles of very short houses. This is not what I’d imagined.

Larry and I sat in a dark bar somewhere, like we did at home, and drank. I whined and moaned and complained. Larry heard my pleas and somehow found out about a party in Kissimmee, more than an hour away.

Kissimmee, pronounced Kuh-si’-mee, had the dubious distinction of including the word “kiss” in the spelling of its name.

Larry found this to be hysterical. He called it “Kiss-a-me” and insisted that, every time the word was uttered, a kiss needed to be exchanged.

“Let’s go to Kiss-a-me!” he’d say, leaning toward my face with his lips pursed. “Kiss-a-me, Baby!”

I would peck him on the lips and he would giggle like a child with a secret.

When we finally arrived in Kissimmee – which is just another palm-tree-laden town – I didn’t see beaches or college kids or sand or kegs or frisbees.

Instead we rolled the Harley into a trailer park. We found the party by following the classic rock blaring from the boombox propped in the open window.

The party was jammed with people, none in college and mostly men. They stuck together like licorice inside the tiny trailer holding cans of beer, cigarettes and cigars that burned my eyes while my ears ached with the brutal raucousness of it all.

There was plenty of beer. I drank and drank and drank and drank, speaking to almost no one, guzzling whatever I could to drown out the fact that I was stone-cold alone, even with Larry nearby. When the sun started going down, he was still blathering with strangers.

I was only there for the beer. I had no idea that this was a preview of my supposed future in Florida. This probable mistake aside, I still thought we’d find beaches.

Occasionally Larry’d come by to check on me and ask, “You okay, Baby?” And I’d nod.

I spent my day with the local dogs. I sat on the ground outside the trailer, willing mutts to let me pet them – which they did. They were matted and despondent. When the dogs tired of me, or of the noise, they would crawl under the trailer to escape.

Eventually I crawled under the trailer to escape, too.

Larry stuck his head under the trailer in the dark and laughed. “What’re ya doing?”

“I’m staying here,” I said.

“But first … Kiss-a-me!”

I rolled over and pecked his face. Larry laughed, then disappeared again.

Like the dogs, I came out when I needed something – another beer, a bathroom – and then I crawled back under the trailer. The ground was nothing but dirt, mud and bugs, but I found it comforting to be away from the ruckus.

Eventually I decided I may as well sleep there. I put one arm under my head as a pillow and passed out in the mud.

Later Larry crawled under the trailer, too. He curled up next to me and slept, both of us waking up cold and filthy with the sunrise.

By morning, even the dogs were gone.

There Was Nowhere To Hide.

Larry owned a ranch-style brick house that looked like every other house in Florida. We rolled onto the lawn – a mix of sand, crabgrass and sandspurs – ignoring the cracked concrete driveway.

Larry and Suzy had lived together at this house for eight years.

Suzy opened the front door – no screen/storm door – and waved. She was in her early thirties, short and cute with a blonde ponytail and a sweet smile.

I hated her instantly. I knew we were at war over my man.

“Suzy, this is Kirsten,” Larry beamed. “Kirsten, Suzy.”

“Nice to meet you,” she said, still smiling.

“Hey,” I mumbled, looking at the ground.

Inside was one room housing a couch, a coffee table with six ashtrays and a magazine, and a dining room table with three chairs. To the left was a doorway into a tiny kitchen; to the right were two bedrooms with closed doors. A fourth dining chair – broken – sat outside a sliding glass door.

There was no need for a tour.

And there was nowhere to hide.

Larry took a quick glance around; everything must have been as he left it.

I walked into the backyard while Larry talked to Suzy. I desperately wanted a beer; it had been months since I’d gone so long without one. My head throbbed. I assumed Larry would tell Suzy to move out and then we’d head to the nearest bar.

But I stood outside alone for a long time. I chain-smoked cigarettes, watching them fizzle listlessly in the dirt.

After forever, Suzy – of all people – opened the door and asked if she could talk to me for a minute. I hated this idea, but I followed her into the kitchen. There was nowhere to sit. Like any self-respecting middle-schooler, I pushed myself up and onto the kitchen counter while Suzy spoke.

Eventually she got to the point: “The main reason Larry and I broke up is that I wanted to have children,” she said. “And I assume you know he’s had a vasectomy.”

“Uh-huh,” I growled. I wasn’t about to discuss my sex life with her.

“So today I went to the doctor….” She looked around the kitchen, then back up at me. “And I found out ….”

I took another drag on my cigarette and waited.

Suddenly Suzy choked up, trying desperately hard not to cry. “Today I found out that I can’t have kids,” she said quickly. “I can never have kids.” She exhaled and looked at me expectantly.

I wish I’d said to Suzy: I am so, so sorry; that has to be horrible. I had no idea that’s why you broke up, and I can’t imagine your pain. I don’t even like Larry all that much; you can have him back. Maybe you two could adopt! He obviously still loves you; just give me a few weeks to find somewhere else to live and he’s yours.

Instead I glared at her. “Okay.” I drawled. “What the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing,” she said, visibly shaken, a single tear escaping. “I just … I guess I thought you would….” She trailed off. “I thought you should know.”

I dropped myself down from the counter, my boots slamming onto the tile. “Now I know,” I snarled. “Anything else you want to fuckin’ tell me?”

Still looking at me for some semblance of humanity, Suzy shook her head quickly, then glanced at the floor.

I pushed past her to get to Larry in the other room. I said, “Can we go get a fuckin’ beer now?”

“Sure, Baby,” he said, obviously unaware that I’d become a psychopath.

I Was Not on TV.

Spring break with Larry wasn’t quite the same as the prior year with Bonnie.

I did not go to Chicago. I didn’t go to flashy wild after-hour clubs. I didn’t sleep with any extraneous men or pretend to be blind just for fun. I didn’t meet any legendary rock stars or party with The Firm.

Instead I went to Florida, where the wildest of Spring Breaksters traveled during the wildest time of the year. I’d wanted to go to Florida since my sole trip to Disney World in 1982; Florida was the ultimate in cool Spring Break destinations.

I had expectations of what Florida entailed. Here’s what I envisioned for my Spring Break:

In fact, when I was in Florida in March of 1986, MTV filmed – and broadcast – the insanity of Spring Break. The parties were savage!

Somehow I was not on TV.

My mission was substantially less interesting but, according to Larry, very important.

Larry had a house in Florida, and we had to go there and make sure it was still standing.

Larry and I fully intended to move to Florida after I graduated from college. But Suzy, Larry’s ex-girlfriend, still lived in Larry’s house in Saint Petersburg.

Larry and Suzy had split up only a short time before he met me at that gas station in Pittsburgh. Larry told Suzy she could stay “as long as you want.” But since we were planning to move into Larry’s house in a two months, he thought he should tell her in person that she needed to find somewhere else to live.

Suzy lived with two guys, Dave and Joe, who were possibly paying rent and, I guess, the mortgage. I never quite understood why Suzy, Dave and Joe all needed to live in Larry’s house when he moved out.

I did not want to meet Suzy, but I did want to go to Florida. I surely did not want to spend the week in our hellhole at the Pitcairn Motel. So I planned for my wild week in the Sunny South.

We did not fly to Florida; the truck would’ve never made the trip. So most of my Spring Break was me on the Harley, riding from Pittsburgh to St. Pete and back. Larry had to drive the entire way – both ways.

When asked what I should do, Larry said “Enjoy the ride, Baby!”

Since Larry was driving, he wasn’t drinking. This was not always the case, but he apparently made exceptions for multiple-hour drives. He had a few beers at our halfway hotel, but that was all.

For me, this was a complete waste of time. I didn’t have to stay sober; I wasn’t driving. So I drank as much as I could when we stopped for lunch – at a bar, of course – and drank way more at the crappy hotel.

The second day, I didn’t drink anything at lunchtime; we didn’t even pick up beer to take to Larry’s house. We just drove right on over there.

When we finally arrived in St. Pete, I was practically detoxed. I was hot and grouchy and mean.

In fact, it’s possible that I’ve never been meaner in my life.

We Watched It a Thousand Times.

Dustin Hoffman is an unlikely star. He’s not traditionally handsome or even tall. He doesn’t fit well into action movies and he wouldn’t make a good superhero.

In other words, he’s not the type of actor who should be cast in a variety of roles and expect those movies to be mega-hits except for one thing: Dustin Hoffman is an absolutely brilliant actor. He can play any part and make it not only believable but Oscar worthy: single father, street hustler, autistic adult – heck, even a female in Tootsie – and that doesn’t even count his superb performances in exceptional movies like Wag the Dog and I Heart Huckabees. He brought Willy Loman to life. Even his appearance on The Simpsons is my favorite guest appearance in 30+ seasons of the show.

It’s impossible not to believe in Dustin Hoffman’s character every, single time.

But no matter how many brilliant parts he plays, for me there will be nothing greater ever than Dustin Hoffman’s portrayal of Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate. Sure, Mike Nichols had a lot to do with its success – its sheer brilliance – but that movie, released originally in 1969 – remains to this day my absolute favorite.

The movie is about a recent college graduate, and it’s a comedy unlike any other written before or since. It’s legendary for its ability to create characters and a story solely through camera angles, use of music, slick editing and quality production.

So after seeing the movie at the Pittsburgh Playhouse for the first time, I wanted to share it with my friends at Mount Union. When I was in college, there was no streaming, so this required a trip to the local video store.

Fortunately we had that truck. When we had to get a video rental card at the rental store, I got one – thinking I’d rent this movie frequently. Thankfully I didn’t need a credit card at the time to guarantee my rental status.

We carried The Graduate into the dorm as though it were a newborn infant. I could hardly wait to share it.

And share it, I did. In fact, we watched it a thousand times. (This is only a slight exaggeration.)

Bonnie and I watched the entire movie over and over and over. People watched with us; we watched alone. We laughed until we cried. The words “here she is having some water” still create hysterics.

And the part where Benjamin is “drifting here in the pool” followed by a solid five minutes of Simon & Garfunkel’s angsty melodies causing its entranced viewers to gasp in angst ourselves … well that part, we watched 3,000 times.

These are moments I will treasure for the rest of my life: sitting around with popcorn and/or beer, studying Dustin’s casual leanings and musical eye shifts, until we had to rewind again. We’d run to the bathroom then race back to hit “play” again.

It’s interesting now that I don’t remember in what room I experienced these treasured moments. I didn’t know anyone who had a TV, let alone a VHS player.

But I remember at the end of my senior year, when we watched it one more time and realized: someone has to return this well-worn VHS to the video rental store! After all, we were only supposed to have it for three days.

We’d had it for seven months.

“Let’s get Larry to return it,” Bonnie said as the year drew to a close. “Nobody’s gonna fuck with Larry!”

Sure enough, Larry sauntered into the video store and dropped off the tape, no questions asked.

You Chose To Drink!

I am not a victim. And yet, I am. But I’m not. And I am.

So much of my past lingers in my head: things that were done to me, things that happened to me, people who abused me in countless ways. Except … if I hadn’t been drinking, I might not have been victimized.

I was naive and ignorant about people, especially men. I was emotionally younger than most, intellectually older than some, and frequently stupid at very high levels.

I repeated the same patterns over and over and over and over. Whenever I started drinking, I didn’t stop drinking … until I was forced by some Act of God: the bar closing, for example, or my passing out on the sidewalk. Then I finally stopped drinking … until the next day.

Not everyone understands this. Non-alcoholics have said to me: you chose to drink. And that is correct! In spite of the consequences, I repeatedly chose to drink.

It doesn’t make me any less a victim, although I choose not to sit around feeling victimized anymore. But I also choose not to drink anymore, partially because my life was a living hell when I drank.

Choosing not to drink is really that simple – for 90% of the population – and it’s virtually impossible for someone who is addicted to alcohol. Only 10% of the population – according to studies – are alcoholic and/or drug-addicted. (NIH calls it “drug-use disorder” now.) So 90% of people tell the alcoholic: Just don’t drink!

And that’s where it gets complicated.

For the 90% who have not had to survive addiction, I say … imagine this:

You’re right-handed. (Substitute left-handed if you’re a lefty.) You wake up one morning and your dominant hand is broken. It’s not painful – it just doesn’t work anymore. It’s hanging there, limp. You can’t fix it; it’s just broken forever.

You have a full day ahead of you. You have to make breakfast, get the kids off to school, go to work, make dinner, bathe the kids and get them to bed, all without your right hand. Imagine you have to do everything one-handed – and with the non-dominant hand. Make your bed, brush your teeth, shower, put on your clothes. Brush your hair, drive a car, send a text, eat a sandwich…. Some things would be virtually impossible.

Just try putting on your socks with one hand – really.

For an alcoholic, living without alcohol is akin to living without a functional right hand.

By age 21, I’d reached a point in which, no matter what situation I faced, my brain screamed: I can’t do this without alcohol! Drinking alcohol was the only thing that made the right hand work properly again.

Non-alcoholics may say: I can go a whole day with my left hand! They tell stories of broken wrists, carpal tunnel, whatever. I could go a whole day without alcohol, too – but it was very, very hard. Until I got some life-changing help, my days of sobriety were severely limited.

So technically, drinking is a choice – but it is a choice that makes no sense to an active alcoholic. Why should I quit drinking when it’s the only thing that makes me functional?

While drinking, I “forgot” about being victimized. I “forgot” about anything that made it painful and horrendous to live. I shoved those thoughts to the back of my brain then kept pushing forward, because drinking was the only thing – I thought – helping me to live.

I believed this, deep-down, until the day I saw the Mack truck – but that truck was a long, long way away.

Something Was Choking Me.

People often confuse me for being callous and cold, both brash and reticent. I’ve been told that I need to be warmer, kinder toward people. Sometimes people read me as angry and standoffish.

What I am, quite honestly, is afraid.

There are many things that hurt me during my drinking years. But very little compares to the night I went home with Todd.

Todd and I had worked together for months – me with my slimy green forks and disastrous termination, and Todd with his bright white smile and ringlets of wavy brown hair.

One night I saw my friend Todd smiling that dazzling smile at a party. And next thing I knew, he and I were walking back to his place together.

After that, things got a bit fuzzy.

I was wasted. This was nothing unusual of course, but on this particular night, I was exceptionally wasted. My liquor level was somewhere between severe double vision and fatal alcohol poisoning. I could barely stay upright, let alone walk. I leaned on Todd the whole way back to his place, stumbling over my feet, his feet, the sidewalk, the grass. I remember laughing.

Then … I remember nothing.

Blackness.

Nothing.

Maybe a blackout…?

Then suddenly I was choking. Something was choking me, something jammed in my throat, blocking my airway. I gagged desperately, begging to breathe. I flailed my head wildly, finally forcing the thing out of my mouth as my eyes flew open.

Todd stood over me, yanking up his jeans and smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

I was lying on the floor on my back and Todd was laughing.

Then I saw other guys – four or five of them – staring down at me, hooting with laughter while Todd looked right into my eyes, grinning and tucking himself back into his jeans.

I tried to focus and figure out what had just happened; I didn’t understand the joke.

But I didn’t stick around to get the details. I leapt up and darted out of the room, dizzy, still stumbling and confused. Their laughter followed me down the hall, out the door, into the cold … and forever.

Todd humiliated me, profoundly degraded me: purposefully, viciously, hatefully, for no purpose that I’ve ever been able to discern. I was nothing more than a languid prop for Todd’s joke.

My instinct, while choking, had been to thrash violently trying to breathe. I found myself wishing my instinct had been to bite down hard, like a vice, and tear that thing to shreds.

The vulnerability and trust that I’d so carelessly offered was shattered that night. Not only could I not trust Todd, or the imbeciles who thought he was funny, but I couldn’t trust … anyone.

But laughing Todd showed absolutely no remorse; he simply never spoke to me again.

I can’t help but wonder how he raised his children. Did he teach his sons to be like him? Is this what he wants for his daughters? The concept of karma keeps me sane when resentment will not leave.

But Todd is not the worst thing that ever happened to me. Todd is just one repulsive thing in a long line of repulsive things that stick in my brain, hanging there, sternly reminding me: I should not drink today.

I Did Not Do My Job.

After I’d been working there for a couple of months, the cafeteria served cake with green icing, a Saint Patrick’s Day special. Green icing was special, and cake was … well, it was cake! So virtually all the students chose Saint Patrick’s Day cake for their trays.

Unfortunately, the cake tasted nowhere near as delicious as it looked.

As if working in unison, the entire population of Mount Union rebelled against the cake by crushing it with forks. I watched as tray after tray glided toward me, each one with a plate containing a piece of smashed chocolate cake and a fork smothered in green icing.

By using forks to obliterate hundreds of pieces of cake, this student protest meant that hundreds of forks had green goo oozing from between their tines.

As plate cleaner du jour, this did not make me happy. My job was to take all of the forks out of the smashed cakes, wipe them clean with a filthy rag, dispose of the cake from the plate, and toss the clean-ish, rinsed silverware into a bucket to be more thoroughly washed.

But on Saint Patrick’s Day, I did not do my job.

What I did instead, after carefully rinsing six or eight forks, is to take the forks, still covered in green icing and cake crumbs, and throw them directly into the garbage can.

I threw away about 147 forks. Then I high-tailed it out to drink green beer with my friends.

The cafeteria had lots of other forks still available, so I didn’t think anyone would notice.

I was wrong.

The next day, I was called into the office. I didn’t even know the kitchen had an office. But it did, and someone I’ve never seen who claimed to be my supervisor asked me to come in.

I had no idea why I was there.

“Tell me how you like your job,” she said.

“I like my job!” I said. I didn’t know what else to say to make this believable, so that’s all I said.

“So tell me what happened last night with the forks,” she said, as casually as she could. It felt more like a question than an accusation, but I still felt a little queasy that she used the word “forks.” I still thought I had gotten away with it.

“Some of the forks were really dirty,” I said. “I didn’t think they could be cleaned properly.”

“So what did you do?”

“I threw them away.”

“You can’t do that,” she said.

“Oh,” I said, genuinely perplexed. “I just figured there were a lot of other forks and we didn’t need ones that were ruined.”

“The forks cannot go in the garbage,” she said. “Last night, someone had to dig through the garbage and pull out every fork you’d thrown away.”

“Sorry,” I said, not actually sorry at all. I hated those forks.

She stared at me for a second. Then she simply stated: “You’re fired.”

My stomach caught in my throat and I started to cry. I may have asked for another chance, but I rightfully didn’t get one.

I’d never been fired before. And to be fired from such a menial job … it confused the heck out of me. It never occurred to me that I’d done anything really wrong. I had a lot yet to learn about employment and taking responsibility for my actions.

It was a very long time before I got fired again, but only because it was a very long time before I got another job.

It’s My Own Fault.

Living in poverty, which was new and exciting for me, meant that I needed to bring in a little bit of money so that I could go to The Hood and buy my frat party tickets when Larry wasn’t around. Sometimes Bonnie would bounce checks, or pay for the pizza and subs and beer that we had delivered, but it was a good idea for me to contribute even though I no longer got an allowance from my parents. 

I had to get an on-campus job. I envisioned myself sitting at a desk in a dorm somewhere, studying or doing homework, or chatting with a guy who stopped by to see me. Instead, since I waited until January of my senior year, I ended up at Slater’s, aka the school cafeteria. 

Washing dishes wasn’t something I ever enjoyed. Since I always ate at diners and bars with Larry, I simply never washed anything. Takeout containers went right into the trash, and someone else washed the burger plates at the bars.

But I had to take whatever job I got, and I was put in the dishwashing area. At least I finally got to see what was on the other side of the conveyor belt that transported my cafeteria dishes: a monstrous industrial dishwasher and a few dedicated staff. 

I figured I could make plenty of beer and pizza money. All I had to do was show up and do the work.

The people on my new side of the conveyor belt were mostly locals, many with severe mental challenges. They weren’t all students, as I had envisioned. One woman, whose name I have long since forgotten but I’ll call Mary, was particularly memorable. 

Mary took her job very seriously. She talked a lot, mostly to herself, loud enough that everyone could hear her. No one ever responded.

One day as the dinner plates were passing through, Mary either forgot to turn on the dishwasher, or forgot to turn on a specific cycle, so that the dishes were only half washed. Judging from Mary’s reaction, one would think she’d shut down the whole cafeteria single-handedly.

“It’s my fault,” she announced loudly to the room. “It’s my own fault.”

Minutes passed. Then she said it again: “It’s all my fault. It’s my own fault.”

She said it again, again, and again. For that entire shift and the next one, Mary told us whose fault it was. For days, weeks and months afterward, seeing Mary conjured the Led Zeppelin song Nobody’s Fault But Mine.

Mary, my colleagues, and I were all shoved into a rather small room around the dishwasher. My job was to clear the plates, dump any paper products and food remnants into a trash can, and separate the glasses, silverware, and dishes. It was a fairly mindless job.

I didn’t care for this work. I was young and stupid, and believed I was meant for better things than touching other people’s disgusting leftovers.

Put another way: I was young, stupid and arrogant, and thought I was better than the mentally challenged people who had to stay there forever. My college education was going to take me places far away from food service.

Fortunately there was one sparkly-toothed bright side: Todd. (Insert dreamy sigh here.) Todd was tall with wavy brown hair and an oversized bright smile. Todd – the only other student in my area – laughed at my jokes, and treated me well. I thought we were friends. 

I was very, very wrong about that.

I Honestly Love You.

While I spent most of my time drinking with Bonnie, I still had to contend with weekends with Larry – somehow. As long as I could drink (which I could, always, every day, constantly), I was pretty content. But drinking with Larry in a dark bar in Pitcairn wasn’t quite like college.

The one thing I loved about Larry was his ability to play guitar and sing. He was a superstar of sorts in my mind, building a band from nothing anytime he felt like singing. I watched him sit around and figure out new songs on his guitar, which he did effortlessly – although it took a long time – and then he’d practice the song a few times and play it on stage the next night.

I wanted to do that, too.

I’d taken guitar class in ninth grade, and a few private lessons in high school, so I had a small guitar and I knew a few chords. I showed Larry my Stairway to Heaven riff that I’d practiced over the years – having learned it before I ever heard the actual song – and he said, “You can play!”

He didn’t mean I could play well, but he was excited to know I had potential.

Larry showed me that every, single fifties song I ever knew is made up of four chords in a very specific rhythm (G, C, Em, D). Tears On My Pillow was the first one I learned, and I played it a hundred times. I could play other fifties songs, too, but I didn’t know the words to very many of them.

Eventually I started experimenting to see if I could figure out songs on the guitar, too.

One day, while Larry was out, I sat in that tiny apartment with my guitar and figured out how to play I Honestly Love You. I have no idea if I did it right, but whatever I figured out, I practiced until my fingers were beyond calloused and sore; they were practically bleeding.

Conveniently, I still bit my nails all the time so there was no worry about fingernails in the way of my chording.

After a few days of practice, I shyly announced: “I have something to show you.”

“What’s up, Baby?” he asked, sitting at the bottom of the bed where I’d been sitting for hours.

Convinced that I loved Larry more than life itself, and that I would create my own little form of superstardom, I played the entire song – three verses and the bridge (which was quite likely incorrect) – and sang to the 37-year-old biker that I honestly loved him.

I sang it quietly, way too quickly, and much too shyly to be a declaration of love. It was more a declaration of “maybe I can sing” in a humble, confused sort of way.

It’s the only time I ever learned a song in order to play it for Larry. I deemed the song meaningful enough, in a sense, to thank Larry for taking me in, keeping me fed and full of alcohol, and giving me a place to stay for so many months.

I got a little choked up in my anxiety.

And Larry almost – but not quite – cried. Like a proud parent, he told me the song was great, and that I sang it great; he encouraged me to keep playing.

I felt like I was 12 and he was 65. But I felt proud of myself, too.

I hadn’t planned to do any more than play that one song in that one room. But much later, I did more.

Want Some Real Snow?

In my four years at Mount Union, one day every year stands out as being my absolute favorite: Snow Carnival.

After one particularly prolific snowstorm, all classes would be canceled; we’d have Snow Carnival instead. Students would flock to the quad to create snow sculptures, build igloos, have snowball battles and flop around making snow angels.

During my first two years, I participated with all of my vigor. I am not an artist and I have very little skill when it comes to snow, but I had a blast, surrounded by friends and sorority sisters, all of us freezing cold and laughing … then to the caf for hot chocolate with marshmallows.

On Bonnie’s first Snow Carnival – my junior year – she’d said, “Let me sleep!” So I had – although I felt like half of me was indoors while the other half played games and had fun. I had a good day without Bonnie; later we had some beer delivered to the dorm and spent the rest of the evening drinking, blasting music and pretending it was a weekend.

By my senior year, after they canceled classes we both went back to sleep. We’d both been quite drunk the night before. Unlike the prior three years, I no longer cared that I was missing out on Snow Carnival. My new motto was simple: “Fuck it.”

I had to live this motto or the pain would be debilitating.

But during Snow Carnival senior year, I decided to wake up Bonnie. Her door wasn’t locked, as usual, and I walked in and plopped myself in Bonnie’s chair to wait.

She rolled over, disheveled, and said, “Hey. Ya want a beer?”

“You have fucking beer?!” I marveled. Usually all the beer was gone by morning.

“I think there’s a couple in there,” she said. “Gimme one.”

I opened her fridge and, sure enough, found four beers. It was like Christmas! No classes and beer before breakfast. Of course it was well past noon, so it was a very late breakfast.

Bonnie sat up and cracked her beer. I waited for her to take a sip before I spoke again.

“Want some real snow?” I asked Bonnie.

“I’m not going out there,” she said.

“No, I mean real snow,” I said. “Santa Claus gave me a present.”

Snow Carnival happened to occur the very day after Nick gave me my own vial of cocaine. Suddenly the cocaine-slang word “snow” took on a whole new meaning.

“You are fucking shitting me,” she said. “Give me some right now!”

Bonnie turned up the music to full blast, and we had a day to rival all past and future Snow Carnivals. We ordered steak subs and a twelve-pack of beer. Every so often, we slyly pulled out our illegal drugs and carefully designed small lines on the desk, trying to preserve it for as long as possible. We knew we weren’t going anywhere that day, and we needed the cocaine to last as long as possible – which, we knew, would only be one day. This was our first, last and only personal cocaine party.

People ran down the hall past the door of Bonnie’s room, whooping and hooting and loving life, sometimes knocking and wandering in, causing us to panic and cover the lines with a mug – then, eventually, to lock the door to keep out the unruly.

At the time, we thought we ruled the world.

Looking back, we missed the greatest day of the year and never left the room.