photo by chuck
"you're going to tape these to my hands, right?" chuck asks me.
"of course," i say. what kind of person would i be if i didn't wind duct tape around both of his hands, attaching two bottles of mickey's. he's kidding, i hope. as much as i'd enjoy watching him play edward 40-hands, i'm not nearly savvy enough to run his remote controls for two hours. or to anticipate any of the other unzipping or scratching involved with caretaking for someone whose hands are affixed to the drink.
and then there is the whole "we aren't in a frat" thing. i know this because when i suggest that we play century club with our matching 80 ounces of loot he balks. shakes his head and mutters something about not needing drinking games.
i played century club once. a one-on-one versus the twin in ireland hall. freshman, maybe sophomore year. we faced each other in matching dorm room chairs, smirking. similar height and weight and tolerance levels. one shot every minute until we couldn't take it anymore. my friends crowded behind me. he didn't invite an entourage. when he left to use the bathroom about 60 minutes into the game, my friends congratulated me on my composure.
"you don't seem drunk," they said.
i stood up and it hit me. i fell back into the chair.
chuck and i take green sharpies and make a line on the other's drink.
"this is where i think you'll begin to feel the affects of a mickey's big mouth," i say scratching a line above the label and taking into account his overall festive tenor.
about 20 ounces into the night we're both a little bleary.
we try to play spades, but i can't remember the rules.
we play war and he wins.
"it kinda feels like we are playing games we would be playing if we were on a long bus ride," i tell him.
we play backgammon. i've never played. he wins.
lately he wins at everything. we've been playing golden tee 2007 lately and he didn't know some of the keys and still wins. finally during our last game, on the 18th hole, i explained how to read a green. taking uphill or downhill or straight into consideration. as well as the degree of curvature of your lie. he won by quite a few strokes. next time he'll win by twice as much.
this mostly sucks because he doesn't even have a victory dance. he wins quietly. my victory is loud and braggy and includes pom poms and a few leg kicks and and "i won i won i won i always win" chant.
there were only three bottles of mickey's left at the hammond. my second 40 is a miller high life. the champagne of beers. i eye the bottle and it looks more like the champagne of kidney infection. served at room temperature.
i can only stomach half before my inner gagger rebels. i lose again.