How to Go On a Road Trip
John goes upstairs to play a game of pong, leaving you and Rick to compete at quarters with two guys who, at the very least, outweigh you by 50 pounds. Ignore the difference in size. Get cocky. Get stupid. Shine your ass like a fool.
“Don’t worry, fellas. Going to an Ivy League school doesn’t mean a person is smart,” you say. Wait a beat. Then say, “Getting into one does.”
Just when Rick starts to make more jokes at the expense of Williams and the football guys—“Do y’all practice safety-school sex here?” followed by, “Guess your alcohol tolerances aren’t as big as your necks”—one of the house residents across the room yells, “Some Dartmouth kid is puking in the bushes out front!”
Rick puts his forehead into his palm at the same time as John stumbles into the house. He sits between you and Rick on the couch. In the dialect of inebriation, heavier on vowels than consonants, John says, “Look at what I did to myself,” while staring at the vomit flecked across his Dartmouth t-shirt. You lose the rest of your game of quarters.
The next party is at a social house a few blocks away. Although the party is being held by undergraduates, a student bouncer, probably your age or just a year older, is checking IDs at the door and giving wrist bands to guests over 21. This should not be a problem. All three of you have drivers’ licenses that state you are of age. You and John have fakes. Rick’s ID, on the other hand, is real. A few years ago back home, Rick took his older brother’s birth certificate to the DMV, claimed it as his own, and had a legitimate, albeit felonious, license made for himself. He could vote with that thing. At the door to the party, though, the bouncer takes one look at Rick’s ID and tells him he can’t give him a wrist band, saying, “This is fake, dude.”
Rick is not known for not having a temper. His own mother will expound freely, given a few Crown and Cokes and the opportunity, on his inability to suffer fools. With clenched teeth, Rick says to the student bouncer, “But this ID is real.”
“Can’t help it, bro. Looks fake to me.”
“I don’t even want to drink at your stupid fucking party,” Rick says, ignoring the line growing behind him. “I just want you to admit this is a real goddamn ID.”
Pull Rick aside. You tell him, “Calm down, Bruce Banner,” in a whisper. Inside the party, where you and John can drink but Rick cannot, all of you agree on an irrefutable truth, “These girls are busted,” after they refuse your invitations to dance. You stagger through strobe lighting until you find the beer. Should I do a keg stand right about now, you ask yourself, picturing a bear taking an arboreal squat. Less than halfway into the feat, your ankles held high in the air, your mouth wrapped around the tap, you notice Rick across the room, sulking at the encroachment of sobriety. Poor Rick. You walk over to keep your friend company, but only after you have finished your keg stand.
Around two in the morning, roughly twelve hours since the day’s first beer, you stand outside of the party with Rick and John, discussing your plans for the rest of the night. None of you are excited about sleeping in that tiny dorm room. You say, “Are y’all thinking what I’m thinking?”
John slurs, “Pancakes?”
“No, dumbass. I’m thinking we could drive back tonight. Hanover is only, what, two hours away?”
The mob mentality that allowed you to consider it a good idea to drive there drunk—only three votes of yay would suffice—allows you to consider it just as good an idea to drive home drunk. You are elected the undesignated driver because the rental is under your name. At the start of the trip back, after picking up three Big Gulps of coffee from a gas station, you make both Rick and John promise to stay awake. You need two extra sets of eyes, you tell them, to keep you driving straight. Five minutes later John is snoring in the back seat.
Prior to leaving Hanover two days ago, John picked up an Easter package from his mother, full of Peeps, a giant chocolate bunny, and Skittles. Thank the lord for that package. Every time your eyes start to droop, the darkness on each side of the road consuming the yellow lines in the middle of it, you hold out your hand to Rick and say, “Bunny me,” upon which he hands you a chunk of chocolate. The minutes are scored by pieces of the rabbit. Consider it a perversion of the Holy Communions you remember from your childhood, except now, instead of bread, the body of Christ is chocolate and, instead of wine, the blood of Christ is coffee.
The blend of caffeine and sugar delivers you safely and soundly to Hanover. Today is Sunday. The sun is just beginning to peak over the horizon, and birds are just beginning to signal a new dawn. Years later, telling the story of this road trip, you will use it to illustrate the life-long friendships you made in college—how John trusted you enough to fall asleep and how Rick cared about you enough to stay awake—but for now, you are just thankful to have survived one of the best weekends of your life.
“We made it,” you say to your friends while parking the car. “Happy Easter.”