Profiles in Columbia: 11 p.m. on the first Saturday in Carman
So this is college? For their entire lives the floor has heard that college is a nonstop party. And yet, for the past two nights, nothing has happened. Sure, there have been brief moments of hope — that guy on the end said he knew someone who could get them alcohol—a third cousin once removed he never met until they ran into each other at Hebrew school. Or that sketchy liquor store up in Harlem that has the sign which reads, “21 Means 21ish.” But all of that has come to naught.
The usual calls have been made. That guy on the end who knows a guy who can get booze has, instead of helping out his fellow Carman residents, gone to hang out with said guy. The liquor store has gotten much more strict since the police sting. And so search parties have been sent to the floor above and the floor above, and even to the tenth floor, rumored to be a land of bacchanal festivities. But the floors above and below are even lamer than theirs, and no one has ever returned from the tenth floor, presumably because they got too drunk and forgot. So it seems that the night is over before it’s even started.
Never has a more mournful game of Super Smash Brothers been played. The buttons, pressed listlessly, manipulate the bored characters on the stage in their pointless little game that means nothing. What’s the use when they’re doomed to sobriety?
Just when the desperate crowd is about to start a 99-stock battle, because they just don’t know what the fuck to believe in anymore, a miracle happens. Someone has booze!
What is it? Who cares. Maybe it’s Smirnoff Ice in a gallon jug. Maybe it’s a handle of moonshine. Maybe it’s a 30-rack of beer, or maybe it’s just a 30-rack of Keystone Lite. Where did it come from? Did someone know someone? Did someone get a fake? Were virgin sacrifices made on an inverted pentagram to Mehkal, dark lord of alcohol? No one cares about the connections, or the blasphemy—soon they will be drunk, and no law of man or god can stop that.
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