The summer between my sophomore and junior years of college was that summer where I could tell my parents that I had learned responsibility. I was working three jobs and spent at least 25 hours a week just commuting between them. However, not wanting to be the only one without an "I broke my _____ but it was ok because I was so drunk/stoned/drugged up!" story, I quit all my jobs the Saturday before I went back to school in hopes of creating my own soon to be forgotten memories.
To kick off my week of summer, I decided resolve a bet I had made last year. The previous summer Slick and I had gone shot for shot while eating pasta and watching the Olympics (we were a bunch of track dorks). Slick ended up puking all over the entrance to our friend's incredibly expensive upper east side apartment and I had to call his younger brother (LilBro) to tell his dad to pick him up because he had gotten food poisoning. Since then I've teased him mercilessly and as a result he challenged me to a drinking contest to protect his manliness from a 5'3", 100 pound Asian girl.
The Sunday after I quit my job Slick came over with LilBro and Tennis so we could resolve our competition. My mom and siblings were in Cali for the week, and my Dad was out celebrating my aunt's birthday, so I didn’t have to worry about him for another 6 hours or so. For the contest I contributed a bottle of rum and Tennis had brought a bottle of Brandy and a bottle of Malibu. Unimpressed by the amount of liquor available for four people, we went out to buy more. However, there were two problems with this idea.
1) None of us were 21
2) My dad's car was the only one there and I didn't have a license. (Make fun of me all you want, but how many of you want an asian female driver out on your roads?)
We decided our best plan of action was for me to steal my Dad's car and use my fake ID (of a 5’9” white girl) to get the alcohol. We got into the car and drove to nearest discount liquors. Fortunately everything worked out, and we proudly added a bottle of Jose Cuervo to our competition.
After we arrived at my house the crucial moment had come; what were the rules of the competition going to be? We decided that each person would have a sheet of paper with their name on it and had to record each beverage consumed. Do you the logistical problems behind trying to score this drinking contest?
The rules having been set, we cut up a lime and raised our shot glasses of Jose to the drinking to come. Then promptly wrote it down. Next Slick decided to make us pina coladas and we sat down to Kung Fu Hustle to drink them. A few minutes later Groinmaster came in poured himself a drink and joined us.
After finishing our pina coladas none of us had reached an adequate point of intoxication. Round three consisted of another tequila lime shot…followed by 2 more. So far the small Asian was holding her own in the competition. But, take into account that I weigh 100 pounds and had consumed three tequila shots in 10 minutes plus three other drinks over the course of a half hour. I started to feel a little woozy and Groinmaster produced my cure all for drinking nausea…good old Mary Jane. (What can I say…my Jamaican genes have to kick in somewhere.) At the very least that would allow me another 3 shots. Plus Slick wasn’t looking much more sober than I was and MJ was on my side.
After smoking, my memories of the night get a little hazy (bad joke intended) and most of this story had to be recounted to me the next day. The next thing I remember is stumbling through my house drunk dialing Russian. Russian wanted to get drugs so we could take over the market in Geneseo, unfortunately he didn’t have a connection in NYC. His plan consisted of me talking to our mutual friend because I was a girl.
Me: yew knowh him too.
Russian: but you’re a girl
Me: wha do you wahn me to do?
Russian: you don’t know what he’s going to ask…
Me: Stop whorin me out fer drugs, I’m nah Jennifer Connoly from requiem for a dream.
The next thing I know, I am Superman…after he fell out of his wheelchair. I am crawling around my backyard and lying on the lawn. However, Slick has not been drinking more, so he is not beating me. Loss of motor control and all I am still winning. Suddenly I see lights coming up my driveway and it hits me. Shit. My dad is home and I’m wasted and there are a bunch of people at my house. I proceeded up my driveway on hands and knees to make sure I handled the situation properly.
“Risa what are you doing?”
“Oh my god! Bffaeaeuddup! I though you wur my dad.”
Relived that I had some time to sober up before my dad actually came home, I promptly passed out on the lawn.
Some how I made it back into the house (probably compliments of Bffaeaeuddup) and my legs had ended their strike against cooperation with the rest of my body. My doorbell rings and in come Word, Kessel, Woody and Kunal. I greet with them with the articulation of a deaf mute, take shots with them, and then my blackout continues.
Now imagine you’re my dad. You open the door to your house and you see eight guys, your daughter’s best friend, and a bunch of alcohol. Your daughter is missing. What do you do? Choose your own adventure!
Turn to page 8 if start kicking some ass
Turn to page 57 if you begin walk out because you realize they are likely running a train on your daughter.
“Where’s my daughter?”
Meanwhile I was in the basement with Slick and LilBro, arguing about who had won the contest. Slick passed out and LilBro and I were still awake so I declared myself the winner of the contest. Bffaeaeuddup came downstairs and told me my dad was home. I tripped up the stairs in my effort to greet my dad. When I got upstairs, he laughed at me and I proceeded to attempt conversation. However, speaking with me was like conversation in the Alzheimer's ward.
Me: Hey Dad, how was Aunt Jen’s birthday?
Dad: good, make sure you clean up and get the kid out of the bathroom upstairs (Tennis was puking)
Me: I will, and I’ll clean up, how was Aunt Jen’s birthday?
Dad: good, you just asked me that
Me: I meant to say where was it?
Dad: In Manhattan
Me: How was it?
He told me to clean up and get Tennis off the floor in the upstairs bathroom. I agreed and he went to bed. I went back downstairs and continued chatting with LilBro and a mostly passed out Slick. Sometime in the middle of the conversation I must have passed out since the next thing I knew, everyone was gone and it was 8 am and I was running to the bathroom to puke. While bowing down to the almighty porcelain god, I wondered whether holding off puking till the next morning meant I could maintain my position as drinking champion of the underage runners.
The sad of the competition was that the score sheet had actually been maintained but had been lost in the process of everyone trying to hide the evidence of drinking from my dad. This means only one thing…the competition must be redone over the next major school break. Two of the half empty bottles of liquor were found by my fourteen year old sister (we start alcoholism young) who casually mentioned finding them while driving me up to school. Meaning she could keep them. I later found out that I had consumed somewhere around 10 drinks in the only two hours we were drinking. As for responsibility, my dad made fun of me all day for being hung over but at least he didn’t tell my mom.
This experience has had a major effect on my parents' opinions of me. When I asked them if I could go on Spring break with my sorority to Cancun my mom expressed her fear that I would be kidnapped in Mexico. I assured her that as someone who doesn’t drink I was going along as the responsible one to make sure that nothing of that sort would happen. As for my dad,“If I find out you’re on a girls gone wild tape, you’re dead.”