I don’t know if this is normal for just-past-teenage boys, but I’m a big fan of planning ahead. I like thinking through stuff in advance so none of it surprises me, gaming out what might happen so I can make sure that it doesn’t, reading faces and little body motions so I can tell when I’m someplace I shouldn’t be surrounded by people who really don’t want me there. I have years of practice doing it. I’m pretty good at it, I think.
You know what I’m not good at, though? Anything else. Like talking to people I don’t know, or looking normal in front of them, or getting myself invited to a fraternity rush party as if I have the first fucking clue what to do with myself around any combination of those words. And yet here I am trekking off campus at five minutes to nine on a Monday night, freezing my ass off and regretting every single choice I’ve ever made in my entire life.
At least I didn’t spend the whole day before now agonizing over it. After meeting Source, I walked across campus to my next class at a perfectly casual pace, and I made it a full twenty minutes into the lecture before calmly slipping out the side exit and doing some very composed hyperventilating in a bathroom stall. There was also a good hour-ish in the afternoon when I got my shit together enough to do some “research” into exactly what frat parties even are, meaning I watched the first half of Animal House while skimming the “Fraternity” Wikipedia page on my phone.
And then, I don’t know, I blinked or something, and it was almost time to head out. So I showered and combed my hair and shaved the fuzz off my chin, and I put on a dress shirt and tie that last saw action at my great-grandma’s funeral, and I even replied to my mom when she texted me again to ask what my plans for the week were. I sent her a picture of my frat party outfit. Apparently I look “so handsome! <3”. I’m sure all the frat guys I inflict myself on tonight will think so too.
And now I’m here, at the turn onto Jefferson Street, where I stop and take a breath and blow it out into my clasped hands — half because they’re cold, half to convince myself not to turn around and go home. Source said it himself: this is how rushing a fraternity works. You just… show up. And I have no idea what you do after that, but I guess I’m supposed to figure that out as I go.
I don’t even need to stay that long, really, just long enough to tell Sweetie Belle I tried. Then I can make something up about how they “weren’t my type,” and… wait, do guys even talk about other guys like that? Is that gay? Is that why she got breakfast with me, because I was too nice to her, and she thinks I’m…
This is a bad idea. I’m about to make an ass of myself in front of a whole party worth of fraternity brothers, just so I have half a chance of impressing a girl I have nothing in common with except a dorm address. And the more I think about what’s absolutely about to happen, the more the full weight of the worst idea I’ve ever had swells in my gut and compresses my spine and squeezes my lungs the same way it did earlier today in a lecture hall bathroom.
I should turn around. I should go home. I should run back to my dorm and be a sad lonely nerd playing video games in the darkest, privatest place I can find, because that’s what I’m supposed to be and the only thing I know how to do.
Except, dammit, I don’t want to do that. I want to be friends with Sweetie Belle again. I want to be friends with anyone, period. And this is how normal people make friends: at parties, in public, by nutting up and doing things they’re not sure about and acting like the normal fucking people they are.
I should run away. My whole body’s twitching with the bone-deep urge to do just that. But instead, I set my jaw, square my shoulders, and turn onto Jefferson Street, towards the sounds of thumping music and boisterous voices a hundred yards down the sidewalk.
Just like Source told me, the Kappa Nu Zeta house does have giant “KNZ” letters on the outside — or at least, the “K” and “Z” are there, flanking a grimy outline where I guess an “N” used to be. In any event, I’ve successfully found the party, and I even see Source on the porch outside, fist-bumping a couple guys wearing the same KNZ rush shirt as him.
And jeans. And casual slip-on shoes. And other not-even-close-to-formal things, just like every other person I can see in the yard and, through the windows, inside the house. I’m the only one in a tie — in any type of clothing that might need one.
Oh God. Oh fuck. Fuck me.
“Yo, Button!” Source calls out. It’s too late to run. He’s seen me standing here in my stupid tucked-in shirt and stupid fucking tie, looking like the biggest fucking dork to ever look in this street’s direction. “Over here!”
Face flushed, numb with cold and a breed of fear I imagine hikers feel right before they get eaten by mountain lions, I trudge across the house’s front yard and up onto the porch, wilting with every shuffling step, face boiling hotter as Source eyes me up and down.
“Damn, man, makin’ us all look bad,” he says playfully, flipping his finger under my tie that, at the moment, feels a whole lot more like an ever-tightening noose.
“Ha, y-yeah, I uh…” I mumble in response, staring at the “KNZ” on the front of his shirt because it’s the closest I can get to looking him in the eye. “I-I didn’t… really know what to wear, so…”
“Hey, you’re fine, bro. Don’t worry about it.” Somehow, he sounds sincere. He’s so much better at this — at being normal — than I’ll ever be. “You look good.”
“I’m the only one dressed like this.”
“Eh, for now. It’s early. There’ll be more people comin’ through.”
Wait, it’s early? I’m right on time — nine P.M. on the dot. Was I supposed to show up late? Is that another thing I was too much of a dork to know about?
Since I’m busy not answering him, Source takes it on himself to keep this nightmare of a conversation going. “Does get kinda hot inside the house, though. Gonna just…”
He’s taken hold of my tie again — a bit firmer this time, like he means to do something with it. Maybe drag me off the porch by its end so I leave now and save both of us any more embarrassment.
But instead of doing that, he lifts his other hand so he can undo the tie’s knot and thread it out from under my collar without strangling me. Then, my tie still in hand, he yanks up on my shirt’s tail until it’s fully untucked, unbuttons the top button, and after a moment unbuttons the one below it too.
“There we go,” he says, folding my tie neatly and sliding it into my breast pocket. “Now you look like a fuckboy.”
“Do I… want to look like a fuckboy?” I can’t help but ask.
He shrugs, grinning. “There are worse fucks to look like. Beer?”
“Uh…”
Well, I can’t say no. And I definitely can’t say that I thought Source telling me not to B my own B earlier meant there wouldn’t be any Bs at this party, period. Because it’s a rush event, right? Because this is for freshmen trying to get into a frat, and freshmen can’t drink alcohol, and obviously that’s one of the rules of frat parties that I clearly knew so much about beforehand.
“... sure?” I say, trying — and failing — to sound less peer-pressured than I feel.
“Hey, no worries if you wanna stay dry,” Source tells me, severely enough to make it clear he really means that. “Seriously, your call.”
Okay, then. It’s my call. I can just not drink if I don’t want to, and keep following the plan I had to get through tonight sober and well-dressed and perfectly on time.
Because that’s worked great up to now.
“Nah, I’ll take a beer,” I tell Source. “A… light one? Do you have light ones?”
He chuckles and nods. “Yes we do,” he says in an odd tone, like he’s thinking about the punchline to a joke but not saying it aloud. “Right this way, sir.”
I follow Source inside the house, and the moment I step over the threshold the shift in temperature hits me like a slap from a wet towel. He wasn’t kidding — it is hot in here, and humid too. I guess that’s what happens when you stuff twenty-some guys, almost all wearing the same rush shirt as Source, into the first floor of an old and poorly ventilated house. Source doesn’t call attention to us as we pass through the middle of the crowd, but I can still feel everyone’s eyes turning my way — some curious, some bored, all bearing down on me like a jury sentencing me to death by public mortification. Thank God I’m at least not still wearing the tie.
Past the house’s main room is a kitchen with a sticky vinyl floor, grungy counters holding unopened cases of beer, and a rickety table in the middle with two triangles of red plastic cups pointed towards each other on top of it. Two guys in rush shirts who look like upperclassmen face each other from opposite sides of the table, both holding red cups in one hand. One of them — a tall guy with an orange beard the same shade as his blown-out hair — has a ping-pong ball pinched between the thumb and index finger of his other hand.
As Source scooches past the table and towards the refrigerator, he makes a face — fingers raised in a V in front of his mouth, tongue waggling between them — at the guy holding the ping-pong ball right before he throws it at the cup triangle on the table’s far end. The ball bounces off the rim of one with a hollow clack and rolls out of sight under the toe kick of one of the cabinets.
“Fuck off, Source,” the guy mutters.
“Stop sucking, Mandarin,” Source shoots back as he opens the fridge. From inside it, he produces two aluminum cans, tossing one to me and cracking the other open for himself. I make the catch with both hands and a little help from my torso, and check the can’s label as I straighten up: Leystone Light, 12 FL OZ, 4.1% ABV.
“You’re early, so you get a cold one,” Source says, nodding to me before taking a big swig from his own can. I gamely crack mine open and lift it to my lips, my nose wrinkling involuntarily at the yeasty, sour scent that wafts up into it.
Beyond the rim of the can, I can see Source making another face and mouthing something to the two guys at the table, but I can’t tell what it is and I don’t really care to either. I have to focus. I’m about to try my first beer. Hopefully it tastes better than it smells.
I tilt the can back and sip, and oh my God, it doesn’t. Oh my God, it’s so much worse.
There’s no point trying not to grimace — I can barely grit my teeth and swallow without openly gagging. It tastes like soggy bread strained through sweaty underpants, like carbonated embalming fluid that something furry and diseased died in. There’s no way these guys actually drink this and like it. This is a prank. They gave me the wrong can as a joke.
And maybe they did, actually, because all three guys in the kitchen are grinning and laughing at me. Source is the first one to compose himself, still smiling as he leans against the counter behind him.
“God, sorry, couldn’t resist,” he says. “Had to see you try your first beer. Always priceless.”
Oh, cool. So I was screamingly obvious about that too. Any other ways I can come off as a hilariously clueless jackass for you guys, or is it cool if I head out back to bury myself alive now?
“Trust me, it gets better,” Source goes on. “I mean, relatively. You get used to it. Kind of a Stockholm Syndrome thing.”
I try to laugh, to play along, and all I can manage is a sort of strangled cough that — of course — Source zeroes on right away. He shoves himself off the counter and edges around the table, nudging me on the shoulder once he’s close enough. Something’s changed in his expression. His face is too blurry to see exactly what.
“All right, enough of that,” he says. His voice is different now too, a bit softer and a lot more insistent. “Let’s finish the tour.”
I don’t have a clue what tour he’s talking about, but I also don’t have the energy to turn him down. So I take another sip of beer, just as nauseating as the first, and silently follow Source as he heads for a door with a window in it covered by bent-up Venetian blinds.
When he pulls the door open, cold air blasts past both of us, and I shiver as he leads me back outside. We’re on a porch raised a couple feet above a fenced-in backyard, where the ground is muddy and grassless and dotted with scattered cans and food wrappers.
“So,” Source says coolly, leaning against the porch’s railing as he drinks from his can and looks over its rim at me. “How you feelin’?”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? That I’ve fucked up every part of this I possibly could so far? That I’m too much of a freak to handle a completely normal frat party? That seriously, how in God’s name is he drinking what might literally be rat poison like it’s lemonade?
“F-Fine,” I lie, staring at the boards beneath my shoes, teeth chattering from almost everything but the cold. “Y’know, it’s…”
“It’s a lot.”
For the first time that night, I find the courage from I-don’t-know-where to look Source in the eyes. The expression I see in them isn’t anything like what I was expecting. It’s sincere, sympathetic — knowing.
“It is,” he says with a shrug. “Doing something completely new, trying to meet new people… it’s fuckin’ scary. You party much in high school?”
The truth shoots out of me before I can stop it. “Not at all.”
Source nods. He already knew that — he just wanted me to say it out loud. “Most people didn’t. Most of us here didn’t, honestly. Everybody was clueless at one point or another.” He shifts against the railing, leaning forward a bit. “And you know something else? Not everybody does something about it. Seriously, just coming out at all means you had the ‘nads to actually try. So while you’re out already, I figure you might as well hang out, talk to some people, see what happens or what doesn’t. And hey, if you’re nervous, that’s what the beer’s for. It helps more than you’d –”
I take a giant sip of beer — wincing at the taste, coughing as the carbonation sticks in my throat. Source stares for a second, then snorts.
“See?” he says. “Works great. Just don’t go too hard. It sneaks up on you.” He pushes off the railing and gives me a nod as he passes. “I gotta mingle. You should too.”
I watch him open the house’s back door and head back inside, but I don’t follow him in. I don’t know whether I want to, or whether I should want to.
Part of me knows I’ll regret it if I went back in, that I’ve been coasting on dumb luck so far and it’s just a matter of time before I embarrass myself again — before I’m being laughed at, talked about behind my back, made fun of by people who look and act and are just like Source. Just like always. Just like every time in high school and middle school and everywhere else I’ve had the ‘nads to try being somebody I wasn’t.
But another part of me is wondering whether I really know anything at all. So far, I’ve been wrong about everything I assumed would happen tonight, and now I can add Source — the cool, confident, popular frat star who just went out of his way to make sure a random freshman from his English class felt comfortable at his house party — to that list too.
This is college, not high school — a fraternity rush party, not a homecoming dance or the empty corner of a crowded cafeteria. Those are adults in there, not kids, and as long as I don’t act like a kid, maybe things will be different. Maybe I’ll be wrong in the right way this time.
I look down at my beer can, take another pull, and… well, it’s still not good. But it’s not as bad as it was. Beneath the mealy taste and the chilly prickling on my tongue, there’s a bit of warmth too, like a thin blanket in the middle of a blizzard — far from enough, but better than nothing. I guess that’s what starting to get drunk feels like. I think I’m starting to see the appeal.
What was it Source just said? If I’m nervous, that’s what the beer is for? Well, I’m fucking terrified, so I guess I better get some more beer. And all the cans are inside the house, so…
I blow out a sigh, take another swig, and reenter the party.
It’s definitely more crowded inside now than it was when I got here, and way louder. There are more guys who aren’t wearing rush shirts, most of them already deep in inaudible conversations or bobbing their heads to the nightclub-y music pumping out of speakers in the main room.
Some are even wearing button-downs like me — untucked, two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up a bit. Looks like Source knew what he was doing earlier with my own outfit. I’d thank him, but he’s vanished among the pastel-clad bodies filling the kitchen and spilling into the hall leading to the main room — mingling, I guess. Like I’m supposed to be doing.
Another sip of beer. The can’s already mostly empty. I take a few more gulps until it fully is, then — following the lead of the KNZ brother with a beard that Source talked to earlier — toss the can into the growing pile of them at the kitchen table’s center. Call that environmental storytelling, I guess. Like a frat party video game or something.
Actually, maybe that’s how I’ll get through this: make a game of it. Objective updated: talk to people. Quest marker: floating over the head of Beardy McFratStar. I know how to do this. I can do this.
“You got through a lot of those,” I say to him with what I hope looks like a jokey grin.
“What?” he yells back. He’s barely audible over the noise of the party ramping up. I wasn’t audible at all.
“I said you got through a lot of those,” I yell back, gesturing at the cans on the table. “Does that mean you’re winning or losing?”
“Both,” he says. Then he grabs two fresh cans from a case on the counter behind him, cracks both open, and starts filling the red cups on the table in front of him, ignoring me and my rapidly fading smile completely.
Objective failed: talk to people. New objective: find a rock in the backyard big enough to hide under forever.
I grab a can from the same case, crack it, sip it, and barely keep myself from spitting that sip out into the sink. Another thing Source was right about: showing up early and getting a cold beer is a big deal, because as rough as the chilled ones were, the lukewarm ones are fully bioweapons. But, still each mouthful is another layer of insulation against the storm of social suicide raging around me, wrapped tight around my loosening shoulders and slowly spreading its warmth down my arms and spine.
Okay. That was one attempt. I can make more. I’m going to make more. Source told me I could do it, sort of, and I’m not going to prove him wrong if I can help it.
I squeeze between bodies in the kitchen and wade down the hallway towards the front room, Plan B forming in my head along the way. Maybe I’m a bit underleveled to start with the established frat guys, but there’s gotta be some basic adds in here to warm up with — guys like me, who don’t know anybody and are looking to change that. Just gotta find them, and walk over to them, and use all of the zero social skills I’ve developed in my life to — as I can see now that I’m in the main room — naturally insert myself into the conversations they all seem to already be having with frat guys.
Come on, reality. I can’t be the only petrified, socially inept nerd at a frat party. Work with me here.
A gap in the crowd widens briefly into a tunnel, and at the end of it, I find my mark: a skinny-looking kid with messy green hair and wide brown eyes, wearing a fratty-looking shirt that’s a different pastel shade than the KNZ rush ones and sticking out in it like five fingers on a whole sore hand. Objective updated: mingle the shit out of this guy.
He sees me coming as I nudge my way across the room, and even from a distance I can see the relief wash over his face. I’m almost offended by how quickly he clocked me as a fellow nerd, before remembering that’s why I’m heading over towards him in the first place.
In any event, there’s an open space next to him, and I slide into it. We exchange tight nods of male-on-male acknowledgement, then shift awkwardly back and forth on our respective feet for a few seconds. At the end of those seconds, I realize he’s not going to say anything unless I say something first.
“You know anybody here?” I ask.
“Kind of,” he says, sounding more like he thought he knew people before he showed up and has since learned he really didn’t. “You?”
“I mean, one guy,” I tell him. “I don’t know where he went. Trying to… meet people, I guess.”
“Is it working for you?”
I take a sip of beer, then after a second realize that doesn’t count as an answer since this guy doesn’t know what it means. “Not really. You?”
“Not really.” He sighs and runs his free hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I thought it’d be easier.”
“I thought it’d be about this hard,” I reply. “First thing I’ve been right about tonight.”
“What?”
“First thing I’ve been right about tonight!”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
We both fall silent again. I’m pretty much chugging my beer now, barely separating the can from my mouth between sips. The green-haired kid makes like he’s going to do the same with his can, then sighs and puts it down on the floor next to him.
“Fuck it,” I think I hear him mutter, and then I definitely hear him say to me, “I’m Dogwood. Or… Woody. People call me Woody.”
I look at his face, then down at his hand — the one reaching out towards me. Once I clue in, I reach back and shake it. “I’m Button,” I tell him. “People usually don’t call me at all.”
Woody laughs, and I laugh too, imagining a little triumphant jingle in my head. Objective complete. Maybe I’ll get social XP for this. Put some skill points into handshakes, make ‘em twenty percent firmer with a chance for a friendship buff.
Oh shit, friendship. Friends. I’ve been talking to Woody for a couple minutes now, and we know each other’s names, and we seem to feel the same about this party. I tilt my can back and drain it, and I’m not even nervous when I do.
I think I just made a friend. And I think beer is really starting to grow on me.
“So what do you do?” I ask my new friend Woody. “Aside from, y’know… this. Party-animal-ing.”
“Not a lot,” he says with a shrug. “I’m not very interesting.”
“Well, I’m interested,” I say, because I am, and also because I want to make the most out of this mingling success before I have to go try it again with someone else. “You said you kind of know people here. From class, or what?”
“No,” he says — and suddenly he seems really uncomfortable, like he’s embarrassed by what he’s about to admit. “It’s… it’s kind of…”
And I don’t hear what it kind of is, because I find out pretty quickly what it actually is.
“Woody! Yo, Wood-aaaay!”
The crowd parts — or really, gets shoved apart — so a guy who’s bigger than both me and Woody put together can make a beeline towards us. His straight black hair is shaved into a high and tight fade, and he’s wearing the standard KNZ rush shirt with the sleeves cut off into a tanktop, which means I get a great view of how big his exposed biceps are when he wraps his arms around Woody and lifts him fully off the ground in a bear hug, squeezing hard enough to make Woody’s eyes bulge out.
“What the fuck is up, lil’ Thorn!” the guy yells, shaking Woody back and forth so his dangling legs swing helplessly six inches off the ground. The motion makes a sloshing noise too — the big guy’s clutching a black-labeled bottle in one hand that’s filled with amber liquid. When he finally puts Woody down, he takes a big swig from the bottle and shakes his head like a wet dog as he swallows.
“God, I haven’t seen you in fuckin’ ages, man!” he says to Woody. “Why didn’t you come out in the fall?”
“I-I… y’know…” Woody stammers, mouth twitching as he tries to smile and laugh and fails to do either. If he was a bit nervous about talking to me, he looks petrified talking to whoever this guy is. “J-Just wanted to get settled, before –”
“Hey, no worries, lil’ Thorn, I get you. School’s important. I love school.”
“Yeah,” Woody mumbles. “Love school…”
The frat guy takes another swig from his bottle — John David’s Bourbon, according to the label. I feel like I should help out somehow. Woody’s my friend, after all.
“I’m Button,” I say, extending my hand.
“Hey, what’s up,” the frat guy intones, glancing my way and nodding before looking back at Woody. “So how’s the party treating you, bud? Everything you dreamed of?”
“Yeah, it’s cool!” Woody replies, with all the sincerity of a hostage staring down the barrel of a gun. “Really fun!”
The frat guy either doesn’t notice Woody’s discomfort or doesn’t care. Either way, he wraps his arm around Woody’s shoulders and squeezes him in close. “Good shit,” he says. “Come with me a second. Got some dudes you should meet.”
Woody stiffens, and sucks in a breath, and puts on the single most painful-looking grin I’ve ever seen outside a dentist’s office. “Cool…” he says, before looking pointedly at me. “This is Button, by the way. He’s cool too.”
The frat guy glances at me again, this time long enough to meet my eyes. The look in his own eyes — prying, intense, like a tiger staring down prey and deciding it’s not even big enough to be worth eating — just about knocks me over.
“‘Sup, Button,” he says dully, sticking his fist out a bit from Woody’s shoulder. I have to stretch a bit — knees still shaking, fight-or-flight instinct fully committed to the latter — to bump my own against it. “Alkaline. You rushing?”
“Y-Yeah,” I say, biting the inside of my lip so I don’t shudder as he looks me up and down. For the first time all night, I’m back in familiar territory: getting sized up and found insufferable from a single fleeting look.
And then, as if I’d imagined everything that I just felt, Alkaline’s face shifts into a broad, seemingly genuine grin. “Dope,” he says. “You oughta meet the guys too. Let ‘em get to know you.”
Without waiting for a reply, he tugs Woody away from the wall and steers him through the crowd, motioning once with his head for me to follow him. Between that and the pleading look Woody shoots back at me, I don’t have much choice but to head off with them.
We end up in the opposite corner of the main room, where two more guys in rush shirts are lounging on a lumpy leather couch and a third sits in an easy chair positioned catty-corner to it. All of them look up and nod at Alkaline as he approaches, then at Woody under his arm. If any of them notice me, it’s for the briefest of moments — the way you notice someone you edge past on the sidewalk before completely forgetting they exist. Familiar territory again. And I finished my beer on the way over, so I don’t even have that to fall back on.
“Hey, y’all remember Dogwood, right? Thorn’s little brother?” Alkaline says, giving Woody a squeeze around the shoulders that doubles as a shove forward towards the other frat guys. All three of those guys nod and smile, and the closest one extends a fist that, after an awkward moment, Woody bumps his own against. “He’s done being responsible, wants to start ragin’.”
“I… am rushing, yeah!” Woody clarifies. “Me and Button both are.”
Alkaline’s face tightens as Woody brings me up again, but the other three frat guys are either a lot less annoyed about it or a lot better at hiding it. “Hey, Button,” one of the guys on the couch says to me. “Thanks for comin’ out. You guys in the same dorm?”
“We just met tonight, actually,” I reply, rolling my empty beer can around in my fingers. I’m coasting right now on the last sip I took, but that confidence is fading fast, and panic is waiting impatiently to replace it. “Haven’t met… Thorn?”
“Hawthorn,” the other guy on the couch says. “And you wouldn’t have, he graduated last year.” Now he looks at Woody. “How’s he doing, by the way? You talk to him lately?”
“He’s fine, just busy with work,” Woody answers, before his face splits with a sheepish grin. “Actually told me I didn’t have to rush if I didn’t want to.”
“Didn’t want the competition,” Alkaline cracks, squeezing Woody’s shoulders again. “You gonna be a fuckin’ legend like he was?”
Based on the look on Woody’s face, I’m gonna guess “no.” Based on the look on Alkaline’s face, I can also guess he isn’t going to take “no” for an answer.
“Al, c’mon, cut the kid some slack,” the guy in the chair says. “It’s his first night out.”
“Hey, gonna start somewhere, right?” Alkaline shoots back. He takes a big pull from his whiskey bottle, then holds it out under Woody’s nose. “Speaking of which, you look sober. Let’s fix that.”
Woody stares at the bottle, and I do too. I’ve never tried whiskey before. I kind of want to right now — and Woody seems like he very much doesn’t. “I-I… I’m okay…” he tries to say before Alkaline cuts him off.
“Nooooo you’re fuckin’ not, not for a first night out. C’mon, bud, you got a legend to live up to!”
The guys on the couch and chair chuckle, but they don’t do anything else. Woody looks desperately at me, begging me to… do what? Talk us out of this? I’m as clueless as he is.
Then again, I suppose misery loves company. And company is what I can be for a friend. For my friend Woody, who needs my help.
Alkaline sighs and starts to say something, and this time I cut him off. I grab the neck of the whiskey bottle, tug it free of his hand, and take a pull.
The whiskey burns on my tongue and sears my throat raw, and I can’t help coughing as I swallow it down. But once it’s inside me, it’s like a comfy little fire in my belly, warming me all the way through and slowing my heart down until I feel halfway close to normal again.
Alkaline’s upgraded from frowning at me to full-on glaring. Well, too bad for him. He was being a dick to my friend. But also, my friend should have some whiskey, because I had some whiskey and I feel great, and the frat guys on the couch are laughing and nodding like they feel great about me too.
I hold the bottle out to Woody and give him a sort of smile-shrug thing that’s supposed to say, “Might as well, right?” After a second, he nods, takes the bottle, and takes a sip, coughing just like I did afterwards.
“Attaboy,” Alkaline tells Woody. “Told you you’d like it.”
“No you didn’t,” Woody wheezes. I get why. Whiskey’s really rough on the throat.
“Well, whatever, you liked it,” Alkaline says. “Now come on, let’s go.”
“Go where?” I ask — because hey, if Woody’s with Alkaline and I’m with Woody, I’m going wherever they’re going. Alkaline looks like he wants to argue, but then he just grins, grabs the whiskey bottle from Woody, and presses it firmly back into my hand.
“Let’s go kill this bottle, Button,” he says. “And meet some more of the frat.”
I look at him, then at Woody, then at the bottle, and then I shrug. Sounds good to me. I take another drink, and then Button blacks out, which I the author am choosing to express in this way because I think it’s funny. Anyway, if you highlighted this text like a big nerd, there’s nothing to see here but what was already obvious from context clues, so uh here’s the Bee Movie script I guess: According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little. Barry! Breakfast is ready! Ooming! Hang on a second. Hello? - Barry? - Adam? - Oan you believe this is happening? - I can't. I'll pick you up. Looking sharp. Use the stairs. Your father paid good money for those. Sorry. I'm excited. Here's the graduate. We're very proud of you, son. A perfect report card, all B's. Very proud. Ma! I got a thing going here. - You got lint on your fuzz. - Ow! That's me! - Wave to us! We'll be in row 118,000. - Bye! Barry, I told you, stop flying in the house! - Hey, Adam. - Hey, Barry. - Is that fuzz gel? - A little. Special day, graduation. Never thought I'd make it. Three days grade school, three days high school. Those were awkward. Three days college. I'm glad I took a day and hitchhiked around the hive. You did come back different. - Hi, Barry. - Artie, growing a mustache? Looks good. - Hear about Frankie? - Yeah. - You going to the funeral? - No, I'm not going. Everybody knows, sting someone, you die. Don't waste it on a squirrel. Such a hothead. I guess he could have just gotten out of the way. I love this incorporating an amusement park into our day. That's why we don't need vacations. Boy, quite a bit of pomp... under the circumstances. - Well, Adam, today we are men. - We are! - Bee-men. - Amen! Hallelujah! Students, faculty, distinguished bees, please welcome Dean Buzzwell. Welcome, New Hive Oity graduating class of... ...9:15. That concludes our ceremonies. And begins your career at Honex Industries! Will we pick ourjob today? I heard it's just orientation. Heads up! Here we go. Keep your hands and antennas inside the tram at all times. - Wonder what it'll be like? - A little scary. Welcome to Honex, a division of Honesco and a part of the Hexagon Group. This is it! Wow. Wow. We know that you, as a bee, have worked your whole life to get to the point where you can work for your whole life. Honey begins when our valiant Pollen Jocks bring the nectar to the hive. Our top-secret formula is automatically color-corrected, scent-adjusted and bubble-contoured into this soothing sweet syrup with its distinctive golden glow you know as... Honey! - That girl was hot. - She's my cousin! - She is? - Yes, we're all cousins. - Right. You're right. - At Honex, we constantly strive to improve every aspect of bee existence. These bees are stress-testing a new helmet technology. - What do you think he makes? - Not enough. Here we have our latest advancement, the Krelman. - What does that do? - Oatches that little strand of honey that hangs after you pour it. Saves us millions. Oan anyone work on the Krelman? Of course. Most bee jobs are small ones. But bees know that every small job, if it's done well, means a lot. But choose carefully because you'll stay in the job you pick for the rest of your life. The same job the rest of your life? I didn't know that. What's the difference? You'll be happy to know that bees, as a species, haven't had one day off in 27 million years. So you'll just work us to death? We'll sure try. Wow! That blew my mind! "What's the difference?" How can you say that? One job forever? That's an insane choice to have to make. I'm relieved. Now we only have to make one decision in life. But, Adam, how could they never have told us that? Why would you question anything? We're bees. We're the most perfectly functioning society on Earth. You ever think maybe things work a little too well here? Like what? Give me one example. I don't know. But you know what I'm talking about. Please clear the gate. Royal Nectar Force on approach. Wait a second. Oheck it out. - Hey, those are Pollen Jocks! - Wow. I've never seen them this close. They know what it's like outside the hive. Yeah, but some don't come back. - Hey, Jocks! - Hi, Jocks! You guys did great! You're monsters! You're sky freaks! I love it! I love it! - I wonder where they were. - I don't know. Their day's not planned. Outside the hive, flying who knows where, doing who knows what. You can'tjust decide to be a Pollen Jock. You have to be bred for that. Right. Look. That's more pollen than you and I will see in a lifetime. It's just a status symbol. Bees make too much of it. Perhaps. Unless you're wearing it and the ladies see you wearing it. Those ladies? Aren't they our cousins too? Distant. Distant. Look at these two. - Oouple of Hive Harrys. - Let's have fun with them. It must be dangerous being a Pollen Jock. Yeah. Once a bear pinned me against a mushroom! He had a paw on my throat, and with the other, he was slapping me! - Oh, my! - I never thought I'd knock him out. What were you doing during this? Trying to alert the authorities. I can autograph that. A little gusty out there today, wasn't it, comrades? Yeah. Gusty. We're hitting a sunflower patch six miles from here tomorrow. - Six miles, huh? - Barry! A puddle jump for us, but maybe you're not up for it. - Maybe I am. - You are not! We're going 0900 at J-Gate. What do you think, buzzy-boy? Are you bee enough? I might be. It all depends on what 0900 means. Hey, Honex! Dad, you surprised me. You decide what you're interested in? - Well, there's a lot of choices. - But you only get one. Do you ever get bored doing the same job every day? Son, let me tell you about stirring. You grab that stick, and you just move it around, and you stir it around. You get yourself into a rhythm. It's a beautiful thing. You know, Dad, the more I think about it, maybe the honey field just isn't right for me. You were thinking of what, making balloon animals? That's a bad job for a guy with a stinger. Janet, your son's not sure he wants to go into honey! - Barry, you are so funny sometimes. - I'm not trying to be funny. You're not funny! You're going into honey. Our son, the stirrer! - You're gonna be a stirrer? - No one's listening to me! Wait till you see the sticks I have. I could say anything right now. I'm gonna get an ant tattoo! Let's open some honey and celebrate! Maybe I'll pierce my thorax. Shave my antennae. Shack up with a grasshopper. Get a gold tooth and call everybody "dawg"! I'm so proud. - We're starting work today! - Today's the day. Oome on! All the good jobs will be gone. Yeah, right. Pollen counting, stunt bee, pouring, stirrer, front desk, hair removal... - Is it still available? - Hang on. Two left! One of them's yours! Oongratulations! Step to the side. - What'd you get? - Picking crud out. Stellar! Wow! Oouple of newbies? Yes, sir! Our first day! We are ready! Make your choice. - You want to go first? - No, you go. Oh, my. What's available? Restroom attendant's open, not for the reason you think. - Any chance of getting the Krelman? - Sure, you're on. I'm sorry, the Krelman just closed out. Wax monkey's always open. The Krelman opened up again. What happened? A bee died. Makes an opening. See? He's dead. Another dead one. Deady. Deadified. Two more dead. Dead from the neck up. Dead from the neck down. That's life! Oh, this is so hard! Heating, cooling, stunt bee, pourer, stirrer, humming, inspector number seven, lint coordinator, stripe supervisor, mite wrangler. Barry, what do you think I should... Barry? Barry! All right, we've got the sunflower patch in quadrant nine... What happened to you? Where are you? - I'm going out. - Out? Out where? - Out there. - Oh, no! I have to, before I go to work for the rest of my life. You're gonna die! You're crazy! Hello? Another call coming in. If anyone's feeling brave, there's a Korean deli on 83rd that gets their roses today. Hey, guys. - Look at that. - Isn't that the kid we saw yesterday? Hold it, son, flight deck's restricted. It's OK, Lou. We're gonna take him up. Really? Feeling lucky, are you? Sign here, here. Just initial that. - Thank you. - OK. You got a rain advisory today, and as you all know, bees cannot fly in rain. So be careful. As always, watch your brooms, hockey sticks, dogs, birds, bears and bats. Also, I got a couple of reports of root beer being poured on us. Murphy's in a home because of it, babbling like a cicada! - That's awful. - And a reminder for you rookies, bee law number one, absolutely no talking to humans! All right, launch positions! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz! Black and yellow! Hello! You ready for this, hot shot? Yeah. Yeah, bring it on. Wind, check. - Antennae, check. - Nectar pack, check. - Wings, check. - Stinger, check. And that’s enough of that BACK TO THE STORY and the music’s loud, like feel it in your chest loud, like the floor’s rumbling and the air’s thick and I can’t really hear myself think or keep the thoughts in order so I mostly don’t try, just hang out and just listen and just get it for the first time.
I hate house music or I guess hated past tense, because I thought it was just loud and that was it and every song kind of sounded the same but they don’t actually, like they’re mostly the same but that’s just the mix or the DJ or whatever’s in control of it because I don’t know who set up the playlist, but they got it right because I finally get the point of this music is the feeling of it and the thumping like the heartbeat of the world and the swells like ocean waves you ride on top of and bounce up and down and feel through your whole body plus all the bodies around you, like one long song that never ends and keeps pounding and keeps you going as long as you want it to which is forever.
I love house music right now and I love this party and I love beer and I don’t actually know what beer I’m drinking, it’s not the same kind I had earlier but it basically tastes the same because all beer kind of tastes the same and that’s the point like how the point of the music is it all sounds the same, because the point is you’re with other people and you’re all the same even though people act like they’re not because they want to be different and sad because being sad means you’re smart, and I was stupid not to do this in high school just because I was different even though I wasn’t because everybody’s the same and they just like to party and how did I get to this party anyway?
This isn’t the KNZ house so it must be somewhere else, because we were at the house and then we left and it was freezing outside and it’s hot as shit in here like it was hot as shit in the house but this is a different hot that’s wetter and louder and the music’s so fucking loud I can barely hear myself think, which is probably why I can’t remember the walk except for when Woody left to go home because Woody’s my friend and he was tired and I told him he should text me but I didn’t get his number because I’ve never really texted people because I didn’t have many friends until Woody who’s really cool and a nerd like me, and he likes me and I think Source likes me too because there he is next to me and he’s smiling and I smile back because I like him.
Source says something and I don’t hear him because it’s so loud and then he says it again and I think it’s how you doin’, which is great, I’m doing great, so I tell him that and he laughs and says I can tell and then saw you met Al which I guess means Alkaline who’s so cool and knew everybody at the party and took me and Woody around to meet them all, and I guess I just told Source all that too because he smiles weird like he wants to laugh but doesn’t want to really and he puts his arm around my back and asks me how I’m feeling again, so I guess he forgot like I almost did before he asked again and I remembered I’m feeling great so I tell him I’m feeling great again.
And then I remember how scared I was and how dumb it was to be scared and I laugh when I realize I’m not just remembering because I’m still talking, because I’m telling Source how much fun this is and how cool all the guys are and asking is it cool if I go to more parties with them because I’m feeling great and I really like him and I wanna feel like this all the time like a party animal, and he grins and says you can come to more parties, that’s how rush works, and then he says right now though you should think about going home, you look partied out, and I don’t know what that means but Source is my friend and he likes me and I guess I’m kind of tired and dizzy because it’s so hot and loud, but I haven’t finished my beer and I don’t know where it went.
I ask Source if I can finish my beer first and he says you’re good buddy so I guess I am, but he got a beer from somewhere and it’s mean to not let me have one and he’s got a phone in the other hand that he’s typing into, and then he puts the phone in my pocket and I realize it’s my phone and I wonder if he was giving me his number like Sweetie Belle did and I remember I don’t have Woody’s number, and I try to ask Source but I can’t quite look straight at him and it’s cold now instead of hot even though we’re still inside and I’m sweaty and swaying and Source is way stronger than he looks or I’m way lighter, and suddenly we’re outside.
He asks me what dorm do you live in, and I tell him the place’s name and he says okay so go down this street and turn left then five blocks up Main past downtown then right at the streetlamp and it’ll be right there, got it, and I say yes because I do got it, obviously I know where I live but it’s nice of Source to make sure because I’m partied out and really tired and the cold air outside makes me even more dizzy, but I told him I’m fine and I am fine and I’m gonna go home and go to bed so I’m not partied out anymore so that later I can hang out with Source and Al and Woody again and have friends and be a party animal like Sweetie likes, because god I like her so much and she maybe likes me but she definitely will if I’m good enough at partying and so far I’m still feeling good.
I start walking down the sidewalk and then in the street for a bit and then back on the sidewalk, and it’s really cold outside but not that bad and I’m not feeling as great now that I’m not partying anymore but that’s okay, I’m okay, just gotta go down this street and turn left then five blocks past Main and home to the streetlamp, which I just passed under but that’s a different streetlamp that isn’t mine, I haven’t even turned left yet because there’s the end of the street right up there so now I can turn left and stay on the sidewalk because there are cars in the road and I don’t want to get hit, because my Mom said be careful around cars when I was a kid and for some reason that makes me feel bad so I don’t think about it and I keep walking.
Except that doesn’t make feel better and I feel cold again but still sweaty, but I have to keep walking because I’m not at the streetlamp yet but I don’t remember how many blocks I’ve walked and I think I’m in downtown but I don’t know what counts as downtown and what’s just the town without a direction, but the point is I know what direction I’m going and it’s home and I can make it there if I just keep walking and stare straight ahead and don’t think about anything because I’m really not feeling good anymore, and I didn’t lie to Source about that but I did lie to him about other stuff like being a party animal and being cool and wanting a beer and I had so many beers that I don’t remember how many.
I stop in the sidewalk and stare at the ground and my chest feels tight and my throat feels full, and there’s a store window next to me and I can see myself in it and my shirt’s untucked and my buttons are undone and I look like a fuckboy like Source said, and I stare back and laugh at how dumb I look and then I hiccup and my throat’s really full and fuck oh fuck I’m not feeling fine I’m gonna fucking Scared out of my shorts, check. OK, ladies, let's move it out! Pound those petunias, you striped stem-suckers! All of you, drain those flowers! Wow! I'm out! I can't believe I'm out! So blue. I feel so fast and free! Box kite! Wow! Flowers! This is Blue Leader. We have roses visual. Bring it around 30 degrees and hold. Roses! 30 degrees, roger. Bringing it around. Stand to the side, kid. It's got a bit of a kick. That is one nectar collector! - Ever see pollination up close? - No, sir. I pick up some pollen here, sprinkle it over here. Maybe a dash over there, a pinch on that one. See that? It's a little bit of magic. That's amazing. Why do we do that? That's..
Okay. I’m okay. It’s out of me. It’s fine, I’m fine, I’m fuckfuckfuckFUCKpollen power. More pollen, more flowers, more nectar, more honey for us. Oool. I'm picking up a lot of bright yellow. Oould be daisies. Don't we need those? Oopy that visual. Wait. One of these flowers seems to be on the move. Say again? You're reporting a moving flower? Affirmative. That was on the line! This is the coolest. What is it? I don't know, but I'm loving this color. It smells good. Not like a flower...
I haven’t puked since middle school. I forgot what it feels like. I forgot how it burns the back of your throat because you’re trying to fight it but you can’t, how your whole body goes cold and your shoulders lock up and it pushes everything not just out of your stomach but your whole body, so there’s sweat soaking and snot dripping and tears splattering the ground where you god dammit not AGAIbut I like it. Yeah, fuzzy. Ohemical-y. Oareful, guys. It's a little grabby. My sweet lord of bees! Oandy-brain, get off there! Problem! - Guys! - This could be bad. Affirmative. Very close. Gonna hurt. Mama's little boy. You are way out of position, rookie! Ooming in at you like a missile! Help me! I don't think these are flowers. - Should we tell him? - I think he knows. What is this?!
That’s gotta be it. Please. If that’s not it I’m gonna fucking die. I might die anyway. Please, God, just fucking kill me or cut it out already.
A few seconds pass. My stomach churns. I’m bent over double, hands braced on my knees, sucking in raspy breaths and trying to spit the god-awful taste of god-knows-what out of my mouth. I’m exhausted. I can barely stand up. I’m freezing and I’m drunk and I feel like curling into a ball on the sidewalk and crying until I pass out.
But it’s over. It’s all over. I’m partied out. I’m alone.
I wanna go home.