James Madison University, Pt. 1

    James Madison University.  I don't know where to begin.  Should I start with Patrick's nap session on the drunk bus? What about doing shrooms in the woods and finding meaning in that which is meaningless.  Should I start with seeing half of my highschool at a birthday party?  Or, maybe I should start with the fact that, on weekend's at JMU, it's everyone's birthday.  Just like on St. Patty's Day when everyone is Irish.  The common ground here is alcohol.  Alcohol that gets you drunk enough to disregard cops and puke in the middle of a crosswalk.  Ten feet from a brethalyzer check point.  Thank god we weren't in a car, driving.  Just steering our shoes, and stomachs, into oblivion.  Well, that was the case for Patrick.  This is that portion of our trip.

    We get to JMU around seven and meet up with my friend Rah.  She is taking us in last minute which means we'll have to spend an inordinate amount of time coercing her to party with us.  Eventually her friends join in the effort, and we all journey to some random party.  Where it's some girl's birthday.   Everything is free, unlike VCU or Virginia Tech.  For me, there is no appeal to Tech.  You have to pay to hang out with a very uniform crowd.  As diverse as white flight.  This actually works in Patrick's favor.  Patrick is Vietnamese.  From Paris.  His novelty factor is off the charts.  All he has to do is sit there and wait for girls to talk to him.  Some of them are unnatractive, so he begins drinking at a faster pace. While he introduces himself to a number of blondes--one of the two hair colors at JMU-- I am outside smoking with random people who find my proximity to Phillip Morris interesting.  My dorm is one block from their headquarters-- a two-city-block-wide building that looks like it's about to launch into space.  I tell my fellow smokers that the placement is ironic.  A few blocks from Phillip Morris HQ is the MCV campus.  This is a medical complex.  Where they aid your health.  They laugh at the irony, because they are drunk, and the unexpected is a basic feeling.

    Inside, the birthday girl is on top of a table screaming for everyone to "get the fuck out."  "THIS IS MY PARTY AND I DON'T WANT RANDOM PEOPLE HERE, AND I HOPE YOU HAVE A GOOD NIGHT SOMEWHERE ELSE, AND GET THE FUCK OUT."  On that note, the tiera on her head falls into her face and she stumbles off of the table. An interrupted game of beer pong resumes on the table and about half of the crowd leaves.  Eventually, Rah and I decide it will be awesome to have a few more drinks and head to another party.  A birthday party of a girl that went to our highschool.  There, I run into a plethora of kids from my highschool.  While I'm talking to one of them, there is a splash at my feet.  Someone has just fumbled their drink to the carpet. I take a second to inspect the damage.  Then I take another moment to scowl at the perp.  It is Patrick, however, and, having made this connection, I walk away from him.  I am not associating myself with his mess.  A girl standing next to him turns.  She presses her finger to her lips and then points to the tap.  She is signaling for him to get more.  Aren't drunk people awesome?

    At some point we head out.  The entire bus ride back, Patrick is passed out across three seats, waking up at intervals to spit on the rubber walkway.  Some spittle makes its way to some kid's arm.  He complains, "Ew, what the fuck?"  I tell him Patrick's body is prepping for a tsunami of puke and that he should keep his mouth shut lest he disturb his rest. 
    We get off and get about six paces from the bus stop when puke launches from Patrick's mouth. Thomas, who is walking to the same dorm as us, says there are better places to throw up.  Not seeing what he sees, I tell him it's fine, and that Patrick should purge his system.  Better now than later, right?  Wrong.  The next thing Patrick knows, he is standing in front of a cop, one finger moving back and forth across his field of view.  The cop doesn't have a real badge, and I show incredible restraint in not taking this in a bad direction.  The name "Mr. Plastic Badge" comes to mind.  Actually, when I think about it, his badge was fabric.  Like, sewed on.  Like, a boyscout.  Is that professional?

    Next, Patrick has to figure out how to operate his lungs when faced with a breathalyzer.  "How?" is the first, second, and third thing that exits his mouth.  This is a response to "blow into this," from the boyscout cop.  He blows a .102.  I am not feeling drunk, but I am definitely feeling curious.  I want to check my BAC, because, hell, it is not admissable in court.  I tell the officer I have been drinking.  Drinking to a .129 BAC, apparently.  I don't really know what this means, except for my desire to push it to .2.  After the breathalyzer, the cop asks us a few questions.  During the question-and-answer session, the following exchange occurred:
Cop:"What's the legal limit for you guys?"
Hunter:"Point-oh-eight, sir"  I have never been more civil to an authority figure in my life.
Cop:"No.  Nothing-- you're underage." 

    This is not entirely true, but I don't have the cognizance for immediate recourse.  Our friend, Thomas, he has abandoned us, hiding off to the side, behind a lamp-post.  He doesn't want to be associated with our mess.  Patrick is very apollogetic to me, but it's okay, because my amazing negotiating skills allow for us to avoid any sort of charge.  Either that or the cop was actually looking for a legitimate cause.

    In the end, the friend we were staying with got charged instead of us, thanks to Thomas, who told them which dorm she was in. 

Comments

[Lies]

I don't know you, but that was funny.

[Bollocker]

I don't know you, but thanks. : )