The next morning came quickly and I awoke to the sound of pounding on the wall. Fully dressed and reeking of cigarettes and southern comfort, I stood to my feet well before I had opened my eyes. Our neighbor was holding a pair of underwear, three empty boxes of macaroni and cheese, and a folded piece of paper with the words “Operation Northwood” on it. In our inebriation, we must have agreed that the most neighborly gesture would be to spice up our fellow tenant’s door. Not only did we adorn his threshold with someone’s underwear, one of us had taken the liberty of drawing a nice portrait of my sister on the hallway wall. Before I could even process an apology, I looked to my left and found two crumpled mounds of clothing that contained my sister and Lola. Apparently the hallway had proven to be a much more comfortable than our beds. I apologized to our neighbor as I gathered up the two thirds of our trio and dragged them into the apartment. I assured our neighbor that this would not happen again in the near future.
It took several minutes to piece together the previous evening. We all remembered portions, but not enough to account for the twelve hours we had lost. We knew the where and when, but not why, which—thankfully—was the least important of them all. After washing the filth from our faces and massaging the carpet lines from our cheeks, it was 4:00pm, exactly four hours and forty-five minutes until our departure time. Lola had the idea of taking a shot to solidify our promise not to drink that evening until the deed was done. Unfortunately, our pact to stay sober ended the second it began as we shot-gunned a room-temperature Milwaukee’s Best. Not quite sure how to prepare for our adventure, we defaulted to primping in front of the mirror. If we were going to jail, at least our mug shots would be glamorous.
Conveniently, there was a truck. It wasn’t our truck, but that was irrelevant. My sister was in the driver’s seat, Lola was in the back, and I was in the passenger’s seat—my second shotgun of the evening. The drive to the fraternity house was familiar, as we had made this trip several times a week. My sister could have driven there half drunk and with her eyes closed—I speak from experience.
Several of the gentlemen from the XAM fraternity were acquaintances. We recognized them and they recognized us. Half of them were named Johnny or Justin and were on the part-time path of pursuing degrees in business. They were a pack of rich kids who had nothing better to do with their money than buy rims for their mustangs, get tattoos, and throw mediocre parties with phenomenal cocktails in a bathtub. A few of the guys were quality folk, but most were, by my definition, poor human beings—that is, unless you fancied being punched in the arm and being called a boner.
Out of the Backwoods Housing complex shone a sign so majestic and beautiful that we could not contain our excitement. It was mounted on the side of the fraternity house leading right up to the door. Instantly our fingers ran hot with anticipation and we salivated at the chance to get our hands on the sign. Just inside door, the hot stench of stale beer and weed pummeled our faces, and after being herded into the compacted living room, we were forced to mingle. Between the secret handshakes and high fives, we managed to fill our purses with whatever was in reach. I scored a very classy set of shot glasses with naked women on sports cars, the perfect stocking stuffer. These stealth attacks went on for close to an hour before we grew bored of the small crimes and were looking to get into some felonies.
Out of the Backwoods Housing complex shone a sign so majestic and beautiful that we could not contain our excitement. It was mounted on the side of the fraternity house leading right up to the door. Instantly our fingers ran hot with anticipation and we salivated at the chance to get our hands on the sign. Just inside door, the hot stench of stale beer and weed pummeled our faces, and after being herded into the compacted living room, we were forced to mingle. Between the secret handshakes and high fives, we managed to fill our purses with whatever was in reach. I scored a very classy set of shot glasses with naked women on sports cars, the perfect stocking stuffer. These stealth attacks went on for close to an hour before we grew bored of the small crimes and were looking to get into some felonies.
My sister had the unique talent of controlling an entire room with the most minimal effort. She proceeded to entertain the gentlemen with what we like to call “phase four.” This is where she wolfs down three beers in a minute and then says something witty and charming that makes the guys crave her attention. This bought Lola and I about fifteen minutes, completely undetected.
We took this opportunity to head back to the truck for a “smoke.” Getting a better look at the sign, we realized that it was pretty well fastened to the siding. We had remembered to bring tools; however, they turned out to be useless, as they were only appropriate for gardening. The garage was open and, luckly, littered with cabinets of untouched tools that would prove helpful for our mission. With both of our bodies and a running start, we repeatedly pushed a rusted crowbar deep into the siding. The sound was deafening but triumphant. Without hesitation, Lola and I hoisted the sign from the siding onto our shoulders and began to run. We made it several feet down the road before my sister came along in the truck. We lobbed the sign into the back just as we saw three cars approaching us in the distance.
“Hey, Ditch Pig! Get your ass in the car.”
My sister’s eloquence jolted me, and I joined her and Lola in the truck. There is nothing more frightening than angry frat boys filled with more alcohol than control. My sister, unafraid, continued speeding and while taunting the guys with her middle, lit a cigarette. Even in the midst of her deliberate disregard, they loved her and were more in pursuit of her favor than their sign. I was never aware of her Nascar talent until this very moment as she rounded corners and hopped curbs like a professional. The feeling of victory washed over us, and the street lamps were the only lights in our view.
Back at the apartment, we laid the sign up against our wall and like dogs protecting their masters, we sleep at its feet. Hours later, I opened my crusted eyes and begin to rewet my dried, smoke-filled mouth. I took a moment to admire our new prize before waking my sister and Lola. One by one, we emptied our purses. Our trinkets became trophies and we, like sprites, rolled in our treasures.
Late into the evening, our house began to fill with the usual occupants, plus ten. One of the Johnnys showed up at our door. It turns out that my sister’s distraction in the frat house included an invitation to our party the next evening. There on our wall hung a piece of artwork more valuable than a Van Gogh. We were caught and caught bad. We had one hope left, my sister. She could save us and she would. Without a second thought, she gathered her things and causally walked past Johnny and let herself out our front door. There was no other choice; Lola and I ran as we had the night before. Abandoning our party and apartment seemed logical. We could make a bed anywhere. The hallway is always a cozy home for a ditch pig.
We took this opportunity to head back to the truck for a “smoke.” Getting a better look at the sign, we realized that it was pretty well fastened to the siding. We had remembered to bring tools; however, they turned out to be useless, as they were only appropriate for gardening. The garage was open and, luckly, littered with cabinets of untouched tools that would prove helpful for our mission. With both of our bodies and a running start, we repeatedly pushed a rusted crowbar deep into the siding. The sound was deafening but triumphant. Without hesitation, Lola and I hoisted the sign from the siding onto our shoulders and began to run. We made it several feet down the road before my sister came along in the truck. We lobbed the sign into the back just as we saw three cars approaching us in the distance.
“Hey, Ditch Pig! Get your ass in the car.”
My sister’s eloquence jolted me, and I joined her and Lola in the truck. There is nothing more frightening than angry frat boys filled with more alcohol than control. My sister, unafraid, continued speeding and while taunting the guys with her middle, lit a cigarette. Even in the midst of her deliberate disregard, they loved her and were more in pursuit of her favor than their sign. I was never aware of her Nascar talent until this very moment as she rounded corners and hopped curbs like a professional. The feeling of victory washed over us, and the street lamps were the only lights in our view.
Back at the apartment, we laid the sign up against our wall and like dogs protecting their masters, we sleep at its feet. Hours later, I opened my crusted eyes and begin to rewet my dried, smoke-filled mouth. I took a moment to admire our new prize before waking my sister and Lola. One by one, we emptied our purses. Our trinkets became trophies and we, like sprites, rolled in our treasures.
Late into the evening, our house began to fill with the usual occupants, plus ten. One of the Johnnys showed up at our door. It turns out that my sister’s distraction in the frat house included an invitation to our party the next evening. There on our wall hung a piece of artwork more valuable than a Van Gogh. We were caught and caught bad. We had one hope left, my sister. She could save us and she would. Without a second thought, she gathered her things and causally walked past Johnny and let herself out our front door. There was no other choice; Lola and I ran as we had the night before. Abandoning our party and apartment seemed logical. We could make a bed anywhere. The hallway is always a cozy home for a ditch pig.
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