April 2003

1993 Remembered: Les Têtes ou Les Queues,
or, Grandpa Brags about One Time He Got Drunk

Few will argue that the last semester of one's senior year of high school is a time of leisure. Having already selected a college, and with most or all of your other requirements met already, you're practically free to live a life of crime if you so choose. Well, that's how I approached my second semester, not to mention my first.

By the start of my senior year of high school, I plans were made: time at a college (once accepted) away from home. Between the beginning and end of the year, I would have myself a pretty good time. As it happened, I really had very little idea of how I was going to go about it - that is, until I received my class schedule.

Our school day was made up of nine periods. Everyone had at least one lunch period free, but this semester I would have the LAST FIVE PERIODS FREE. That meant I could go home to smoke some weed and eat mac-n-chee by noon every day and get back to school in time for cross country practice. I signed up for only four classes that semester because I had already met my requirements for graduation. The classes I signed up for served no other purpose than to do something, anything, rather than nothing. But never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that the schedulers were going to give me all that time for mischief. I made up for my lack of vision with tremendous good luck. Mine was a blessed life.

Please don't get me wrong. My life was not a bevy of loving and happy bees. No - some of those bees landed in my tea, and some of them would sting from time to time. I could have spent my time complaining about love, strife and injustice on all types of levels, but why would I spit in the face of such a blessing, like my schedule? I chose to enjoy life at all costs. Some costs were greater than others, but being a minor, they were mostly forgettable.

Let me paint the scene for you: I did not get into trouble all by myself. No, I had help. For over two years, at that point, the guys I hung out with had numerous methods of getting drugs and alcohol for our weekend, and sometimes daily, merriment. No American high school is complete without those two or three guys who can get you anything - and we either knew them, or were them. Between the five or six of us, we could plan for every angle of a party - or simple late evening gathering.

Such talents (if you can call them that) came in handy every weekend. But rather than bother you with the details of my average suburban youth weekends, I want to tell you about the most memorable, in my mind, Saturday evening in April of 1993.

For two weeks every spring, some international agency exchanged some of our students for students from France. We were lucky enough to become friendly with one particular young man named Jacques. For the life of me, I can't remember his last name. He stood about 5 foot 8 inches tall. He was skinny with black hair. He spoke very good English underneath his thick Parisian accent. He, like many male exchange students, hoped to use this trip to meet American women, go to parties, and leave before anyone knows he's gone.

I can't remember which family he stayed with, but they didn't do a good job keeping tabs on him. That was our job.

One perfectly lovely April Saturday night, five of us, Jacques, myself, Greg, Jim and Ron set out to party. Another friend, Bobby, invited us all over to his house because his parents (as they often did) spent that Saturday night at a hotel. Please don't ask how we got so lucky, I just chalk it up to the beautiful sicknesses festering in suburban America - but that's a subject for another night.

Our job was to get the beer. Normally, Greg would get us a few cases from the store at which he worked after a shift ended, but he didn't work that day, so we were stuck with buying it from the Cumberland Farms. This was never easy. You see, one of our charms was our youthful good looks. Pretending to be 21 was not only difficult, but impossible at times. With those odds you'd think that we were going to be sober that evening, but you would be wrong.

The Cumberland Farms on Union Street didn't hire the most responsible, nor the most intelligent people in the world. With enough encouragement, one could be sold cigarettes, beer or porn. One needed tenacity, and Greg had it in spades. While he didn't look 21, he acted more mature than the rest of us, and could win a charm contest with ease. We drove up the Cumberland Farms, gave him the money, and waited with bated breath for his return.

From the drivers seat in my car I could see the attendant behind the counter talking with Greg. Being that I cannot read lips, it looked like any kind of conversation in the world. It dragged on for a couple minutes. The lot of us, our French companion included, began debating whether we should retrieve him or not. But by some miracle, Greg returned from his journey with not one, not two, but three cases of Golden Anniversary beer, and a stick of beef jerky.

Elated, we peeled out en route to Bobby's house. The elation gripped Jacques, an already exuberant person. I remember him singing some song in French with Greg's name in it. At the first stop light after the Cumby Farms, he put on my green space helmet, leaned out of the passenger side window and yelled "Hey American girls!" at a car full of, well, American girls, "You want to party with us tonight? Follow us to the party!"

Laughter erupted in both cars. We laughed not from embarrassment, but with the erupting joy of teen age impunity. We were kings of the evening. Sure, the girls didn't follow us to the party, but there were girls there already. We were gonna have a good time no matter what.

One great American custom with which we hoped to introduce Jacques was drinking games. For a few years, at that point, one of the ways the guys could show off to each other was by taking part in such games. They usually involved drinking shots or chugging beer at a very difficult pace. Half the time someone would end up barfing on themselves or spraining their ankles. It was the price we paid for being arrogant, insecure, dumb, creative and bored. Young women rarely watched these inane games unless their boyfriend was playing. (Looking back I wonder why we bothered if it didn't impress the girls. Of course, I know the answer, but I don't wanna get into it.)

Jacques bounced around Bobby's basement with excitement as we discussed which game to play. As discussion wore on, it became apparent that only Jacques and I were interested in playing anything. It was just after 10:00pm and we decided to get started.

On one half of a Ping-Pong table we placed two shot glasses and one case of beer. Together we created a very simple game, called "Têtes ou Queues", meaning "Heads or Tales." The mind-numbingly easy game was played like this: one person spins a quarter, both players call 'Heads' or 'Tails'. The player who guesses incorrectly drinks a shot of beer. If a player guesses correctly three times in a row, they take a penalty shot and start counting again. The game was fast and easy to play.

Well, in about 30 to 45 minutes we drank over eighteen beers - one shot at a time. We were ready to party. In the time we spent playing, the party in the living room had become crowded and exciting. Girls and boys were dancing, people were drinking (thanks to another successful beer-run) and talking in the kitchen. This was an ideal Saturday night. That is, until my Mom called.

Knowing that my inebriation would have impaired by driving (much less my walking) immensely, I hoped to talk her into giving me last minute permission to stay overnight, if not a couple extra hours. My dumb-ass mistake.

For some strange reason, my mother demanded that I return home. First she said she needed my car. When I reminded her they she and Dad had a car of their own, she said she wanted me to go to church. I promised her that would not happen. Then, to my surprise, she asked that I come home immediately. I begged for some time. After all, coming home drunk was what I had hoped to avoid. Apparently, a overbearing streak had come into my mother, and she demanded my return. For some, it is a recipe for disaster, but only if you are unprepared.

Luckily, we partied with a few non-drinking folk. Hell, we didn't discriminate against anyone. If you wanted to have a good time, we were happy to welcome you into our happy family. Of course, they were usually the guys who could hook-up with the pretty nice-girls, but that's a story for another day (right now I am not going to discuss why drunk 17 year olds look foolish to the sober. Besides, I shouldn't have to.)

Two of my tea-toatler friends happened to be in Bobby's kitchen that evening. I pulled them aside, begging for a favor. Since I needed to drive home, I could not simply arrive at home without the car. My idea was to have one guy, Dave, drive my car, and his friend, Nicky, drive me in his car, back to my parent's house. That way I could slip inside, get into bed without a fuss, and deal with my hang-over some other time.

Being good men at heart, they agreed to help me. And in almost no time, they escorted my car home with me. Nicky followed Dave down my street with his lights off, and waited behind a hedge-row just in case someone was watching for me out the living room window. You see, as proud as I may have been for my responsibility, the point of the exercise was to hide my drunkenness, not my magical ability to disguise it.

The plan, of course, worked perfectly. I walked downstairs to my join my father in the basement to watch Saturday Night Live. We didn't say much to each other, other than "Hi." After the 'Weekend Update' ended, he left to go to bed. After I calmed down, I made my way to bed. Safe, sound, and still too drunk to walk.

I recall being admonished later that week for having to leave the party early. More games were played. Jacques taught the others our new game, "Têtes ou Queues", and in exchange they gave him a good time. What foreign exchange is complete without a good, long night of unchaperoned debauchery?

I, of course, waited many years to divulge my secret to my folks. But my secret helped many other friends in their times of need in our last few months together. After all, for years already, Ron and I had devoted hours upon hours to getting away with having a good time. We were not about to ruin it just because one parent was going to parent one of us.

To tell the truth, there are few great nights in my life that I remember with such glee. Above the escapes from police breaking up a party; above a car full of beer and women on the Erie Canal Bike Trail by moonlight; above playing strip poker with a marked deck of cards - that night may have been my greatest half-assed caper. I had no plan ahead of time, I just bit the bullet. Kinda like my five free periods, just another spot of good luck.