Four Finger Daiquiris and the Midnight Run for Munchies – Part 1

The day had started out with me attempting to fill my role as Social Chairman for my college fraternity. It was a Wednesday which usually meant a mixer with a sorority which I had prearranged and also meant that I had to gather up whatever libations would be shooting down collegiate throats that evening. I had decided on strawberry daiquiris mostly because I found some really cheap rum enabling a mass quantity purchase. The brand was something like “Caribbean Hurl Inducer” and had a picture on the label of a pirate ship being keel hauled. Although it was clear as though free from anything toxic (possibly similar to the absence of good sense for me), it smelled like rotten tomatoes had been part of the fermentation process.

About an hour before the mixer was to start I was busily arranging the magical ingredients so as to provide production line-like efficiency for mixing drinks - I was an industrial statistics major at the time after all. My hope was to deliver an unending availability of drinks thereby hastening the process of softening up the moral defenses of young coeds. In the middle of this process one of my fellow frat boys came into the kitchen to see what we were serving. Once he realized it was one of his favorites, he insisted that I make a batch for “quality control purposes” (him being an industrial engineer). That evening I was inclined to agree since I wasn’t too worried about supplies given the aforementioned purchase quantity and I was planning on two fingers worth for each batch. I fitted the pitcher onto the blender’s base, added the ingredients and away we went!

I sipped away as I continued moving things around and my fraternal chum decided to stick around and help with final preparations and we realized once the kitchen setup was just right that we had consumed the entire pitcher. I bordered on euphoria as did my cohort and we decided on a second batch. Except this time constraint had been washed away by the rum like a magnificent sand castle at high tide. It was now four fingers worth of rum into the small plastic cauldron of debauchery.

At this point, we exited the kitchen to ensure our fraternal home was acceptable for guests which meant all barf stains had been cleansed from the last party. I am convinced that the designer of our fraternity house operated in much the same manner that we did that night – working around something alcoholic. As he had started out at the sober end of the scale he had said, “For the floor - something durable and easy to clean: terrazzo!” Unbelievably far sighted and wise. Plus your shoes made a really cool sound when you walked where spilled beer had dried up and left the floor sticky. Screech! Scrooch! Screech! Scrooch! But as this former fraternity brother had labored into the night and his will was bent and twisted by demon rum, he thought, “The house needs to be open and inviting (hic)! I’m going to put huge windows – no! I am going to use round columns and the walls will be huge sheets of glass!” This just means that you held no secrets from your rival fraternities and your Plexiglas bill will be quite large in later years. It was amazing to see an empty keg break out one of these windows.

Everything to our satisfaction, we returned to the kitchen as comely lasses began to enter the front door. The production line started up, and we began to produce high octane daiquiris sure to please the most discerning of palates. Of course, we continued to sip on our own but fortunately at a much slower rate.

Things were going well and we proceeded to concoct for a couple of hours, with nary a collegian walking about the terrazzo halls of our house sans refreshment. Then the fraternity president burst into/onto our happy scene, “What in the hell are you guys putting into those daiquiris!?” Every person in the house is sloppy drunk!” Our president (who to his credit, remained the voice of reason among the din of chaotic drunkenness), practically grabbed us by our collars and shoved us into the central sitting area.

Horrified we watched as everyone tottered around in slow motion, speech slurred almost to inanity. It was like watching a reasonably well produced zombie classic filmed in daiquiri vision! Some attendees just grunted and growled instead of using the spoken word adding to the effect. People drug their feet as they walked, arms hanging lifeless at their sides. Others were more animated in their actions, something like Joe Cocker at Woodstock.

Just then a shriek emerged from the near the front door followed by, “She’s going into the chapter room!” In most fraternity houses, the chapter room was where you held your ultra secret meetings and the one room you didn’t trash during a party. Smart fraternities keep the door locked to this room which explains why ours did not have a door (more proof that our architect brother had more proof). I looked in time to see a drunken, calorically challenged coed pulling away from a fellow frat member as he attempted to guide her steps towards the ladies room (near the front door). She had misinterpreted his gesture of good will as an attempt to show her his etchings, had torn free and navigated towards the next available room in order to answer the call of nature.

Quickly, she was intercepted and, due to her ample girth, it took four of us to guide her towards the front door where she could go out and have her call answered personally by Mother Nature. We resembled a squadron of tugs escorting the Queen Mary in very rough seas but the deed was accomplished. We propped her against the brick wall just outside the door where she proceeded to squat and pressure wash the bricks on our front walk. Someone immediately produced and placed stolen road barriers on either side of her, directing partygoers to an alternate entrance.

As you can imagine, my co-worker and I were unceremoniously banished from the kitchen and our president began looking for the coffee pot. We ambled dejectedly toward the front door, taking no joy in the screech-scrooch of our shoes, ignored the barriers in a haze of rum soaked self pity and walked across the freshly scrubbed bricks. From there we went to sit on the front wall of the house to nurse our bruised and pickled egos.

But as we sat there, partygoers began to trickle from the house: groups of two or more passed by us and - They were joyful! We caught brief snatches of “Best party ever!” and “You guys are great! Nothing like what we had heard.” Our fraternity brothers were coming outside to wave goodbye to new friends, phone numbers in hand, the ink still wet. My counterpart and I looked at each other and smiled before shaking hands over a job well done. However, the small voices in our heads that had directed our rum quantities throughout the night were now being drowned out by rumblings from our stomachs. We realized it was time to seek out and destroy our munchies.  More in Part 2.

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5 comments

Kim Cantrell profile image

Kim Cantrell 7 years ago from Deep In The Pages of a Book

Great story!!Your profile photo caught my attention and made me click on this hub. I suspected by all the orange, you just might be from Tennessee. GO VOLS! :)


cegainesjr profile image

cegainesjr 7 years ago from No Mans Land

Love the Don Martin-esque sounds. Funny & I'm glad I wasn't there to slurp the Demon run!

Shooka shooka,

CEGainesjr


Bryan Robertson profile image

Bryan Robertson 7 years ago from Tennessee, United States Author

Hi, Kim - You are correct! My profile photo was from the UT-Alabama football game a few years ago (UT won 17-16). This story takes place on the UT campus. My mom, dad, sister, wife and various cousins all went to UTK. My daughter is going to UT Chattanooga. Go Big Orange!

Chuck - I hadn't even thought about Don Martin. What a hoot!


Dolores Monet profile image

Dolores Monet 7 years ago from East Coast, United States

Bryan, I usually read hubs for information and don't read a lot of the stories which, I can see from this one, is really stupid of me. You are a wonderful writer and tell your story with great humor.


Bryan Robertson profile image

Bryan Robertson 7 years ago from Tennessee, United States Author

Thanks Dolores - I appreciate that. I'm just hoping my kids don't read this (grin).

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