Getting Drunk for the first time

It was sometime in high school. I was a member of the FBLA: Future Business Leaders of America. It was an academic club, centered around test-taking, debate, and other scholastic competitions.

We would compete with other local schools in the area, a measure of the best and brightest kids in the school.

I, along with a dozen or so other students, boarded the bus early one Saturday morning to head to JMU. The regional finals were being held there.

I was competing in computer science and mathematics.

Naturally, I went to the back of the bus to hang out with a couple of my friends Terry, Anthony, and a few others.

Terry had brought a gallon jug of vodka and some orange juice. We mixed screwdrivers the entire ride over, which took about 90 minutes.

I had drunk before. I’d stolen beers. Dad always had open bottles of scotch laying around. Anytime I stopped by the orchard to see my friends, I left with amazing moonshine. But I had never been drunk before. I’d never consumed enough to know where drunk was for me.

Drinking on the way over felt good. The main thing I noticed was fear—it disappeared. I could talk to people easier. My friends. Strangers. It felt good.

By the time we got to JMU, our little group had finished that entire bottle of vodka.

I was functional. I don’t know how, but no one caught on that I was completely inebriated.

I made it to the first test, sat down, and answered all the questions—in record time. I was the first one done and had about an hour to kill before the next test.

I left the exam room and was told to explore the campus. Eventually, I met back up with the crew. Terry had an older sister attending JMU, and she hooked us up with more vodka. The drinking continued.

I barely made it back in time for the second exam—and again, I was the first one finished.

After that, we returned to Terry’s sister’s dorm room, where the rest of our group trickled in.

The award ceremony was held later that day, around 4 or 5 p.m. It was mandatory for us all. As I stumbled in with the others, I started to realize just how drunk I really was.

It’s worth noting here: Mom had dressed me for the day. Khaki pants and a white button-down shirt. Sunday school clothes. I hated them. Being a husky kid, nothing ever really fit right.

At some point that day, I had already blown out the crotch seam of my pants. It happened more often than I’d like to admit—I had more khakis with iron-on patches than any kid should’ve had.

When I sat down in a brown metal folding chair, I heard the seam rip a little more. I could feel a breeze where there shouldn’t have been one. My stomach started to churn.

At the awards ceremony, they got to my category and announced that the winner had earned the only perfect scores of the day—on both tests.

They called my name.

Of course it was me. Terry and the others looked at me, and I just shrugged.

As I stood up from that folding chair, the seam of my pants caught—and tore the rest of the way through the ass and down the legs.

I didn’t even notice. I started walking up the aisle toward the stage, and a caught thread continued to unravel the entire back of my pants.

At this point, all the alcohol hit me at once. I stumbled my way to the stage, tripping over myself a couple of times.

It was obvious to everyone—well, everyone but me—that I was shitfaced.

I slurred out a thank you as the MC handed me my rolled-up first-place certificate, unsure of what else to do.

Turning to walk off stage, I dropped the certificate and bent over to pick it up—mooning the entire audience in the process.

The kids erupted—cheering, laughing, goading on the spectacle. I was so drunk I couldn’t tell if they were laughing with me or at me. I’m not sure I even cared.

Needless to say, I was disqualified from competing in the state championships.

I also never gave up my friends when asked where I got the booze. I just stuck with:

“Found a frat party.”