A Night On The Town
by David Adams
Last night was the worst night of my life. There are no horrendous incidents to which I can attribute this judgment. No one died, no one got his or her heart broken, no one got grounded. There was only one thing wrong with the night, and that was me. My mind was not wearing the right shoes to dance the social dance of my compatriots. In fact I would go so far to say that I left my shoes at home that night.
Last night actually started about a week ago, with the beginning of Berkeley High Spirit Week. Spirit Week is a time in which all the students at BHS work themselves into a frenzy over who graduates in what year, which is ironic because a majority of the rabble-rousers won't graduate at all. Naturally, the Seniors act up the most; they are more mature and have the right too, but that doesn’t stop the rest of the school from getting pretty darn out of control as well. I had been looking forward to Spirit Week since the beginning of school, and when it came around, I immersed myself in the festivities. I dressed up every day of the week, and managed to stay under the influence of some substance or another for the better part of each school day. (Which may be one of the reasons why I was so mentally unstable by Friday night.) Traditionally “Red and Gold Day” is the apex of spirit week. Being on a Friday, and the day of the rally and of the homecoming football game, it only seems natural to get more belligerent and inebriated than on all the previous days. Following this course of logic, I stumbled out of school on Friday afternoon full of notions of class supremacy, and of a jubilant excitement for the night to come. Afternoon became dusk, and dusk became night, and I found myself behind the steering wheel of my 1983 Beige Volvo sedan. The slide show of events leading me to this predicament is of no importance. The important thing is that somehow I got conned into driving on the Friday of my senior spirit week. Since the gods of the road had apparently chosen me as their sacrifice that night, I figured that I would attempt to make the best of it. My memories of that night are as follows:
Sitting shotgun to me is my lifelong best friend Derik, looking out the window with an expression of exasperation on his face. He is pissed because apparently his parents are mad at him for dropping out of high school. Big surprise. Derik smokes more marijuana than anyone I have ever met, and also happens to live behind me. Sitting in the back seat on the right side is my friend Tom. Tom is one of the most complex people I know. He is a very imposing figure standing at 6" 2' and 200 pounds, with an intellect that could have got him into just about any college he wanted. Unfortunately for him he doesn’t have the common sense to apply himself in school, and now he has his fingers crossed for University of Oregon. The final member of my entourage is Bret. Bret is a nice guy who has his own share of complexities. I can think of no better way to illustrate him than by saying that he is currently on parole for breaking into an elementary school in the middle of the night, and spraying chairs with a fire extinguisher.
In longstanding tradition, we make sure to drive around for at least an hour before we even know what we are going to do. Our auto meandering is cut short when Tom gets a call on his cell phone. He says there is a freshman party on Arch and Eunice. I turn the car around and head toward the Hills of North Berkeley. As we approach the block of the party, we see the a multitude of drunken teenagers on the side walk, enjoying the fresh air, and acting like they have something important to do. After a quick parking job, making sure that all the underclassman notice that fact that we are in a car, we saunter into the party only to be greeted by an unfriendly dad who apparently is “fed up with goddamn punks crashing his daughter's party.” After a few rude retorts on our part, we reluctantly leave the party, maintaining that we don’t want to go to a freshman party anyway. As we drive away the topic of conversation in the car turns to decimating the residence of the jerk dad and his goody-goody daughter. After much deliberation we decide to egg the house, and all the freshmen in and around the area.
I wonder if Janet, the night shift clerk at Safeway, knows that this testosterone charged car full of boys isn’t really going to have an “omelet making party.” If she does she doesn’t show any signs of it, and sells us the eggs for half price because they are all mysteriously cracked. We drive up the party, talking ourselves into a freshman bashing frenzy. “They must be exterminated,” I say.
“I would want seniors to do the same to me if I were a freshman,” agrees Derik.
As we get within a block of the party the mood in the car freezes up all of a sudden. Each man reverts into his own mind in search of the strength for the task ahead. The lights switch off, the music goes down. We enter radio silence. The tension is almost palpable as the drunken squeals of homeward bound freshman drift up to the open windows of the car. Then like a bolt of lightening, an egg explodes on the back of a freshman boy. Then another, and another. The freshmen look up to find themselves in a merciless barrage of premature poultry raining down from above. The violence of the attack is astounding. Three freshmen are hit before the rest even know they are being egged, and when the others notice it is too late. They are quickly dealt with in similar fashion. Then before they can say 'seniors', we vanish into the night. We do the same thing about four times in a row. The funny thing is that the freshmen don’t get wise and start scattering until the third drive by. When we come around for number four, we see freshman darting behind cars at the sight of headlights. We are not disheartened in the least, and the onslaught continues. The stronger and more resourceful freshmen begin to distance themselves from the pack, leaving only the weak and slow for the feasting. We show no mercy. Not one freshman escapes unscathed. We drive off into the night.
Now don’t get me wrong. Egging is immoral. Egging defenseless freshman is immoral. Egging defenseless freshman, then driving away, is probably worth several damnations. There is no valid excuse I can present that can absolve my sins. I am not looking for clemency or forgiveness. I can only say that the mob mentality has never found a better home than in the heart and mind of the teenage boy.
As we speed away from the hunting grounds, we receive word of a house party in my very own hood of (Nasty) North Side Berkeley. I turn the car around and head toward my house to drop my car off. We walk over to the party in good spirits. Tom unloads his last two eggs at a passing car full of meek looking Asians and I confuse a homeless person by asking for spare change. Otherwise the walk passes without incident.
We arrive at the party and are greeted by a flurry of hugs and high fives. I manage to get my hands on some alcohol and settle down on a couch in the thick of the action. This is going to be a fun party. People sit down, get up, and sit down again. My alcohol and I remain on the couch. Time starts to pass by at a ridiculously slow rate. I don’t know why but this bothers me. I keep looking at the clock. First just out of the corner of my eye, then in quick spiteful glances. After a while I am sitting staring at the clock on the table. People in my conversational circle exchange odd looks and continue in their inebriated dalliance. I don’t notice. By this time, my mind has been completely lifted out of the swift flowing waters of time. I can think about life from an objective standpoint, removed from the heat and passion of the moment at hand, and I realize: life sucks. I guess I can’t call it a realization because there is no logical train of thought leading me to this conclusion. It is more a decision made by a mind that is in no state to be tackling philosophical issues.
With this newfound knowledge, the social function going on around me becomes a meaningless collection of unintelligent drunk teenagers who have nothing in common besides a love of alcohol. I tell myself that it was just a small funk and that I should walk around and schmooze for a bit. I get up and walk to the nearest group of people in conversation.
“So then, these fucking cutties came, and we were like let's cut.”
“Damn...do you wanna hit this 40?”
I don’t know what I expect, but what I find only confirms my cynical side. At this point I realize that I have to abort immediately. Without a word to anyone, I walk out the door into the dark night. I am surprised that I don’t throw myself in front of a car on the way back to my house, because I am in arguably the most severe depression of my life. I go over the night in my mind. Nothing went wrong, so why should I be feeling like this? My life is exactly where I think it should be, isn't it? Where should my life be? If you don’t know where your life should be, how can you be content with where it is? If you don’t know the meaning of life how do you know where your life should be?
My thoughts proceed in this haphazard direction until I reach the steps of my house. I look up and see the light off. Good. No parents to talk to. I lumber into my room, strip down to my boxers, and collapse into bed. The world spins for about half an hour until sleep takes me.