The Summer Project: Rum (1988)
The Summer Project is back!
Three years ago I started writing posts detailing memories of summer past. Some were broad general memories, and some were of specific events. I loved the effort, but as my diligence blogging waned, so did the project.
Tonight I resume, starting with the first time I ever threw up drinking.
I graduated high school in May 1988 and started college three months later. In between was perhaps the most fun summer I would enjoy between the early '80s and when Lori and I were first dating. So many more stories are available from this time -- and I'd like to get to them all -- but I'm going to start with maybe the last memory of that summer before I made it to school.
My friends and I planned one more party before we all departed for college. I'm not sure how we did it, but we got a suite at the Residence Inn over in Rosemont, I want to say by Lawrence and River Road (why this is important will become evident later). It had two bedrooms and a little kitchen, as well as a dining area and a living room. Plenty of space to not be crammed in like a typical hotel room. The party wasn't going to be big -- our group of friends and some girls, including one, Beth, who I always thought was cute.
I was a good, upstanding high schooler and did not drink ... until the day after I graduated. But even then, I only drank a few times, and never got more than a buzz. I was so light back then that I could get to the buzz on just a few beers, and recognizing that impairment, I stopped. This night, however, ended up being different.
I had maybe three beers as the party progressed, when my friends encouraged me to have a shot of rum. At this point, I had never attempted any hard liquor, and the only shot I really ever drank was Nyquil (and I almost spit it out ...). But I was feeling festive and agreed. Straight, cheap rum is a bad way to be introduced to hard liquor. I drank it, almost gagged, then was ready for another beer, which my friend Tom provided.
I sipped from the new beer and exclaimed, "I can still taste the rum shot!" I didn't find out until later that the beer Tom handed me was half rum. Things got blurry after that. I ended up lying down on the floor against the wall in the dining area. People came, went, and came back again (I think this is the night a few friends climbed the fence at Niles Pool and one impaled his hand on the sharp metal twist at the top). I know before I reclined that I said something to Beth about how she liked one of the other guys but she should really think about me, and she either was nicely being confused or I wasn't making sense.
Tim, who had left for a while, returned to find me in on the floor, looked over me and declared, "You're fucked up." All I could manage to reply was, "Tim, fuck!" He retorted with "Oh, you want to have a swearing contest" and unleashed a string of obscenities, but my second reply was the same as the first: "Tim, fuck!" I would be teased for this drunken exclamation for years.
Eventually, I passed out and slept uncomfortably on the floor all night. The next morning, the headache I was feeling was immense. I had Tim stop at a convenient store so I could buy some Tylenol. We got back in the car, and I put the pill too far back in my mouth and activated my gag reflex. I said, "Tim, pull over." On the side of Lawrence Avenue, right by the forest preserve, I threw up.
It wasn't pleasant.
I got back in the car, and Tim drove me home. And I'll never forget this: He said, "Now you know what it feels like before you get to school." In a way he was right -- better I got that drunk and sick among friends rather than the first week of school in a new city. Still, being deceived into it, Tom's good intentions aside (and I hold no bitterness toward my friend, who we still miss dearly) wasn't ideal. I would get sick a few years later on rum without even getting that drunk -- I think this ruined me on it for good.
I got back to the house and looked exhausted, but my mom probably figured I just hadn't gotten much sleep. I went back to bed and slept off my first hangover.
A few days later, I was at Marquette. Most of us worked up until the end, so this party was our last hurrah. We hung out the night before I left, but no drinking, no shenanigans. I came home, tried to fall asleep but couldn't, heard "Hands to Heaven" by Breathe (which has the line "I must pack my bags and say goodbye"), and eventually dozed off. Just like that, a new chapter in my life began. This party and throwing up in the woods was really how I remembered the hot, action-packed summer of 1988 ending.
And looking back, I wouldn't have ended it any other way.
Three years ago I started writing posts detailing memories of summer past. Some were broad general memories, and some were of specific events. I loved the effort, but as my diligence blogging waned, so did the project.
Tonight I resume, starting with the first time I ever threw up drinking.
I graduated high school in May 1988 and started college three months later. In between was perhaps the most fun summer I would enjoy between the early '80s and when Lori and I were first dating. So many more stories are available from this time -- and I'd like to get to them all -- but I'm going to start with maybe the last memory of that summer before I made it to school.
My friends and I planned one more party before we all departed for college. I'm not sure how we did it, but we got a suite at the Residence Inn over in Rosemont, I want to say by Lawrence and River Road (why this is important will become evident later). It had two bedrooms and a little kitchen, as well as a dining area and a living room. Plenty of space to not be crammed in like a typical hotel room. The party wasn't going to be big -- our group of friends and some girls, including one, Beth, who I always thought was cute.
I was a good, upstanding high schooler and did not drink ... until the day after I graduated. But even then, I only drank a few times, and never got more than a buzz. I was so light back then that I could get to the buzz on just a few beers, and recognizing that impairment, I stopped. This night, however, ended up being different.
I had maybe three beers as the party progressed, when my friends encouraged me to have a shot of rum. At this point, I had never attempted any hard liquor, and the only shot I really ever drank was Nyquil (and I almost spit it out ...). But I was feeling festive and agreed. Straight, cheap rum is a bad way to be introduced to hard liquor. I drank it, almost gagged, then was ready for another beer, which my friend Tom provided.
I sipped from the new beer and exclaimed, "I can still taste the rum shot!" I didn't find out until later that the beer Tom handed me was half rum. Things got blurry after that. I ended up lying down on the floor against the wall in the dining area. People came, went, and came back again (I think this is the night a few friends climbed the fence at Niles Pool and one impaled his hand on the sharp metal twist at the top). I know before I reclined that I said something to Beth about how she liked one of the other guys but she should really think about me, and she either was nicely being confused or I wasn't making sense.
Tim, who had left for a while, returned to find me in on the floor, looked over me and declared, "You're fucked up." All I could manage to reply was, "Tim, fuck!" He retorted with "Oh, you want to have a swearing contest" and unleashed a string of obscenities, but my second reply was the same as the first: "Tim, fuck!" I would be teased for this drunken exclamation for years.
Eventually, I passed out and slept uncomfortably on the floor all night. The next morning, the headache I was feeling was immense. I had Tim stop at a convenient store so I could buy some Tylenol. We got back in the car, and I put the pill too far back in my mouth and activated my gag reflex. I said, "Tim, pull over." On the side of Lawrence Avenue, right by the forest preserve, I threw up.
It wasn't pleasant.
I got back in the car, and Tim drove me home. And I'll never forget this: He said, "Now you know what it feels like before you get to school." In a way he was right -- better I got that drunk and sick among friends rather than the first week of school in a new city. Still, being deceived into it, Tom's good intentions aside (and I hold no bitterness toward my friend, who we still miss dearly) wasn't ideal. I would get sick a few years later on rum without even getting that drunk -- I think this ruined me on it for good.
I got back to the house and looked exhausted, but my mom probably figured I just hadn't gotten much sleep. I went back to bed and slept off my first hangover.
A few days later, I was at Marquette. Most of us worked up until the end, so this party was our last hurrah. We hung out the night before I left, but no drinking, no shenanigans. I came home, tried to fall asleep but couldn't, heard "Hands to Heaven" by Breathe (which has the line "I must pack my bags and say goodbye"), and eventually dozed off. Just like that, a new chapter in my life began. This party and throwing up in the woods was really how I remembered the hot, action-packed summer of 1988 ending.
And looking back, I wouldn't have ended it any other way.
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