Twenty minutes remained in Professor Whitman’s class. Even though her PowerPoints were usually top-notch, today’s topic on the foundation of democracy and how it’d been implemented in different countries wasn’t only a yawnfest, it was pointless.
Sure, there were different types of democracy, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. If a country had a parliament, congress, president, or prime minister but practiced democracy, then they represented the will of the people. Regardless of the system or how fancy it was named, the bottom line was the same: the decision-making processes were for the people, which made the entire conversation useless and boring. So boring.
But since attendance was mandatory and I had already blown through my three allotted absences, I was stuck.
However, on a high note, Professor Whitman was in a blinding yellow outfit. I couldn’t look away from the podium if I wanted to. The glare from her clothes was like a gravitational pull, but it was the first time she’d worn something other than black. With her Harry Potter-like glasses and standard black suits covered by a long black jacket, she looked suited to teach at Hogwarts. But today in her yellow top with matching jacket and pants, she reminded me of the Man with the Yellow Hat in Jack’s Curious George books. All she was missing was the hat.
When Jack was much younger, I used to read to him. His favorite book was a collection of George’s misadventures. Jack loved that curious little character so much that when I took him shopping for a Mother’s Day gift and we passed a shelf of stuffed monkeys, I pointed to one.
“Jack, what’s this?”
“It’s a George,” he’d said.
The more I stared at Professor Whitman, the more I thought of home.
It made no sense. A week ago, I was home and couldn’t wait to leave. Now I wanted to return.
I pulled out my phone and started going through people’s stories on Snapchat.
A picture of Caleb and Big Mike surfaced. They were guys I’d met when we all studied abroad. Instead of staying in Jordon on the weekends, we headed to the airport and traveled wherever Ryanair flew. The tickets were unbelievably cheap, and as long as we packed our shit in a backpack, it didn’t cost anything extra. In Morocco we visited the Blue City, in Rome we toured the Colosseum, and in the Sahara we rode camels. I couldn’t have asked for better travel partners. We visited the most beautiful places and drank the best ales, wines, and whatever the locals handed us. It was awesome.
The picture of my boys at their homecoming football game at Columbus University made me thumb over to my message app. The last text from Hannah appeared.
Hey I'm heading to my parents' house 4 w/end. Last chance to join me!
A smile returned to my face. Sweet Hannah. I wasn’t ready to meet the parents, so I passed. I didn’t even make up an excuse, just texted Next time.
But now I had no weekend plans. I tapped my thumbs against the side of my phone. Columbus was an easy two-hour drive away. Not that I had a car, but there was always Greyhound.
That was what I needed—an adventure. Halloween was coming up, and I’d bet CU would be a fuckfest. Girls dressing slutty and guys showing off their masculinity.
I group-texted Caleb and Mike.
Yo itz bn a while. We should chill agn.
It didn’t take long for Caleb to reply.
Hell yeah. Hallo- w/end. We’re goin as a tequila shot: salt, lime, n tequila. We’re lookin 4 our 3rd amigo! When u comin?
My fingers couldn’t text fast enough.
Checkin Greyhound now. Packin a bag & I'm outta here.
With a plan in place for the weekend, my loneliness vanished just as quickly as Professor Whitman’s class ended. I’d just started for the door when my name was called.
“Mr. Kovak, a moment.”
I cocked my head toward the podium at the bottom of the lecture hall. Professor Whitman’s cupped hand beckoned me forward. My classmates brushed past me like a herd of wild animals suddenly set free. Lucky bastards.
“Professor Whitman,” I said when I approached.
The lenses in her black-framed glasses were thick and made her eyes practically bug out of her face.
“Mr. Kovak, you haven’t given me or your classmates your hundred percent.” She paused, and I said nothing. What was there to say? She was right.
“If you want to pass this class, you need to give the class discussions more than you’re giving,” she continued.
“Understood. I’ll participate more,” I said.
“Was there something about the topic that disinterested you?”
Where to begin?
“No, not at all.” But I could tell from the pained expression and her squinty eyes that she expected more. She needed something to assure her that it wasn’t her lecture or the topic of democracy that nearly put me to sleep.
“My mom’s cancer spread from her breasts to her ovaries,” I blurted out like I was back in elementary school and not a senior in college.
But it did what I’d hoped. Her expression changed, turning from irritation to sympathy.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “We have trained counselors on campus who can help during this transition.”
Counseling? No thanks. Been there, got the T-shirt. But I said what was expected of me. “Thanks, I’ll look into that.”
“If you need an extension on the paper that’s due Monday,” she started, but my face must have conveyed my surprise that a paper was even due, because she continued, “I believe you chose the topic of refugees?”
“Right.” At one time, refugees were the most saturated topic in the news. But that was months ago. Fuck.
“Have it to my office by Wednesday of next week,” she offered.
“Will do. Thank you.”
My phone buzzed in my back jeans pocket, and I knew it was Caleb or Big Mike wondering when I’d be in Columbus.
I nodded toward my professor. “I’ll make more of an effort in class.”
“That’s all I ask.” Her nod was my cue to exit.
I was careful not to take the lecture hall stairs two at a time, lest I look too anxious. But once I was outside the building, I glanced at the text from Mike.
Pick u ^ @ station.
And just like that, my weekend plans took shape.
Talk about the freaks on the bus. For more than two hours, I listened to a man talk to himself and considered introducing him to my brother. Of course, I wouldn’t, but the thought kept me entertained and took my mind off the floor that my shoes stuck to. Nasty.
As if my first ride on a Greyhound wasn’t enough of a shit show, as soon as I stepped off the bus and walked outside the station, a homeless guy immediately approached me.
“Where you from?” he said, crowding me.
“Toledo.”
“Oh, you’re a LeBron fan?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I made my way toward the sidewalk, where two more homeless dudes descended upon me.
“This one’s a LeBron fan,” the first homeless guy said.
“Oh, you know he’s a Trump supporter and a racist,” another chimed in.
Three black men surrounded me. And they all began talking.
“Hey, whatever you need, we can get it for you,” one guy said.
“Nah, he’s a Trump fan. He don’t need nothing,” another replied.
With so many different voices going on all at once, it was like having schizophrenia. I choked down my laughter. It was just what I did in stressful situations, make stupid, inappropriate jokes.
“You a Trump supporter, aren’t you?” the first man asked again.
“Whatever, man, I’ve gotta go.” I tried to push past the circle I felt enclosed in.
“Make America Great Again,” the guy called out.
I finally raised my voice, which seemed to get their attention. “Guys, I don’t have time for this.”
I broke free and stood on the curb, hoping like hell Caleb and Mike wouldn’t keep me waiting.
Within minutes, a black Subaru pulled alongside me.
“You getting heckled by the homeless?” Caleb asked, and I laughed.
I threw my bag in the back seat and slid in behind Big Mike. He was called that not because he was fat but because he was fucking muscular as hell. When he turned around in the passenger seat, the weight in the car shifted. The guy’s a beast.
“Bet you don’t have a lot of homeless in Toledo,” he said.
“I dunno. I don’t leave campus much. But for real, like my biggest fear is being in a poor part of town, surrounded by black people, in a city I don’t know.” I paused, thinking it over. “So, yeah, my biggest fear just realized.”
“Black people? What the fuck, Aaron?” Caleb said.
“Listen, guys, I grew up in Wyoming where there’s no diversity. I never saw a black person, didn’t really know about LGBTQ, nor did I ever hear varying opinions or ideologies on anything. I grew up in a small town surrounded by small white people. I’m afraid of cities, public transportation, and homeless people,” I explained. “It’s like I’m afraid of diversity because I was raised in such a red, racist state.” Again I paused and thought about what I was saying. “Okay, maybe I’m not a racist in the traditional sense. I’m more like an accidental racist.”
They both laughed.
“I’ll tell you this, though,” I said, “I won’t raise my kids in Wyoming.”
“Why? I thought Wyoming was great,” Mike said.
“Sure, if you want to raise a conservative racist who’s afraid of cities and people of color, then Wyoming’s your place.”
“Ah, shit, every place has issues,” Caleb cut in.
“True.” I leaned forward. “But there’s nothing for me in Wyoming anymore.”
“What about your twin brother?” Mike asked. “Branson, right?”
“Yeah, good memory. Bran’s going into forestry with the national parks. He can work anywhere. We both want to put Wyoming in our rearview and never look back.”
“Understood, man, understood,” Caleb said.
Mike turned toward Caleb and then me. “It smells like weed.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s me.” I fanned the collar of my shirt, but if anything it just wafted the skunky smell of weed around the car.
“You smoking? No way.” Caleb stared at me in the rearview mirror. “In Jordon you were the purest. You wouldn’t smoke pot, hashish, or do anything. All you did was drink.”
“Yeah, and you and Mike ruined me,” I said. “Plus, you told me enough times that I was the nicest guy in the world. Like the nicest guy you’d both ever met. I don’t know if I believe that, but it’s what you said.”
“So what does that have to do with smoking weed?” Caleb asked.
“After hearing that shit for an entire semester, I felt like some pussy. When I transferred from Wyoming to Ohio, I decided it needed to be more than a geographical change. It needed to be a state of mind.” I raised my fingers in the peace sign like a stoner on a good trip.
Again they laughed.
“But really? Pot? Is that your new state of mind?” Caleb asked.
“Shit. Like you don’t smoke,” I countered.
“I cut down.”
I scoffed, and Mike turned around to look at me. “No, really, he has. The pot was really messing with his thinking.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay.”
“Legit. The last time I got really stoned, I thought Mike was trying to steal something from me and I went after him,” Caleb said. “It was intense. It was like I became someone else.”
“Well, I don’t know what the fuck you’re smoking, but pot hasn’t done anything like that to me, so stop killing my buzz,” I told him. “Besides, getting high was the only way I made it through that fucked-up bus ride.”
When neither of them said anything, I hit the back of Mike’s seat. “So, Hallo-weekend, brother!”
“Get ready for crazy,” Mike said.
“Already there.”
The music from the house party was nightclub loud. It was also so dark that I kept bumping into people.
"You get used to it," Caleb said.
Our white T-shirts practically glowed in the living room. The neon green stenciling didn’t hurt either. Since my chest announced that I was Lime, I stood beside Caleb, who was Tequila, and Big Mike, who was Salt. Together we were a tequila shot.
Big Mike looked dope with a shirt that barely fit him. What a monster. But Caleb was a goddamn stud with GQ-like modeling skills that he used when the hostess of the house party snapped our picture with an instant camera.
“Tequila shots never looked so good,” she said with a saucy wink while she fanned the pic.
“Shake it like a Polaroid,” Mike said, which was lame as hell but seemed to work on the hostess, who was dressed like a Starbucks coffee. She even had a hat with a green straw, which was pretty damn funny.
Everyone at the party looked like they belonged in an Abercrombie & Fitch commercial. They were ridiculously hot, and the party atmosphere had this intense, high-energy that kept everyone in a heightened state. Or maybe it was the drugs. There was enough weed, Oxy, and Adderall to fill the football stadium.
We quenched anyone and everyone’s thirst with shots. I squeezed lime into any open mouth that approached me, Caleb filled the shot glass, which he handed out like candy, and Big Mike poured salt on his arm that girls lined up to lick. Together we were unstoppable. For every shot Mike poured for a girl, he poured one for me.
Before I knew it, I was drunk off my ass. When we discovered there was a pony keg upstairs, Caleb and I headed to the second-floor balcony. I started tapping it and it sounded full, but I had to be sure, so I lifted it.
“Fuck.” I set it down. “That’s got like three-fourths left. It’s still heavy.”
“Cool” was all Caleb said.
“Listen, man, I’m going to steal it,” I told him.
“What?”
“I’m going to put the keg on the railing and pretend like it fell over while I was getting a drink.”
The plan made perfect sense both in my head and when I shared it with Caleb, who nodded like I had just hatched the best idea ever. I checked to make sure I wouldn’t hit anyone, then hefted the keg to the edge of the white railing, but instead of acting like I was pumping the keg like I’d planned, I just pushed it over the side. It fell hard and loud.
Caleb and I burst out laughing. We peered over the ledge and saw the pony keg upside down on the lawn.
“Dude!” Caleb slapped me on the back. I didn’t think he was as drunk or as stoned as me. “What the fuck?”
I gripped his shoulder. “Come on! It’s ours for the taking!”
I ran down the stairs with Caleb on my heels, racing out the front door and toward the keg that had rolled on its side. I hefted it up, tucked it against me like a football, and started running. It may have only been a pony keg, but it was almost full and I ran like the wind—easily and effortlessly. Yeah, who’s got buggy whip arms now? Take that, sorority bitch!
All I heard behind me was the sweet sound of Caleb and Big Mike’s laughter. I didn’t stop running until I reached Caleb’s apartment. I set the keg beside his front door and grabbed the tap. My desire for something cold outrode reason. I didn’t have a cup, but that didn’t matter. I’d guzzle straight from the hose.
Only the keg wouldn’t pump. I leaned forward and realized that when it landed, it smashed the tap.
“Fuck.” I ran my sweaty hands through my hair.
Caleb reached me first. “Dude, you’re a wild man.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, well, the fucking pump’s broken.”
Mike arrived just in time to hear my pathetic declaration and burst out laughing. “Still, best beer heist ever.”
But instead of feeling happy, shame crept over me like a heavy cloak that weighed me down. I fucked up. First I got called out after class for not participating and now this? I shouldn’t have stolen the keg. I didn’t know if it was Father Truman’s sermon or Professor Whitman or what, but I couldn’t shake how awful I felt in that moment.
I’m letting everyone down.
“We should return it,” I told them.
“Uh, no,” Caleb said.
“Yeah, that’s not a good idea,” Mike echoed.
Was it? Was anything I’d done from the moment I left campus a good idea?
I could be with Hannah right now. Why didn’t I go with her? What’s my fucking problem?
I glanced at the keg and contemplated my options.
“Why buy trouble that isn’t there?” Caleb said.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I stared at my friend, who I thought I knew, but now I wasn’t so sure.
“Aaron, folks here aren’t as cool as they are in Toledo,” Mike said.
“Dude, you got away with it. Now let’s go inside my apartment and try to crack this thing open,” Caleb said by way of an explanation, but something still felt off.
Fucking everything was off.
I came to Columbus so I wouldn’t feel alone, but this wasn’t my school or campus. With Caleb and Mike both staring at me, I suddenly felt like a third wheel.
“Listen, they’ve got two other kegs on the balcony. They aren’t going to miss one,” Mike said.
They both made valid points, but this wasn’t a democracy. The choice was mine and mine alone to make. I’ve got to do something.
“You don’t have to come with me, but I’ve got to take it back.” Anxiety inched up my chest, making it hard to breathe.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. Everyone steals things at parties,” Mike said. “One time I took this really dope bottle opener.” He glanced at Caleb. “Remember that?”
“For real.” Caleb gripped my shoulder. “Dude, it’s no big deal. You’re tripping. Besides, the keg’s broken.”
The dented keg and busted pump made my stomach tighten. “Man, I blew it.” I rubbed my hands on my jeans. “I’ve got to make this right.”