More Thoughts on a Boozey Evening

Australia got its ass kicked in rugby by New Zealand last night. I know this, because New Zealand had a higher score. I don’t know how this happened. All I saw was men with themed wardrobes beating the crap out of each other. But I do know it made American football look like a pansy sport.

A few hours later, Australia got beaten in soccer by Japan. I’m standing in the crowded bar, watching the big screen, and knowing that if a fire broke out, they’d have to look up my dental records. But I’m excited. It’s tied, and into overtime. Tension, near-misses time and again. Down to the penalty kicks. Australia misses. Japan sinks it. I’m chanting with the crowd a name I’m sure I’m mispronouncing. I’m yelling profanities at the Japanese team despite a lack of vested interest 5 minutes ago. It doesn’t matter. The crowd’s energy infects me. But we lose.

Since when is Australia my team?

Anyway, I meet three guys from my school at the game. I’d love to tell you their names, but a thick Australian accent becomes slurry under alcohol. I drink with them, because that’s all I ever seem to do around here. Drink against my will. Afterwards, they take me home on the ferry, and spoil the ending of Harry Potter. Not that I ever intended to read it.

On the way back to the dorms, one of them decides to run through the cardboard signs plastered on campus like the finish line of the Boston Marathon. He is promptly caught by campus police.

We also encounter a 3-foot bat circling a few feet above our heads. One of those little reminders you’re not in America anymore.

Back at their dorm, they lead me to their bathroom. Am I going to get lucky or mugged? They point to the roof. There’s a gaping hole. Naturally, we climb into it. The attic. Among the rafters are a pile of lifeguard hats and valve wheels. A sign on the floor says “Danger: Asbestos”, right next to a sign for “Sizzling Mongolian BBQ House”. In the corner is a bed. I wonder how many have fucked in it.

One of them decides to steal it as his new mattress, so we help him ease it out of the attic. But, we realize we’re being unfair. So we take the boy’s old bed, and cart it back up into the ceiling. We share a moment, bonded by the ancient cot. A pact is made: The first one of us to shag on the attic and leave proof gets his dinner and booze bought by the others. I wonder what they mean by leaving proof.