40: Liberation Night

 

My opening weekend of college was about liberation. For 18 years, I lived in the same house. That's not a complaint so much as it is an expression of my reality. We didn't go on family vacations. I didn't party in high school, save for a couple of fun nights my senior year. Poplar Bluff, Missouri, was pretty much all I knew. When I did get to experience something out of town or even out of state, I always treated it as an adventure, knowing that Poplar Bluff awaited.

The summer of 1985 started as a Cold War between me and my dad, who didn't want me to go to college. Tensions escalated when, after a heated discussion about the financial realities of paying for my education, he arrived home with a brand spanking new Toyota truck. It was nice, a real beauty. I was incensed. By Friday, August 17th, we had reached a kind of detente. We sold my car and put the money in my bank account. He begrudgingly gave me his blessing, knowing I would be leaving one way or another. In retrospect, I understand and even appreciate his perspective. Still, as REO Speedwagon once sang, it was time for me to fly. I didn't have a miserable home life or anything. It was just...time. On that Friday, Mom and I loaded my stuff into the Ford Futura owned by best friend Kevin and he and I headed to Southeast Missouri State. Poplar Bluff was in the rear view. Liberation lie ahead. As we drove to Cape, Patti LaBelle's "Stir It Up" played in my head like the theme song to my own personal sitcom.

Friday night was spent setting the dorm room that would be our version of The Swamp on "M*A*S*H," minus a still for brewing gin. Movie posters, a small stereo, an even small black-and-white television with little rabbit ear antennae squeezed into a dorm room so small that, to quote the old vaudeville joke, we had to go outside to change our mind. Our floor was populated by an array of colorful characters that I will write about later, not least of which was a guy dubbed "Skate Punk," a skateboarding frat pledge who bought all of his clothes from the Salvation Army and somehow looked cool. 

That first Saturday night, though, was my true Liberation Night. Kevin and I caught wind of a fraternity kegger being thrown at an old airplane hangar outside of town. My palpable apprehension nearly forced me to sit this one out and stay home. After all, the first day of class was only two days away and I needed my rest. Kevin reminded me that these keggers were an integral part of the college experience, thus we should immerse ourselves. I'm not sure those were his exact words. I'm 58-year-old unreliable narrator sharing an event that happened 40 years ago. 

Anyway, inside this hangar was more beer than I had ever seen. And you could just go get you some. No one cared. Now, I realize for many folks, this was the average Saturday night in high school or even middle school. As I said, I didn't party much at all. Add in the girls (So. Many. Girls.) and this was my Mardi Gras, Carnivale, Oktoberfest, and Festival of Dionysus all rolled into one. 

(The Festival of Dionysus reference is a hat-tip to my future as theater major.)

I drank a beer. And another. The total beer consumption is lost to time. I do remember an interesting and an odd confidence washing over me. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was knowing that no one at this massive kegger had ever met before. The realization hit me that I could be whoever I wanted with this crowd. I was like Popeye eating spinach. The beer gave me strength to overcome my inhibitions so I did what any guy would've done in that situation surrounded by more girls than he knew existed: I flirted my ass off.

The most common ice-breaker of the night was "What is your major?" At first, I answered with the truth. "Theater." And I made sure to say it with the appropriate gravitas. I was a budding artiste, after all. Mostly, I was met with furrowed brows and interrogations about what one does with a theater degree after college, a question that would dog me for the next six years of undergrad work. Then, I switched gears when a cute blonde from Chicago (big city!) asked me what my major was going to be. 

"Ancient Canadian Religions," I told her and she laughed.

"You're funny," she said. She shouldn't have told me that. Because now not only was I Popeye after eating spinach, I was also a Lenny Bruce wannabe on open mic night ready to unleash even more absurd beer-quenched non sequitur majors. Each lovely co-ed who asked me about my major was met with such droll comebacks as:

"Thermonuclear Welding."

"Paranormal Accounting."

"Underwater Animal Husbandry."

"Sitcoms."

"You've heard of pre-Law? Well, I'm Prehistoric Law."

My memory tells me these responses had the girls in stitches. What a funny guy! He's so cute! Looking back, I'm sure the eyeroll-to-laugh ration leaned heavily toward eyerolls. On my Liberation Night, when I could've chose to be whatever I wanted, I naively chose Obnoxious Yokel Who's Never Had This Much Beer. No love connection was made that night. The evening didn't end with shenanigans inspired by the Porky's films. Instead, upon our arrival back at the dorm, Kevin assisted me as I staggered past a security guard that I was certain had intentions of throwing me in the slammer.

I awoke the next morning with the requisite hangover. The inside of my mouth was an arid wasteland void of any moisture. I craved water. Any water. Dishwater. The events of the previous night replayed in my head during a much needed hot shower provided by low water pressure. My first college party. Had I laid on a little thick? Yeah, probably. Had I used one Saturday night kegger as a way to unleash all the partying I didn't do in high school? Definitely. Had a summer of tension and stress with my dad reached a point where it needed a release valve? Hell, yes. I needed Liberation Night far more than those poor girls needed to hear my stupid one-liners. 

Drying off, vowing to never get drunk again (a vow broken the next weekend), I missed my folks. What were they doing? Did they telepathically know I had spent my first weekend of college in a beer-soaked stupor? A new life awaited. New freedoms. New worries. New questions. What was I going to do with my theater degree after college? That question most of all consumed me as I picked up the phone and called home to let Mom and Dad know I was safe and sound and so far it had been a pretty quiet weekend.