DRINK THE BOWL
A Tale of Friendship,
Christmas, and Mimosas
By,
Andrew J. Smith
I
haven’t left my futon in 7 hours. But it’s not my fault. It’s Tuesday, and
therefore Law and Order:
SVU marathon day. My eyes hurt from the barrage of sexual and physical abuse
I’ve witnessed for most of my day, and as the next episode begins, I half
expect to see myself on the screen, watching myself on the screen, watching
myself get raped and murdered on the screen.
As I contemplate this Droste effect of my demise, I stare at
the last sips of soup in my bowl, studying every last morsel floating, with a
background of ominous “rape” chords and ridiculous Ice Cube dialogue.
“Soup’s pretty
good,” I say rhetorically to the chef, a.k.a. my girlfriend, whom I’m sharing
the futon with.
“Not too bad,
really.” Always the modest one.
As I
contemplate which edge to sip from, a vaguely familiar phrase pops into my
head. Without realizing, I begin to softly chant to myself.
“Drink the
bowl! Drink the bowl!”
“Are you
cheering yourself along to finish your soup!?”
“No,” I
falsely reply.
And
with a coy smile, sip the last of my homemade turkey soup.
______________________________________________________
My
Dad is never quite sure which house is Karen’s, although he’s dropped me off
there numerous times. Once I clarify that it is the corner house with the
green, not red door, he brings the car to a stop right in front.
“You’re the best, Dad. I’ll call you
later if I need a ride.”
“Ok. Call me later if you need a ride.”
For
some reason, my father, like his father before him, loves to reiterate ideas.
Although it can sometimes be annoying, I’ve grown to appreciate it as of late.
Possibly because I know I’m doomed to follow in his redundant footsteps. Or
maybe it’s because I’m doomed to follow in his redund...wait a minute...
I
gather my bag, consisting of four of the finest, cheap bottles of champagne one
can buy at the corner store and a pair of underwear and socks. I exit and slam
the door shut. I wave. Dad waves. We both know I have a hell of a night ahead
of me.
Almost
reluctantly, like a father sending his son to war, he pulls away. I turn back
to Karen’s house and move forward with my mission: it’s time to party!
My
good friend Karen moved into this three bedroom downstairs apartment with her
sister and brother-in-law, last summer. Despite its location, her apartment is
not a meth-lab, nor a sanctuary for crack dealers, pimps, or homeless whores.
Quite the contrary, though the neighborhood looks impoverished, harsh, and
fairly unsanitary, Karen’s apartment is inviting, charming, and quite cozy.
More Full House than Breaking Bad.
The
front door opens into a narrow living area, with Karen’s equally narrow but
long bedroom off to the left. As you move through this entrance area, you enter
the large kitchen, with the bathroom off to the right side. Continue on through
the narrow hallway and you come to the other two bedrooms, the smaller of which
is used as a TV/gaming/drink-till-you-can’t-see-and-pass-out room, which I know
from experience. The walls are painted the team colors of the Buffalo Bills
(much to my NY Jets heart’s dismay) and it is stuffed with a HUGE screen TV,
seemingly every video game system ever invented, a coffee table, and two
couches, though neither are long enough to comfortably sleep on. To be fair though,
when it comes time, I never deserve a comfortable sleep.
Next
to the larger, master bedroom the married couple share is the backdoor, opening
into a large backyard. Complete with gazebo, charcoal grill, fire pit, and
imprints of fallen revelers, this house was meant for parties.
And
boy have we used it for them!
My
first week home from Graduate school and immediately following an epic
cross-country road trip, we crammed over fifty people into this place and had a
ridiculous welcome home bash, complete with kegs, piñatas, and debauchery. I
vaguely remember a fist-fight, non-consensual pony rides, and midget tossing –
and that was before anyone else showed up!
Tonight though, promised a much more
low-key gathering. It was Karen’s annual Christmas party. We expected a more
subdued, classy gathering. We dressed up, made hor devours, and even had a
Christmas tree. Our naive expectations for elegance were soon shattered...
______________________________________________________
“I’m serious! Were you just chanting
‘Drink the bowl?’”
“Maybe...”
“Should we get
you some help or is this one of your hilarious jokes that I don’t get.” Maeve
had a way of not always seeing eye to eye with me concerning my humor.
Obviously a shortcoming on her part.
“I told you
about this. At Karen’s party last week? The game we played?”
“Oh, you mean
the party you called me from and spoke to me in hieroglyphics??”
“Is that even
possible...”
“You were on
the phone gargling your words and talking about throwing quarters and it took
all of my patience to understand that you were ok and not being held for ransom
at some underwater hideout.”
“Well,
that was because of the game,” I chuckled, remembering the absurdity that is
“Drink the Bowl.”
______________________________________________________
“Who has a quarter?” Karen’s boyfriend
Mike asked. He had surprised her and drove down to Long Island from Florida, New
York, which is upstate, to see her this night. I know. Even as I type this, I’m
confused.
“I do.” It was about all the money I
had left, but I wouldn’t tell them that. “Are we gonna play quarters?”
“No. It’s kinda like quarters, but
different.”
Quarters
is a common drinking game in which players try to bounce a quarter into an
opposing player’s shot glass. If they succeed, that player drinks a shot. I
happen to both enjoy and excel in the game of quarters so I was pleasantly
intrigued by this new game Mike was introducing.
“Now I need a bowl and an empty ice
cube tray.”
I
went from intrigued to worried in .05 seconds. This was beginning to sound less
like a drinking game and more like the featured blog of the month at www.Amsterdamsextricks.com. Mike explained:
“First, you put the bowl in the center
of the table, like this. Then you prop the ice cube tray against the bowl, like
this. Now each player bounces the quarter towards the tray. If you get the coin
in any slot on the right-hand side,” he displayed, pointing to each of the
eight slots, “you make someone drink
that many seconds. But, if you get it in on the left,” he again displayed,
Vanna White style, “YOU have to drink that many seconds.”
“Ohhs and Ahs” filled the room and I
silently looked around for Pat Sajack. This game seemed pretty easy. Seemed
pretty fun too.
“What about the bowl?” asked Allison,
Karen’s younger sister, quickly perceiving we hadn’t been filled in on all the
rules.
“Ah yes...the infamous bowl. Here’s
where it gets fun!”
Mike
then proceeded to explain that before the game begins, all players pour some of
their drinks into the bowl. On their
turn, should someone miss the tray and instead bounce the quarter into the
bowl, they could make any other player drink the contents. This may not seem so
crazy upon first hearing, but you must consider the fine print. Each
prospective player was drinking a different cocktail. If we filled the bowl, it
would be a mixture of champagne, orange juice, red wine, white wine, beer, Jack
Daniel’s, and something funky looking in a coffee mug. Not the best
combination. Needless to say, no one wanted to be chosen for the bowl. This last
bit of info created some skepticism amongst the ranks.
“I’m out,” said Kim, Karen’s older
sister.
“Me too,” said Pete, Allison’s husband.
“Come on! You don’t like the game?”
asked Mike, half hurt, half delighted with his ability to fully disgust half of
the family.
“I am definitely in!” I exclaimed. This was just my type of game.
“Great! Let’s anti up.”
Karen,
Allison, Mike, and I each poured a bit of our drinks into the bowl. Some of my
Mimosa, a splash of Allie’s two buck chuck, more than a splash of Mike’s
trademark Jack and Coke, and more than enough of Karen’s mystery coffee mug
elixir, which may or may not have been a blend of motor oil, expired NyQuil,
and Balsamic vinegar. It swirled for a minute, and then settled into what can
only be described as a Puddle of Trouble®. It resembled a Van Gogh, post ear. We
were ready to play.
Mike
shot first, since this was his game, but missed.
“Ha ha Mike.”
Next
was Allison. She also missed.
“Ha ha, Allison.”
It
was now my shot. As I said, I am quite formidable in the game of quarters, so I
was fairly sure I’d have no problem with this game. I lined up my shot, bounced
my quarter, and in it went! I jumped up and yelled and danced, then I looked to
see where my shot had landed. Perfectly in the top slot on the left hand side,
which meant I had to drink 8 seconds.
Ha ha…me.
Everyone
laughed at me. You know how sometimes when you think people are laughing at you, but they’re really laughing with you? This was not the case. My
premature celebration made me the brunt of the joke, and as I took eight gulps
of my pulpy mimosa, everyone pointed, guffawed and thoroughly enjoyed
themselves at my expense. I vowed I would get a bowl on my next shot and make
one of them pay.
The
rules of this game stated that should a player make a shot in, in any capacity,
they continue shooting until they miss. Therefore, it was still my turn.
I
finished my eight seconds, pushed a bit of pulp out from between my teeth, and
grabbed the quarter. I focused hard on the table, imagining the flight the coin
would take after it hit. Unlike my beloved New York Jets, I knew this one was
Bowl-bound. I drew back my hand, said a silent prayer to Saint Arnold, the
patron saint of beer, and released my coin. It bounced just as I planned, hit
the lid of the bowl...and ricocheted back into the top left slot of the ice
tray!
“OH! Another eight seconds! Drink up,
bitch!” Mike had a way with words when he drank, not unlike a young Flaubert.
And
drink I did. For eight seconds, while again, the whole group reveled in my
hilarious misfortune. This game was not turning out as fun as I planned...
I
finished off my pint of mimosa, since I had just finished sixteen seconds of
drinking in a row, and picked up the quarter. I was now more determined than
ever to wreak boozey vengeance.
There
was no bullshit in my approach this time. I simply bounced the quarter with the
intention of causing immediate harm to someone’s liver. I closed my eyes. I
couldn’t bear another let down. Then I heard it.
“Bloop.”
I
opened my eyes to the most wonderful sight I have ever scene.
Sitting
there in the Puddle of Trouble® was
the quarter, George Washington’s stoic face staring up at me in rippled apathy.
“Yeah bitches!” I had caught Mike’s
eloquence. “Who wants it??”
My
question was rhetorical, as I knew who deserved this vessel of doom.
“How bout...YOU!”
I
pointed to Mike as if I was damning him for all eternity, which was not far
from reality. He hung his head low, and smiled a “fuck me” smile. Then it
began...
“Drink – the – bowl…”
It
was a soft whisper, as if a slightly vocal common thought.
“Drink – the – bowl…”
Slowly
growing now, in numbers and intensity, a sort of pleasant pleading.
“Drink
– the – bowl!”
We
had all joined in, a chorus of carousers, encouraging the kind of bad decision
that only makes the night better.
When
Mike finally picked up the bowl and began the ascent to his lips, we were
frenetic.
“DRINK – THE – BOWL! DRINK – THE –
BOWL!!”
He
swallowed every drop, making sure to close his teeth before the quarter became
a casualty, and slammed the bowl down. We all cheered as if he had finished a
decathlon.
“What are you guys doing?” asked Kenny,
Karen, Kim and Allie’s younger brother, as he led five others into the room. It
seemed our excitement had caught the attention of the other guests.
“We’re playing ‘Drink – the – Bowl!’” I
screamed, giving a name to this chaos.
A younger guy, who looked like he had
drank, and smoked, his share of bowls stepped forward and motioned towards his
friend.
“Can
we jump in?”
______________________________________________________
“No
wonder you sounded like an autistic donkey on the phone. How long did you
play?”
“All night.”
“So it was fun?”
“You know, I wouldn’t necessarily put it in the fun
category. But it was certainly entertaining!”
When personally dealing
with the repercussions, I wouldn’t refer to “Drink the Bowl” as a fun occasion.
But when simply enjoying the Schadenfreude of the situation, now that was all
laughs.
“I think this might be one of those “I had to be there”
things.”
Maeve had heard many a
story of my escapades, without full appreciation of the night, and it seemed
this would be no different.
“Maybe you’re right. I guess that means we’ll have to relive
it next time we go see Karen.”
“I dunno how I feel about that,” Maeve
said cautiously. And I couldn’t blame her, especially since she was hearing the
abridged version...
______________________________________________________
I
wake up with a start. I am surrounded by Buffalo Bill’s team colors and
souvenirs, and therefore deduce I must be in Hell. Then I remember: Drink the
Bowl!
I
am unsurprised that my pants are missing, but a bit perplexed that I am still
wearing my boots. I seem to have chosen Revolved Downward Facing Dog as my
preferred slumber position, and I fear I may have developed scoliosis in
addition to a permanent migraine. I check my wrist and the watch says it is
3:56 am. I don’t own a wristwatch, so this is a pleasant bonus. I rise and
decide to do some sleuthing to see what has occurred to get me to this
state....
Now,
I did not serve in Vietnam, nor did I storm Normandy. I have, however, been the
last person around on the last night of a Texas County Fair, and Karen’s
usually charming apartment resembled something in between.
The
living room, once cozy, intimately lit with fragrant candles, and inviting now
looked like a Civil War era ER. Two grown men, who had not know each other at
the beginning of the night, were now spooning on the love seat. Shirtless. It
was actually quite cute. At some point, we must’ve ordered Domino’s, though
according to the state of the boxes, we may have raided a dumpster. Chairs were
over turned throughout the house, and I wonder if the Tasmanian Devil made a
guest appearance at some point.
Then
I see it: the tray table that held the infamous bowl. Apparently, we thought
the smallish soup bowl would not hold enough liquid and we moved on to a
plastic Tupperware dish designed to hold entire watermelons. Inside the basin,
was a substance I’m fairly certain was originally liquid, though after hours of
marinating had become congealed to mostly solid. It brought to mind a very
unpleasant Jello product, a color unlisted in the typical Roy G. Biv.
After
making my rounds and checking in on the slumbering bedlam, I determined I
myself was in no real shape to improve anything, so I lumbered towards the
Bills room and onto a couch that was built to comfortably fit a small,
outstretched toddler. There, still pants-less and bewildered, I slowly drifted
back to sleep with visions of the Puddle of Trouble®
swirling round my consciousness...
According to my definition, Karen’s
classy Christmas party had been a success.
______________________________________________________
I
finish my last sip of soup as Dick Wolf’s name appears in the credits. With
bowl still in hand, I concede one last chuckle and place it on the table. Maeve
looks at me with a knowing smirk, and I smile right back, knowing how lucky I
am to have a woman who will still put up with me after a night of “Drink the
Bowl.”
And
with that thought, I throw my arm around her shoulders, pull her in tight, and
snuggle in as the famous dialogue signals at least one more hour of blissful
immobility:
“In
the criminal justice system...”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Andrew
J. Smith is a World Traveler, Writer, and Eccentric Story-Teller. He has
sky-dived in Florida, caught wild Salmon by hand in Alaska, carved his named in
a bar top in New Zealand, proposed on New Year’s Eve in Bora, Bora, played
soccer with the Swedish national team, been “Screeched In” twice in New
Foundland, pounded Fiegling in Warnemunde, Germany, and fed bison by hand in
Texas. And this was all in the last 3 years. He loves his family and friends,
and misses them when they are not joining in his escapades. You can no doubt
find him at the bar stool next to you in the near future, whether you are in
Madagascar, or Monroe, New York. Enjoy!
© Insomnia
Publications 2014
