Read Online Openly Straight by Bill Konigsberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Konigsberg
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seem to have it. I wondered if it was a class thing.
The rules of Spinnah were simple: teams of two, start with one guy downing one shot. Then you’d be up to two, and the other guy had to drink one, spin, and while he was spinning his teammate poured another shot. The first guy had to pick it up without slowing down from his spin, and he couldn’t miss the shot glass or even fumble it a little. Then he’d down the shot in one fluid motion. Any jerkiness and everyone would yell “Bawk!” like it was a baseball game and the guy was a pitcher making an illegal motion. And if you got a balk, your team was out. You also lost if you fell down, which happened with the other team on four. If we made this one, we’d win.
The drink was butterscotch schnapps, which made it easier at first , because it tasted like candy. Of course, that didn’t help too much once it was in your stomach, rolling and lurching around like a syrupy wave.
I was drunked up.
“Ready, set, go!” screamed a bald kid, and I quickly downed shot number one. It hit the back of my throat like cough syrup. I spun in a counterclockwise circle, reveling in the screaming and shouting around me. They were watching me. They were rooting me on. Me.
I tried to make sure the spin wasn’t too fast so Steve had time to pour and make sure the shot glass was in an easy place for me to grab. When my hand hit the counter again, about three-quarters of the way through the turn, I opened my palm and tried to focus my eyes.
The tan liquid in the shot glass was right where I wanted it. Me and Steve, we were a machine. I swiped it up and swigged it down. I felt the liquor burn my esophagus and leak into my sinuses.
“That’s two,” someone yelled. “I say four and he’s on the floor.” Flaw-ah.
I made a smooth spin, my eyes unfocused until I sensed it was time to swipe up the shot glass again. And there it was, and I swiped it up, and I drank it down, and the clapping was music to my ears.
Four was tougher. My head was spinning right and my feet were spinning left and I had already had four and three shots and that was too much, and my feet forgot how to shuffle, and I slowed down in my turn, and when I was back around to the counter, I saw the shot glass, I reached out for it, but my vision, my perspective were all messed up. It clinked against my hand and spilled over, and I knew I’d lost it. I heard a major coed “Aw!” and for dramatic effect, I collapsed in a heap.
“Rafe rocks!” a voice said, male, I didn’t know whose. The room spun and I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation. My stomach was really, really unhappy with me in a sour way, but the rest of me was all blissed out.
I smiled. Then I felt breathing on my face, and a girl with brownhair in a ponytail was kneeling over me. She put her hand on my head and smoothed my hair.
“You okay, cutie?” she whispered, and I looked into her eyes, which were mega-unfocused, and she leaned down and put her mouth on mine.
Stomach, sour. Lips, on mine. I dry heaved. She sensed it moments before it happened, moments before the contents of my stomach began to rumble, and then I was a geyser, Old Faithful, spewing upchuck up and out.
All those shots. Too much. The girl jumped out of the way, and she had this terrified, horrified expression on her face, and then all the guys started screaming with laughter, and I somehow knew that the joke wasn’t on me. And while I felt bad for the girl, I figured that was an occupational hazard when you kneel down and try to kiss a drunk guy.
Steve took me to the upstairs bathroom and helped me get cleaned up, all the time replaying how awesome it was that I almost ralphed on this chick who was trying to kiss me.
“Dude, that was awesome. You’re all right, Colorado.”
I mumbled an affirmative while I leaned down to the faucet and washed the acid taste out of my mouth. My head was pounding a bit, but it still felt great to be part of this group of guys.
“Yo,
The rules of Spinnah were simple: teams of two, start with one guy downing one shot. Then you’d be up to two, and the other guy had to drink one, spin, and while he was spinning his teammate poured another shot. The first guy had to pick it up without slowing down from his spin, and he couldn’t miss the shot glass or even fumble it a little. Then he’d down the shot in one fluid motion. Any jerkiness and everyone would yell “Bawk!” like it was a baseball game and the guy was a pitcher making an illegal motion. And if you got a balk, your team was out. You also lost if you fell down, which happened with the other team on four. If we made this one, we’d win.
The drink was butterscotch schnapps, which made it easier at first , because it tasted like candy. Of course, that didn’t help too much once it was in your stomach, rolling and lurching around like a syrupy wave.
I was drunked up.
“Ready, set, go!” screamed a bald kid, and I quickly downed shot number one. It hit the back of my throat like cough syrup. I spun in a counterclockwise circle, reveling in the screaming and shouting around me. They were watching me. They were rooting me on. Me.
I tried to make sure the spin wasn’t too fast so Steve had time to pour and make sure the shot glass was in an easy place for me to grab. When my hand hit the counter again, about three-quarters of the way through the turn, I opened my palm and tried to focus my eyes.
The tan liquid in the shot glass was right where I wanted it. Me and Steve, we were a machine. I swiped it up and swigged it down. I felt the liquor burn my esophagus and leak into my sinuses.
“That’s two,” someone yelled. “I say four and he’s on the floor.” Flaw-ah.
I made a smooth spin, my eyes unfocused until I sensed it was time to swipe up the shot glass again. And there it was, and I swiped it up, and I drank it down, and the clapping was music to my ears.
Four was tougher. My head was spinning right and my feet were spinning left and I had already had four and three shots and that was too much, and my feet forgot how to shuffle, and I slowed down in my turn, and when I was back around to the counter, I saw the shot glass, I reached out for it, but my vision, my perspective were all messed up. It clinked against my hand and spilled over, and I knew I’d lost it. I heard a major coed “Aw!” and for dramatic effect, I collapsed in a heap.
“Rafe rocks!” a voice said, male, I didn’t know whose. The room spun and I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation. My stomach was really, really unhappy with me in a sour way, but the rest of me was all blissed out.
I smiled. Then I felt breathing on my face, and a girl with brownhair in a ponytail was kneeling over me. She put her hand on my head and smoothed my hair.
“You okay, cutie?” she whispered, and I looked into her eyes, which were mega-unfocused, and she leaned down and put her mouth on mine.
Stomach, sour. Lips, on mine. I dry heaved. She sensed it moments before it happened, moments before the contents of my stomach began to rumble, and then I was a geyser, Old Faithful, spewing upchuck up and out.
All those shots. Too much. The girl jumped out of the way, and she had this terrified, horrified expression on her face, and then all the guys started screaming with laughter, and I somehow knew that the joke wasn’t on me. And while I felt bad for the girl, I figured that was an occupational hazard when you kneel down and try to kiss a drunk guy.
Steve took me to the upstairs bathroom and helped me get cleaned up, all the time replaying how awesome it was that I almost ralphed on this chick who was trying to kiss me.
“Dude, that was awesome. You’re all right, Colorado.”
I mumbled an affirmative while I leaned down to the faucet and washed the acid taste out of my mouth. My head was pounding a bit, but it still felt great to be part of this group of guys.
“Yo,
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