On Tuesday and Saturday nights the counselors had a late curfew so they would caravan down the narrow unlit mountain roads to a nearby townie bar named Melanie's. It was, I gathered, a rather dismal place. It had a dartboard, but only two darts, the tears in their feather flights making them only marginally more accurate than throwing small screwdrivers. The only thing on the battered jukebox that worked was the handprinted warning that there were NO REFUNDS!!!!!

But to its credit, it was the only licensed drinking establishment within driving distance of Big Hills. Plus, because the local police chief was co-owner, nobody had to worry about getting busted for being underage, which almost everyone was, or popped for driving under the influence, which almost everyone did.

With the counselors mostly gone and the campers asleep in their bunks the place felt eerie, abandoned, like we were the sober people condemned to walk the earth after the drunken rapture.

On these nights, Yogi and I would have the conversations that defined our friendship. Looking back now, it was really quite extraordinary. We were teenage boys, but we never rhapsodized about anyone's tits, speculated about who was or wasn't a virgin, or played Fuck, Marry, Kill (although, for the record, Booger, Abrams, Iceberg). We pondered heady subjects like extraterrestrial life, the nature of time and the meaning of existence.

I was out of my depth. But I was faking it fairly convincingly. And if Yogi knew I was an intellectual impostor, he didn't let on. He seemed fascinated by what I had to say, deriving new insights from my comments and observations. I wondered then, and I still wonder now, if I really had anything smart to say or if Yogi had just attributed to my words a level of depth that simply wasn't there. 

Either way, I loved those conversations, feeling smart and important in the reflected light of Yogi's brilliance.

This particular Tuesday night started off as more of the same. Yogi, who had always been captivated by the nexus between science and spirituality, was talking about how the interconnectedness implied by what physicists called "spooky action at a distance" bolstered the Buddhist concept of a moral universe. 

Yogi was a firm believer in a moral universe, but I was not. I had lived in the universe for sixteen years and honestly, I wasn't a fan.

As Yogi expounded on his theory, Kareem and Cheese walked by, carrying brown paper grocery bags.

"No one cares about that, Yogi," Kareem said good-naturedly. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Yogi asked.

"The Lounge."

"For what?"

"You'll see," Kareem replied with a cryptic smile.

We started to walk with them when Cheese put a hand on my chest. "Who said you could come?"

I froze, unsure. Kareem gave Cheese a look that bordered on annoyance and then motioned with his head that I should join them.

The Lounge was an unventilated room with bare wood-paneled walls on the second floor of Herbert Hall. A twelve-inch black-and-white TV sat upon a battered antique sewing table. In lieu of chairs there were large, lumpy, stained floor pillows which appeared to never have been washed.

We were joined by the waitresses and we soon learned what the fuss was about. Tired of being left out of the alcoholic fun, Kareem had taken matters into his own hands and scored a few bottles of Yukon Jack - a 100-proof liqueur made of whiskey and honey - and some six-packs of room-temperature off-brand lemon-lime soda. The intention was to make a bastardized version of 7-and-7's.

Unless you count a few sips of Manischewitz, a cloyingly sweet kosher wine that they served at temple on Friday nights along with sponge cake and coffee, I had never tried alcohol. I held a dim view of intoxicants in general, believing them to be the refuge of the weak-willed and uninteresting.

I prided myself on my imperviousness to social pressure, and the entreaties of my peers to join them in their foolish revelry only served to strengthen my resolve. And it certainly helped that Yogi shared my distaste for inebriation. It's easier to assert your individuality if you're not alone.

So instead of murdering our own brain cells, we decided to be smug and clear-headed observers, smirking knowingly at these silly people who were living under the delusion that they were having fun.

For a while we enjoyed blending into the background and sitting in judgment as they ineptly played pool on a warped table with torn felt, cackling hysterically at their artless double entendres.

"You have to get the ball into the hole," Booger said with a salacious grin, which made absolutely no sense as a double entendre. That's how pool works, but not sex. 

Attempting to correct her error, Cheese slurred, "No, you have to get the stick into the hole!" Which was how sex worked, but not pool. I shook my head. In terms of comedic construction, it was all just a disaster.

And there was the singing. The God-awful singing. Iceberg had brought her boom box and was blasting a mixed tape. "I Want a New Drug" by Huey Lewis  & The News. "99 Luftballoons" by Nena. "Cum On Feel the Noize" by Quiet Riot. All belted out enthusiastically but atonally. 

When "White Lines" by Grandmaster Flash came on, they went out of their minds with excitement.

Little Jack Horner sitting on the corner

With no shoes and clothes

This ain't funny, but he took his money

And sniffed it up his nose

Back when music meant something.

As the night wore on, Yogi tired of mocking our inebriated peers. He announced that he was going back to the bunk. I decided to stay and continue my anthropological observations. Jane Goodall among the shit-faced chimps. And my main observation was this: the illusion of fun looks an awful lot like actual fun. Not that I was prepared to admit it, but I found myself a little envious of these idiots.

Kareem sensed my mood shift and held up a two-thirds empty bottle of Yukon Jack to me invitingly. I shook my head no.

"Oh, come on," Kareem prodded. "Quit being such a pussy."

"Fine," I said peevishly, like I was doing him a favor. "One."

He poured Yukon Jack and soda, in roughly equal amounts, into a red plastic cup, stirred it with his index finger and handed it to me. He watched with amusement as I took a tentative sip of the lukewarm liquid. It tasted like carbonated battery acid.

I struggled to maintain my composure, fending off a mutiny by the muscles in my cheeks which were conspiring to pull my face into a disgusted grimace. With the exception of some minor twitching, I am pretty sure I was successful.

"Not bad," I said as casually as I could.

Kareem laughed. "Drink it faster. You won't taste it so much."

I lifted the cup to my lips and tipped my head back, powering down as much as I could as fast as I could. Five long swallows later, I placed the mostly empty cup down and shuddered.

"Atta boy!" Kareem patted me on the back and then joined the others who were screeching along with Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart."

I plopped down on a pillow, waving away the cloud of dust and waiting to feel the alcohol's effect. 

And then it hit me.

Honestly, it is impossible to oversell the significance of that moment. It felt like a revelation, a rebirth. Like everything I thought I knew was a lie. Like I had been trapped in a fitful dream. Like I had been stumbling around in darkness.

But no longer.

Vayomer Elohim yehi-or vayehi-or

Then God said, let there be light!  And there was light!

Dramatic, I know. But for the first time in my life, I truly felt like me. At least, that's how I remember it.

Then next thing I remember - and I know it couldn't have possibly happened this way - was that I was suddenly surrounded by adoring women. Booger had materialized on my left, The Abrams Tank on my right, and in front of me, Iceberg. They were all smiles, finding me - that's right, me! - irresistibly charming.

Yes, obviously, some of it was their own drunken perception, their Yukon Jack goggles, but it was more than that. My social insecurities made me seem cold, my sense of humor biting, my opinions uncompromising. But the alcohol made everything about me softer, kinder, warmer.

I don't remember many specifics of the conversation. I recall Iceberg pitching forward as she laughed, exposing her cleavage. Abrams draping a toned and tanned arm over my shoulder as we swayed back and forth to Phil Collins' "Against All Odds." Booger doing a spit take at some joke I made about The Karate Kid. A double entendre on "wax off," I think.

It all felt absolutely perfect. Until:

"Check it out," said Iceberg, pointing. "It's your girlfriend." She gave the last word a bratty schoolgirl twist.

I made a noise, somewhere between a groan and sigh. Then I turned all the way around to see Emily emerging tentatively from the staircase and looking guardedly around the room. When she saw me there, fraternizing with Fuck, Marry and Kill, she looked hurt. 

Abrams, who still had an arm around my shoulder, now completed a loop with her other arm, hugging me across the chest. 

"Hi, Emily!" Abrams said brightly.

Emily stood there, mute, lost.

"Do you..." I paused, knowing that what I was about to say wouldn't make things better for her. "...want to join us?"

"Yes, do join us, Emily," Iceberg said, for some reason adopting a posh British accent.

"It'll be such fun," Booger added, her British accent so much worse than Iceberg's.

Fighting the urge to run, Emily tried to control her shaking legs.

"I... don't drink," she stammered.

"Of course you don't," eye-rolled Iceberg, her faux British pomposity giving way to Long Island disdain.

Emily stood there for an agonizingly long time, looking at me with beseeching eyes. 

Do something. 

I did nothing.

Emily tilted her head and clenched her jaw insistently, but all I could offer up was a helpless shrug. Finally, she bolted down the stairs and I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Bye, Emily!" Abrams said brightly.

Not long after Emily's ignominious retreat, Abrams and Iceberg decided to call it a night. "This was awesome!" enthused Abrams as she struggled to her feet.

"We definitely have to do this again," agreed Iceberg, who placed her palm on my head to keep her balance.

"Good night, ladies," I said in what I convinced myself was a suave voice.

"Good night, Ruby!" they said in drunken harmony, and off they went, leaning against each other and cackling like crazy people on their way down the steps.

When they were gone, Booger held out the last bottle of Yukon Jack. It was nearly empty. "Split it with you," she offered. I nodded. She took a swallow and shuddered. I took the bottle from her, downed the rest and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Your scabs are almost gone," Booger said, gently running her fingers over the left side of my face.

I nervously glanced around the room.

"It's fine," Booger said with a small chuckle. "He went off to play drunk basketball with Kareem and all them."

"So let me ask you," I said. "What is the appeal?"

She shrugged. "He's good-looking and he's funny." Then her tone took on a steely edge. "But I think he just wants to fuck me." I kept a poker face as she searched my eyes for confirmation.

Inwardly, I was surprised by the starkness of her language and even more by her perceptiveness. Up until this point, I thought she had been thoroughly beguiled by Cheese's moves, but I was gratified to discover that he was as transparent to her as he was to everybody else.

"It's really not my place to say," I demurred. I hated Cheese with every fiber in my body, but I wasn't about to rat him out. Not because I was adhering to some unwritten Guy Code but out of simple self-preservation.

Booger, who was not remotely fooled by my affected neutrality, smiled bitterly. "That's what I thought." She sighed. "Well, I'd better get some sleep." She stood up. I did too and almost fell, that last infusion of alcohol hitting me harder than I expected. Booger instinctively put her hands on my shoulders to help steady me. She laughed. "You OK, Ruby?"

"Yeah, I'm great," I mumbled, embarrassed, and she laughed again. Slowly, she took her hands away. It took some effort, but I was able to stand perfectly still while the floor swayed softly beneath my feet.

"Thanks for the talk," she said.

"Any time."

"It's nice to know that you're not always a jerk," she said warmly and then she hugged me. I hadn't realized that I had ever been a jerk, but her voluminous breasts pressing against my chest made me overlook the backhandedness of her compliment, especially since I had an instant erection.

Unlike with Emily, this one did not go unnoticed.

 "Jesus," Booger said wearily. "You're all the same."