In a last desperate grasp for collegiate debauchery, many New-England-yuppie-schools' senior classes pack their SUV's full of PBR, Keystone, and mobile-upload-capable-superphones, and book it down to Cape Cod for a week. We rent houses on the beach with our cliques, pay down payments (or don't pay down payments) on various bars, charge a million dollars to get it, and spill cheap beer on each others' Rainbow flip flops. It's a chance to tell the people you've actively never talked to before how cool you always thought they were and a chance to frequent a watering hole that isn't one of the two bars near your suburban-New-England-yuppie-school campus.
My chosen cohort of idiots rented a bus with some other people we knew so that every night we'd get picked up and dropped off by what became known as "The Magic School Bus." The peak of responsibility, no one was down with volunteering as the designated driver and no was down for drunk driving. Go, us. In any case, every group on the bus was a host of one of the bars each night. To be clear, our cohort of idiots were mere acquaintences with the other people on this bus. We liked them and they liked us, but they were all BFF for four years with each other and we were like a ragtag team of weirdos who hopped on to make the individual payments smaller. No offense, us.
Anyway, the group who was hosting would get picked up first (at, like, 8:30) to go to their bar and make sure all was ready. When the bus arrived for everyone else between 9:30-10, our house would start losing their shit. It was always a really special 5 minute period of time that occurred every evening and which I shall cherish until my last breath. I think what made it so precious was that the pitch of the shrieks were so high that I began confusing hangovers for sound-induced migraines. "THE BUS IS HERE!" "I HAVE TO PEE!" "THE BUS IS HERE!" "GET SOME ROADIES!!!" "Where are my shoes?" "Also, the bus is here." "Erin, shut UP!" It was a marathon of skinny, clean-shaven legs, a hundred sets of flailing arms, noises that only 22 year old women can make, and the two men in the group just following me around and yelling their best insult material at my face. Frequent collisions, constant screaming, and unending running (mostly in circles) ensued, and then the 12 of us would aggressively hurtle out of one of the two exits of our home, shoving each other and stumbling across the front lawn while our heels pegged into the Earth. I'm not going to say we didn't fall down. We'd fly onto the bus screaming, out of breath, definitely missing at least one cohort member. The driver also made the mistake of telling us her name was Mrs. G, so we would more than likely be chanting her name at this point in the night.
In contrast, when we got to one of the other 4 houses the bus would stop at, people would meander lackadaisically from the house, really slowly, capture a few planned candid moments, snap some duck-mouthed selfies, careful not to mess up their hair or spill a roadie (which, in all cases other than ours, appeared to be smart cocktails that Don Draper would sip), forget something, go back inside, make a sandwich, 8 more bathroom trips, nap maybe. It would take roughly the same amount of time as our riotous fire-drill routine somehow. Time got confusing quickly.
It took valiant efforts and desperate determination to continue to consume alcohol after day 3. The real fun arrived on day 4, our turn to host the bar. We chose a really nice Irish pub that had three rooms, a free DJ, and a drink called "The Mind Eraser." Done, and done. (0mgZ #college!!!!!!) In the general dehydrated state the 12 of us seemed to perpetually live in, we decided we'd take it back a few steps that night and be mildly responsible as we'd be handling quite a bit of money, considering the $10 cover we were planning to collect at the door. We split up into pairs, drew numbers from a hat, and created 20 minute shifts that would cover two hours at the door. And after that we didn't really care. However, this meant that Mrs. G's Magic School Bus would be arriving at 8:15pm to come get us. Drinking like the bus is coming at 8:15 on day 4 should go on our resumes. I've literally never had to work harder in my whole entire life. Not at any of my one internships. Not at any part-time summer job. Not even when I tried to watch the Twilight movie freshman year. Not ever.
When we arrived, we were completely alone. I forgot to mention I ripped my pants before we got there and didn't change my clothes. Belt-loop, shmelt-shmoot. Three rooms including a giant dance floor and two bars is really big when you're part of a twelve person cohort of idiots occupying the space. Naturally we started dancing and I sang karaoke with no microphone to no song in particular. Something tells me there wasn't any music on yet. Then we started running around like the bus was at the house and our pants were on fire and we had to leave. But actually it because there was a faulty fire alarm going off. Next time you're shooting an action movie and you need a crowd to start acting like mayhem and pandemonium is actually surrounding them, get a bunch of 22 year old women a few drinks and set a fire alarm off. Academy Award? In the bag.
When the fire department showed up, our true colors came out. Some of us left them alone to fondle the circuit box at the back door (Not meant to sound dirty, but I'll take it.), while others attempted to give our two cents. One rambunctious team member, we'll him "Me" (...), told the firefights not worry because Me was related to a firefighter. I think Me's exact words were, "Fear not! If you need help, just ASK me! My dad is retired from the FDNY. So like, I got this." To which they replied, in the politest way possible, to please fuck off. Then came another passionate team member who hovered by the scene, we'll call her "Dobby." Dobby actually reached for the keys to the circuit box, tried to grab them out of the firefighter's hands, assert herself in front of them, and said something to the effect of, "Let me try. Did you try this key yet? I bet it's this key, guys." I'm under the impression she was also told to kindly fuck off.
Once that debacle was settled, people began arriving in search of a dance floor and Mind-Erasers. Our cohort leader, we'll call her "Legolas," ran around and convinced us all to stick close to our door-staffing partners because it was time to Get That Money. When Me's shift started, the 10 o'clock shift, Me and his partner...we'll call him "Mrs. Featherbottom"...Mrs. Featherbottom had a sweet ass plan where Mrs. Featherbottom would take the money or pre-paid tickets and I (I mean... Me) was to draw a simple X on people's hands, signifying that we Got That Money. However, Me became a bit, shall we say, rambunctious? excited? artistic? douchey? In any case, Me was drawing elaborate masterpieces on people's hands, arms, palms, necks, whatever. Mrs. Featherbottom told Me, quite impolitely and without the gentle finesse of the fire department I might add, to actually fuck off. So Me felt bad and went to the bar and got 2 beers for himself and for Mrs. Featherbottom to call it even. But then Me got distracted and forgot about the door and reported to the dance floor and blew everyone away with some truly disconcerting and confusing skinny white girl dance moves. Such a display of idiocy drew an audience including the dictator Legolas who shouted some things into the face of Me that are unrepeatable, scary, and will burn in Me's brain for a long time. I reported back to my post at the door and handed Mrs. Featherbottom a half-full (optimism) beer and gave my sincerest apologies. To which, Mrs. Featherbottom lit up and yelled, "Shift's over, bitches. Let's party."
Please hire me,
Erin
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