The Legend of the Demon Wop
Senior Year, late April/early May
For every man, there is an alcohol that brings back fond memories. And on the other hand, there is always at least one that makes the mind recoil in abject horror at the mere mention of the name. These are the yin and the yang of alcoholism.
Tequila, in spite of some bad hangovers and an assortment of horrific, possibly self-inflicted wounds, always makes me strangely nostalgic for summer and seafood gumbo. Leinie's Original does just about the same thing, especially when paired with strong stain of good weed. There's a black currant liquor from the Czech Republic and Serbian slivovica that always bring to mind fresh spring days.
Any type of cheap vodka falls into the second category, and I can safely say that they have completely ruined my palate for Milwaukee brand Polish Style pickles. In my nightmares, I can see the consonant clusters of the infernal Polish tongue on the label, and remember how I tried to pronounce them in a drunken stupor, giving myself a splitting headache in the process. Cheap vodka makes me think of passing out in the bushes near my dorm, and vomiting in my laundry basket not once, but twice. I remember with great lucidity picking up that cheap, blue basket, sitting my ass down on Ice Dogg's leopard print couch, and waiting for a great inner tide to hurl forth a foul mix of Caeser salad and finely masticated pickles, all smothered in a vodka and stomach acid reduction.
Three, two, one...blast off!
I must note, however, that there is a third category of alcohols so motley, that they defy such crude labeling of black and white. Hell, these bastards aren't even in the gray zone; they're more like off colours, uncomfortable shades with silly names like salmon or fushia, shit that any real man has no clue what the fuck they are. You can't decide that they're soothing or irritating, a really girly colour, or something you could somehow wear without emasculating yourself. If someone gives you a garment in this colour, it probably sits in the back of your closet, silently being devoured by moths because it makes you feel ill at ease.
This is precisely the place that the demon wop occupies. To this day, I'm not sure that it was such a good idea, nor that was it a bad one. I can say it was the drink of the night, and I will never taste it again, as the precise recipe has been long lost, perhaps thankfully so.
It is a Thursday. Alex's bitchbag girlfriend is off at tennis practice or something, and both of us are really happy about that. Alex shows up at my dorm after I finish my biology class, and we start in with the drinking.
"What's it going to be?" I ask.
"I don't know," Alex says, pondering the situation. "What have you got?"
"Red Dog and Leinie's," I say, looking in the fridge. The frigde can fit a whole cube of Red Dog with no problem, clearly a clever design for the college student. "Some cheap whisky, some mango flavoured rum..."
My eyes glance into the corner. There is a veritable graveyard of rejected beverages, from the merely non-preferred to the downright disgusting. An inch of cheap rum. A half finished handle of Gordon's vodka. Brandy from my failed attempt to make egg nog over the Christmas break. Worse of these is not alcohol, but a twelve pack of O'Hana kiwi strawberry "beverage" that I purchased for $1.99 at the mega mart several months ago. Two cans are missing; one I tried the day I bought it, took two sips, and then chucked. Christ, I couldn't believe it was that bad. A month or so later, drunk off my tits, I repeated the procedure, absolutely certain that nothing non-alcholic could possibly taste that bad. I think I gave up that time after a sip. It has a coating of dust more prominent than the box of Franzia box wine that somehow ended up in my room.
"Mango rum..." Alex thinks. "Shit, let's try that, and some Red Dog."
Alex and I both try a few sips of the rum, but it proves pretty sweet.
"Remember that time that Homeslice poured a Leinie's Original in some box wine?" Alex says. "It tasted like Berry Weiss, didn't it?"
"Yeah, it did," I say. "Let's try mixing this stuff in with the Red Dog."
The result, not surprisingly, is not very delicious. But, unlike the O'Hana kiwi strawberry beverage, it's not undrinkable. We do the only logical thing, and consume it faster, dulling our tastebuds to make the mix more palpable.
"You hungry?" I ask. "The cafeteria should be open by now."
Alex and I saunter over to the cafeteria, well buzzed and in a happy zone of drunkeness, where everything seems nice. The campus seems deserted, and we easily find a table for ourselves. This desolation as well as the setting sun dampens our mood with the somber reflection that our college experience is soon to end; in a month, this cafeteria will be completely empty, and Alex and I will never eat here again.
But, there is something to be happy about.
"So, you're girlfriend's going to Michigan State, right?" I ask.
"Yeah," Alex says, digging into a mountain of taco meat drenched in nacho cheese.
"And you're headed south for grad school?"
"That's the plan."
Alex and I both smile.
"That means that she'll be out of your life permanently. She'll probably get nice and drunk some swell night and end up DP'd by the local hockey team, and confess it all to you in a teary phonecall," I say, my voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper.
Alex thinks for a moment. "I could see that happening."
"Really, it's the best case scenario," I say. "Total closure."
We finish up and head back to the dorm. There are only scattered clusters of freshman wandering around, all subdued and quiet. It's too early for finals, and the nice weather usually renders sheeple more restless, so I'm thoroughly confused. Have I missed something?
Long streaks of sunlight slash diagonally through the deserted lobby of the dorm, amber and stretched from the sun's slouching position in the west. I feel a pang of sadness, that this period in my life is ending. Or it could just be that I need to get more alcohol in my system.
"Don't put on the fucking Cars," Alex says as we enter the room.
"What do you want then?" I ask, glancing through the stacks of CDs on my wardrobe.
"'Enter the Eternal Fire,'" he says. "Or maybe Dissection."
"How about some Judas Priest? Dissection is winter music, anyway."
"Nah, I want to hear Dissection."
Though not my first choice, Dissection is a far better choice, as Bathory's Under Sign of the Black Mark always makes me think of that fateful year of living with Ice Dogg, drinking cheap vodka and puking in my laundry basket. At least Dissection's first CD, The Somberlain is not nearly as icy sounding as their second, Storm of the Light's Bane, which reminds me of the very, very cold winter of 1996, and making out with a farm girl who always smelled and tasted like cow shit and Marlboro Lights.
"What about beverages? We've still got Red Dog, but there's some other assorted beers in here. Some Bud Light...I hate that shit, you can have it," I say. Bud Light, I remember was the preferred beer of that farm girl.
"Why don't we try mixing the Bud Light with that mango rum or vodka, or whatever the fuck it is," Alex says, pointing towards the pitcher I had stolen from the cafeteria my sophomore year.
I pick up the Bud Lights and the mango rum, but pause for a moment to throw a glance at Alex. It is one of those "is this really a good idea?" looks, or possibly my subconscious has put the pieces together and realized that we are on the brink of some terrifying journey, and from this point on there will be absolutely no turning back.
The solution is just as bad as its principal ingredients. A can or two of Red Dog makes it slightly better.
"Box wine, dude," Alex says. "Add the box wine."
In a normal state, I'd say no, especially with Alex's seething hatred of Franzia. But on his encouragement, we gulp down a few cups, and refill the pitcher with Franzia.
"Not bad," I say, to which Alex nods in agreement.
"I think we've discovered perfect synergy," I say.
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Alex says with a disgusted look as Cain and Robocop fight on my miniature television.
"The sum is greater than the parts. All this stuff sucks, but together it's not that bad."
Our Eastern European envoy, Evil shows up a while later.
"You gotta try this stuff," Alex says, handing a cup over to him.
Evil, still sober, stares at it and wrinkles his nose. "What's in this?"
"Just fucking drink it," Alex says, draining his glass. "Hey, we need to fill this up again," he shakes the pitcher.
In goes the inch of rum and two more beers.
"This isn't very good," Evil says.
"Here, then have a beer," I say and give Evil a beer. After the initial beer, Evil starts drinking his portion of the demon wop. We refill our glasses, and that demands that the pitcher be replenished. More beer, some brandy. I hold up the O'Hana kiwi strawberry beverage.
"Is this a good idea?" I ask.
"Put it in!" Alex demands. I comply.
This procedure is repeated several more times. We get through two whole cans of that unholy shit by some miracle. We run out of beer, which means more box wine and some of the Gordon's vodka. My Chicago liasion calls.
"What are you guys doing over there?" he asks, his voice squeaking.
"We're fucking drinking, asshole," Alex yells.
"We're just having some booze. Wop," I explain.
"Wop?" Chicago liasion says. "You guys are weird. Hey, what's 22+14?"
I try adding the numbers, then multiplying and diving the other ones he throws at me. A really shitty idea for trying to balance his budget, which has been devastated by his out of control pizza and soft drink expenditures, because I totally suck at math in a sober state. My head is spinning in under a minute.
"Just use a fucking calculator. Why are you asking me? I'm not a math major!" I explain.
"I know, but just listen...what is 135 times 2?"
I put my hand over the receiver. "Hey, Alex! It's your girlfriend."
"Fuck," he says, and gets up. He takes the phone. "Hello?" he says in a most courteous way.
I have my back turned to him, adding more box wine and vodka to the concoction, when Alex throws the phone across the room and slams his hand into the cradle. "God-fucking-dammit!" he growls, then sets the headset back in the cradle and carefully puts it back on my wardrobe.
"Hey, we've got to mix it up a bit," I say. "I'm getting a bit sick of this box wine and vodka. And I don't want more O'Hana."
I don't think that there is any reply. But there is no protest as I pour in a pot of stale coffee that I abandonned after having overslept my alarm this morning.
Some things don't mix. Caffeine and alcohol are two of them. Not that you shouldn't do it, or that certain situations don't call for their sinister alliance, but as a rule, I have rarely seen anything of worth be produced under stimulants. When you have three twisted idiots, already blind drunk form an awful combination of bargain booze, giving them more energy to consume and concoct further horrific potions is not a good idea. Alex is already on edge, expecting a call from his girlfriend. Evil has been prone to bouts of malevolent rumination since being forced to take some bullshit computer science course under the leadership of a fat fuck who would be better suited playing tuba in a polka band or taking part in a sausage speed eating competition. There is tension that could at any moment explode into violent and/or Satanic intrigue.
This thought briefly crosses my mind, but I find that the coffee doesn't make the wop any less drinkable. We continue the victorious march forward into the core of this hot spring night. My recollections grow hazy. With nothing but vodka and O'hana left, Alex begins pouring straight vodka into the pitcher. (Later, he will tell me that in his stupour he believed it to be pre-made wop mix, as if such a thing actually exists) Ice Dogg joins us. As do some other random people from our sophomore year. A couple of football players, who hesitantly drink some of the demon wop, but prefer their Miller High Life. Evil is the last to leave, retreating, perhaps in sheer terror of the demon wop.
Around midnight, Alex and I are gripped by the hunger, and set off for his frat, where a fully stocked pantry awaits us. Too inebriated to make even scrambled eggs, we stuff handfuls of cereal in our mouths.
"We gotta finish the demon wop!" Alex declares later as we stand out on the porch of his frat, smoking Camels. The lights have been turned on in the quad, and it is lit up quite well. Some girls are playing frisbee with one of Ice Dogg's frat brothers. Their voices and giggles echo playfully in the warm air. We begin the march back to my dorm, intent of conquering the demon wop. But our tranquility is about to end.
"Alex? Where have you been?"
Alex's girlfriend is standing there in the bright lights, a phantom of sourness.
"I've been trying to call you all night!"
"I've been bllllauuuuugh, rah fraggg laaaa gaaah!" Alex yells, and staggers towards her. I have no idea what he's saying.
"We've been drinking," I say.
"And we're still gonna beeeeee drinkaaaargh!" Alex adds, throwing his hand in the air.
"Come on, Alex. I think you better get to bed," the girl says. She doesn't seem pissed, which is good.
"We gotta finish the gaaaaaahdaaaamn demon wop!" Alex shouts.
"See you guys later," I say, and wave goodnight to them. Deep down, I think it's a good idea. More demon wop might actually kill us.
"Demon wop! O'Hana and fucking Gordon's vodka! Draaaaaaaaugh!" Alex shouts.
And there I am left standing. In the middle of the quad on a spring night. I expected to be arrested, or for someone to end up in a fight. Maybe with Evil throwing dog shit at his professor's office window, or at least Alex attacking the recycling bins. But no, nothing. It's anticlimatic. I'm reminded of the ending of Monty Python's Holy Grail, perhaps by one of the prolific rabbits that bounds across the quad.
Just the end of a crazy night. One of many, but with no logical successor or precedent
