No Absinthe--No Vagina Monologues

Senior Year of University; some Wednesday near Valentine's Day

The night isn't looking promising.  My two best friends, Alex and Ice Dogg are heading off with their girlfriends or doing things at the frats where they live. 

"Are you up for some drinking tonight?" I ask Alex as we smoke outside of the cafeteria. 

"Nah, I need to help my girlfriend with a paper," he answers blowing out a cloud of smoke.  I see him clench is fist and jaw, looking ready to explode.  Alex is an aggressive person by nature, a hockey and football player, but he keeps it in check off the ice and off the field.  His frustration is palatable: he's not going to help his girlfriend write her paper; he's going to write the fucking thing for her.  She's a handful, and he's just waiting for the end of our senior year so that he can go to grad school and be rid of her.  Just three more months.

I'm suddenly reminded of a a book by Peter Carroll called Psychonaut.  In it, he says something about loathing being a feeling of despising something from which you cannot remove yourself.  We've all been there, or at one point will be, and Alex is there now.

"Good luck with that," I offer, to which Alex answers with a resigned shrug. 

"You should break up with her on Valentine's Day," Ice Dogg says with a sneer.  "That would be the best present you could give her."
"It would be the best present I could give myself," Alex says.  We don't want to point out the obvious, but it's true. 

"Ice Dogg?  You up for some drinking?" I ask. 

"Ah, Chloe's coming over, and we're goinog to make plans for Valentine's Day.  We're going to make some cocktails with the guys at the frat," he explains.  "Drop by later if you want."

Both Alex and Ice Dogg are members of decent frats that are not too hostile towards outsiders.  I have friends in both, but I'm not a big fan of large crowds.  I bid them farewell, and saunter off to my dorm.  There was some light when I had gone to the cafeteria, but that's been sapped out of the sky.  It's dark as night save the abundant streetlights popping out of the snow. 

Inside my room, I throw a glance at my textbooks and decide firmly against opening them.  Instead, I pick up the phone and my local ally, Big Vin. 

"What up, playa!" he says as more of a greeting than a question. 

"Jack shit," I say.  "Have you finished for the day?"

"Well," he thinks. "I could do some homework."

"I want to get fucked up, man," I say.  "Do you know if there's anything on at the movie theater?"

"I think there's some Harry Potter or something, but I'm not really up for that."

I agree.

"Say, doesn't your university have anything going on tonight?"  he asks.

"I'll check."

"All right, I'll be over in a few minutes."

I hang up the phone and go check out the various signs plastered all over the stairwell, as well as the events column in my school's paper.  Usually, there's some free classical or jazz concert, or even some random stand-up comedy that would go over well under the influence, but there's nothing tonight.  French table.  Spanish Table.  Chess club meeting.  Sort of medivial role playing club that I can't even pronounce.  I sigh, slightly resigned to an uneventful night, but at peace knowing that my fridge is stocked with a motley assortment of Red Dog and Miller High Life.  There's even a plastic handle of Gordon's vodka hiding behind a curtain on my windowsill, in case of absolute fucking emergency. 

I wander outside to the backsteps, taking only one Camel with me.  The freshmen in my dorm are useless at budgeting their money, so they always have to bum cigarettes, and my aversion to their imploring hands and sad eyes borders on blind hatred and violent disgust.  I check my mail first, and find a slip indicating that I have a package waiting for me.  I make a mental note that I have to pick it up when the front desk opens, and throw a chunk of junk mail away.  As the random pamphlets spiral into the recycling bin, I catch a rather strange question on one of them:

Are you a breeder?

"What the fuck?" I say, and stoop to pick it up.  I've expected to find info on animal husbandry or at least livestock, but not this.  No, this is information for parents, more specifically mothers.  Something about not calling themselves "mothers" or "fathers," for those are the verbal names which the bourgoisie have given to limit the potential of free human beings.  To adopt those names would mean a specific role in society, so one must refer to those who reproduce as breeders...

Clearly I need more alcohol to understand this concept, so I stuff the pamphlet in my back pocket  and make a mental note to ask Alex's girlfriend if she is a breeder.  Hell, I should probably ask Ice Dogg, Vin, and Alex as well.  And myself.  Shit, I could be a breeder myself, without even knowing it.  Knowledge is power, or so they say.

Vin's car swerves into the parking lot, Led Zepplin blasting inside it.  It nearly slams into a car with D.C. plates.  I notice that one of its tail lights is out, which is yet another insult to Vin's tank.  Later, a wheel will come off while driving it, and a car battery will explode in that backseat, but those things are a ways off.  A few dents in the armor are nothing to concern Vin. 

Vin lets out a war cry as he emerges and holds a case of something over his head.  It could be beer or box wine.  Like Alex and myself, Vin's tastes in liquor do not discriminate.  He always picks the right tool for the job and knows when any tool will do.

Vin lights up a cigarette as well.  "So what's on tonight here?" he asks. 

"Nothing, man," I say. 

"No classical concerts or anything?"

"Nothing," I say and then remember something.

We retreat to my soundproof suite and crack open the beer.  "Actually, there's the Vagina Monologues."

"The Vagina Monologues?" he spits, as though he has tasted something foul.  "Are you feeling all right there, warchief?"

Truth is, there's some hooknosed blonde girl I like involved in it.  "I think that we should try to get in.  Show that the men on campus are represented."

Vin shrugs.  "It's free, though, right?"

"No, it's five bucks."

"Five bucks?  Five fucking bucks?" Vin looks like I've thrown boiling water on him.  "To see that shit?"

"Well, I guess there are girls that call each other 'cunt' in it.  You know, like communists call each other 'comrade.'  And we could find out what the Coochie Snorcher is."

"The fuck is that, man?  I'd have to be really drunk," Vin says.  "And I'm not paying.  No way."

"I'll tell them I'm a journalist with the Knoxville Times, they might let us in for free."

"Nah, that'll never work.  They know who you are."

"You know what we need?" I offer out of nowhere.  "We need some absinthe.  It's the only way we'll comprehend the Vagina Monologues."

"Isn't that illegal?"  Vin asks.

"We can find out.  Let's go to the liquor store.  Maybe we can find something else to do on the way," I offer. 

"All right, let's go!"

We pile into Vin's car and roar out of the parking lot, narrowly missing some dorks bundled in winter clothing as we head towards O'Hoolihan's liquor store on the other side of town.  Vin lets out another war cry as he punches the accelerator, probably trying to spray the biology students with snow.  The quest for absinthe has given our lives coviction and meaning.

The liquor store, though having every concievable brand of cheap alcohol except my preferred Night Train and Thunderbird, is gracious in offering me some Mad Dog 20/20, the elixer of comprehensive intoxication and malignant hangovers.  I grumble about paying a dollar more than at the mega-supermarket on the edge of town: I should be able to get this stuff for $2.47 a bottle. 

"Have you got any absinthe?" I ask the burly asshole at the counter. 

"Say what?" he replies rolling his eyes. 

"Absinthe, the green stuff.  Wormwood," I say.  "We need it for the Vagina Monologues." 

"Not here, buddy.  Never heard of that stuff."

Vin is of no help, as he is outside, smoking another cigarette and talking on his cellphone.  Even sober, I often find myself at a loss to express myself. Vin is far more convincing, and could much better convey the message of our urgency upon this fateful night.  But alas...

"Do you think anywhere else has it?"

The guy sighs.  "We've got the best selection in the area.  I highly doubt it."

I walk out, incensed.  It's the condescending tone in his voice and his choice of adjectives and adverbs.  To call oneself a proper liquor store, yet to lack the cornerstone of booze, Night Train and Thunderbird, is to turn your nose at the proletarian masses of gutterbound stewbums and destitute college students!  And he didn't even have the decency to try to understand how important our charge is. 

I sit down in the car.  "Rotten bastard says they have the best selection," I grumble.  I notice something in my back pocket and pull out the pamphlet.  "I didn't even find out if he was a breeder."

"What are you talking about?" Vin asks. 

I hold up the pamphlet.  "Are you a breeder, Vin?  This pamphlet tells it all," I say and paraphrase what I have somewhat gathered from its contents. 

Vin snatches the pamphlet from my hands.  "Get that shit, man, it'll rot your brain," he growls, and throws it out the window. 

The mega-supermarket is mellow tonight, so we get through the liquor store quickly.  No absinthe, either, but at least they know what it is.  A grungy shelf stocker informs me that it is, in fact, illegal.  He understands, at least. 

The cashier girl's cheery smile brings a brief ray of joy to my life as she scans a bottle of Night Train and a bottle of Hungarian Bull's Blood wine. "Find everything all right?" she asks, obviously starved for conversation on this boring night.  Perhaps she thinks that Vin and I could offer her some entertainment. 

"Yeah, but you don't have any absinthe," I add, thrusting my money over. 

"Oh, that's too bad," she smiles dumbly.  She's in her early 20's, like Vin and I, but she's certainly on a different path.  Her teeth speak of poor dental hygiene and a steady diet of Wendy's and Taco Bell.  There's a little, poorly tattooed heart on her hand and some cheap jewelery on her wrist.  Perhaps she's already a breeder...but I can't deign to ask.

We drive back to campus, passing the concert hall where the Vagina Monologues are taking place.  I feel a pang of sadness, knowing that the hooknosed blonde girl is behind those doors at that moment, possibly explaining once and for all what the Coochie Snorcher is. 

"Too late for your shitty play, man," Vin says with a laugh.

"Well, there'd be no point in going without absinthe," I say. 

Back at my dorm room, we make a decent dent in the booze before 9:00 rolls around.  Finally, I collect my package from the girl who is managing the front desk.  "Say, do you know what a Coochie Snorcher is?" I ask. 

"A coo-chie snor-cher?" she asks, carefully pronouncing each syllable. "Never heard of it."

"So that's not a Chinese word?" I ask, remembering that this girl studies Chinese.

"Maybe it's German or something," she says.  "You should ask one of the German girls."

My package turns out to be Klaus Schultze's Blackdance, which turns out to be my favourite of his work, but I cannot listen to it in the present envirnment, so I throw on the Cars' Heartbeat City.  I bet if Ric Ocasek knew what a Coochie Snorcher was, he would have made a song about it.  "Oh, oh, C-c-coochie Snorcher," he'd sing.  In fact, it sounds like some sort of lingo maybe they'd think up.  But I can't face going through their whole discography tonight to find reference to a Coochie Snorcher. 

"I'm kind of hungry, man," Vin says.

The Chinese restaurant down the street is closed now, and the only thing available is pizza (which will attract hordes of broke ass freshmen) or overpriced sandwiches from Subway.  "Let's go to the student center.  They've got a grill there, and the food's not half bad."

We wander to the other side of campus, to the student center.  It is deserted apart from a cluster of nerds studying for what appears to be some mathematic sorcery.  I get some mozzzarella sticks and cheese curds, Vin gets a burger.  My friend Jamal, from Pakistan, is manning the register tonight. 

"So...what are you guys doing, tonight?" he says in his methodical delivery. 

"Not much.  We wanted to go to the Vagina Monologues, but we couldn't find any absinthe," I explain. 

"Oh," he says sympathetically, but I can see he cannot possibly understand. 

"Say, do you know what a Coochie Snorcher is, Jamal?" I ask. 

"Nooo..." his voice trails off. 

"So it's not an Urdu word?"

"Nooo..."

"Well, then are you a breeder?" I ask. 

"Like with horses?"

"Nevermind," I wave my hand.  My mozzie sticks are beginning to coagulate.  "Khoda khafez, buddy!"

"Later, duuude," Jamal waves. 

We pass by a few other people on our way back to the dorm.  I ask a Latvian girl if she is a breeder, but she stares at me as if I were crazy, and confirms that "Coochie Snorcher" is not a Latvian phenomenon.

There are three messages on my voicemail: two from my crazy friend from Chicago and one from Alex.  I ignore the first two, as I can only understand mutterings about some fucking credit cards and zero percent financing, so I call Alex back. 

"Yo, I'm done with the paper," Alex says. 

"I thought you'd be busy all night."

"That's what she thought.  I did the whole fucking thing in 2 hours, if you can believe that."

"That's incredible."

"Not really, but it would have taken her the whole goddamn night if she had done it herself."

Alex shows up five minutes later and makes a beeline for the fridge.  He looks more frustrated than before.  "If she calls, I'm not here," he says.  I nod in agreement. 

"Dude, are you a breeder?"
"What?" Alex asks.  "What the fuck kind of question is that?"

I paraphrase the idea again, which draws gales of laughter from him.  We go out and find another one of those pamphlets, just to try to make sense of it.  We fail, and decide that we need still more alcohol.  Vin leaves, leaving us to seek more company.  So we call my Chicago friend, who is in a manic fury as usual. 

"HEY MAN I JUST GOT THIS NEW CELLPHONE CREDIT CARDS ZERO PERCENT FINANCING BURGERKING MCDONALDS CHICAGO BULLS RULE MAN WOOOOOOOOO!" he screams as soon as he picks up the phone. 

"Dude, are you a breeder?"

"Whaaat?"
"Answer me one thing, one goddamn question, you fucking heathen--"
"I'm a Christian!"

"TELL ME WHAT A COOCHIE SNORCHER IS, MOTHERFUCKER!"

"You guys are weird..."

"I won't talk to you again until you find us some absinthe in your rotten city!"

I slam the phone down, finding no more use for my Chicago liaison.

The night progresses into watching part of Terminator before Ice Dogg shows up, very drunk, sometime after midnight.  Being that Alex is in a far worse state, Ice Dogg promises to get Alex back across campus.  As soon as they're gone, the phone rings. 

"Oh hey, is Alex over at your place?" Alex's girlfriend asks. 

"Nah, he's gone over to the goth house.  Said that he had to find some absinthe," I say. 

"The goth house?  Why the hell would he go to the goth house?"

"Absinthe, that's why."

"Well, I'm looking for him, so if you talk to him, tell him to call me, okay?"

"Of course.  But hey, are you a breeder?"

She pauses. "No, I don't think so."

"How about a Coochie Snorcher?"

"Go to bed, you're drunk."

I hang up the phone and enjoy the silence of my room.  I open both windows to fan out the reek of alcohol and cigarettes, and retire to the back stoop for the last smoke of the night.  But first I check the hallway to make sure there is no other soul, who could possibly spoil my peace.  If one of those wretched freshmen come to me asking for a cigarette, my blood pressure will peak to stroke levels, and sleep will be impossible. 

Outside it's a quiet night.  The venue where the Vagina Monologues took place is now dark.  I imagine my hooknosed blonde asleep somewhere on campus, possibly becoming a breeder, and I feel so incredibly stupid.  Old questions still boggle my mind.

"Hey man, you got a square?" I hear to my left. 

There is one of those shabby ruffians, bundled against the cold, holding a pathetic hand out. 

I hold mine cigarette up.  "Just this one."

"Can I have a square?" he says again, oblivious to what I've just said. 

"Tell you what, if you can tell me what a Coochie Snorcher is or get me some absinthe, I might be able to conjure one up out of the cosmos."

He laughs, nervously, but with a shred of hope.  "A Coochie Snorcher, that's like something you smoke out of, right?  Like a hookah?"

I take a deep drag on the cigarette and slam it into the pavement where it explodes in a shower of sparks. 

"You sad fool," I say, and walk inside to ponder the Coochie Snorcher and its mysteries on this sleepless night