When Homeslice Comes To Town/The Mystery Of The Broken Soap Dispenser

Spring, Freshman year

My first year of college has been rough on me.  In the opening months, I broke up with my girlfriend of three years, only to find that my university is not full of eager and willing replacements.  Not to mention they're really not anything to write home about, if a poll on the most unattractive college girls in Playboy (or some other men's magazine) is to believed.  I had imagined something akin to the girls in Party Animal: long haired maidens doing aerobics in spandex in front of the dorm.  Instead, I get birkensocks and combat books.  Beurk!

This has left me sexually frustrated, bitter, and insanely thirsty for strong drink. 

Luckily, I met my pair of best friends, Alex and Ice Dogg the first day of uni, and we hit it off immidiately.  Ice Dogg takes out his sexual frustration in the form of heavy drinking and street fighting, whereas Alex just naturally has an innate lust for alcohol.  By February, however, Ice Dogg has been sidelined by a girlfriend.  Whatever.  Good for him.  Alex and I continue our quest for rock bottom. 

I really haven't kept in touch with any of my high school folks.  There was never really much to keep us connected any way.  Except for two of my friends: Homeslice and Kowalski.  Both are unpretentious men who never cared much for education, and have stayed back home.  They're a sorely needed voice of sanity, and since I miss them, I end up inviting them to come visit my lovely campus and instill some reality.  Homeslice is the first to accept the challenge, and drives down one fateful Friday night.

The air feels heavy, almost pregnant with malice, as I see Homeslice's truck roar into the parking lot.  Alex and I are outside smoking, and we see him wander over, a jug of cheap wine over one shoulder, and a case of beer in the other. 

"So this is your new home," he smiles.  "Are there any honies in there?"

"Not unless you're into unshaven armpits," I sigh. 

"And Virginia Woolf," Alex adds. 

"Who?" Homeslice says, thankfully oblivious to existence of the "genius" who blessed our curriculum with the "masterpiece" known as A Room of One's Own.  He has no idea how goddamn lucky he is. 

"Playboy rated us one of the most unfuckable schools in the nation," I say. 

"Oh, that's too bad," Homeslice says, in a most wholesome way, that I find disturbing given the fact that he is anything but wholesome.  He's not nearly as violent as Alex, but Homeslice loves to get rowdy.  He and Alex are going to get along, rough housing and drinking, but I'm sure some innocent bystander around here is not going to get his brand of entertainment when Homeslice throws them to the ground.  I know, I just know, that I'm going to end up hiding one or both of them from campus security tonight. 

We set about drinking as soon as we enter Alex's room.  We've all got the same tastes in music, so on goes some Motorhead, and we descend on the case of Leinie's original like a pack of vultures.  The sun's still out, and it's looking to be a nice night out there. 

"Anything going on around these parts tonight?" Homeslice asks. 

"There's an 80's party tonight," Alex points towards the frat quad.  Ice Dogg should be over there as well, which should make things really interesting, should he meet Homeslice.  Both of those miscreants fucking love Metallica to a degree I find baffling.  Never have I heard anyone defend Load and Reload with such passion, or with such diverse reasons as those two.  (Note: Ice Dogg and Homeslice are also the only humans on the fucking planet who have sat through Metallica's 2003 bomb, St. Anger, and actually like it.  Say what you want about how insane I am, I've got nothing on those two when it comes to musical tastes.)

"The 80's?" Homeslice says, downing his beer and raising his eyebrows.  "I could go for some of that."

Indeed, that's another guilty pleasure Homeslice and I have.  Alex gets it to a degree, as evidenced by the Devo CD's he's got.  Amid Motorhead, Mercyful Fate, and Megadeth, we play "Whip It" several times, working ourselves into an alcoholic frenzy. 

"I gotta take a piss," Homeslice announces.  "Where's the bathroom?"

"Shit, I've got to go too," I say.  "I'll show you the way."

Alex decides he too wants to head down that way, for what purpose, I'm not entirely clear.  I lead the way, hiding my beer can as I pass the residential advisor's open door, and make a beeline for the urinal.  Alex takes up one of the stalls, not wanting to stand next to another man.  I don't notice Homeslice's absence.

For a moment, all is silent, too silent.  One of those ominous moments where you know the good cheer is about to be epically derailed.

I don't hear Homeslice, but I hear the residential advisor roar behind me. 

"WHOSE PROSPY IS THIS?" he yells from the door of the bathroom. 

I turn around to see the residential advisor, Chaz, standing there, his thick, black rimmed glasses, and scrawny frame clad in a wife beater several sizes too large for him.  The archetype of all poindexters, but not a bad guy.  The other advisor for our floor is a bit of an obnoxious dolt, but Chaz is all right.  But definitely not badass, and therein lies the problem.

"WHOSE FUCKING PROSPY IS THIS?"

I can see behind him, in the door of his room, Homeslice is standing, beer in hand.  I finish up, not washing my hands and rush into Chaz's room.

"Dude, what the fuck are you doing in here?" I say to Homeslice. 

"You aren't supposed to have alcohol out in the open," Chaz yells.  The little chap's got a pair, but if he keeps up the tough guy act, Homeslice is going to match his aggression and top it. 

Homeslice seems not to hear any of this, and raises the can of beer above his head and pours the remainder into his mouth.  He smashes the empty can onto his forehead in a clear nod to his love of professional wrestling. 

"Is this your prospy?" Chaz demands, pointing at me. 

"He's my friend from home," I explain, and notice Alex coming out of the bathroom.  The look on his face tells me nothing.  He's interested in what's going on, but it could either mean he's going to watch or join Homeslice in fighting with Chaz. 

"Come on, Homeslice, get the fuck out of Chaz's room!" I command, hoping that he's not too drunk to ignore me.  I can see he's eyeing Chaz up, thinking about throwing him out the window or something.  "Get out of here, the bathroom's over there!"

I point across the hall, and Homeslice wanders in.  I smooth things out with Chaz the best I can, assuring him that yes, Homeslice is 21, and no, he's not a prospy.  Homeslice saunters out of the bathroom, grinning.  I keep his attention off Chaz's glare. 

"What the fuck were you doing back there?  Why did you go in Chaz's room and start fighting with him?" I ask.

"Well, why not?" Homeslice asks. 

"He's one of the guys in charge on this floor.  You're lucky he didn't call security," I explain. 

"Well, I just walked by and saw this dork sitting there, and it looked like he needed some adventure in his life," Homeslice says with a smile.  Alex chuckles at this, but I'm still worried Chaz is going to call security. 

"And what the hell was he calling me?  I prostitute?" Homeslice asks. 

"No, a prospy, a prospective student.  Someone who comes here to check the place out before deciding to attend," Alex says, opening a new beer.

"Oh," Homeslice says with a shrug.  As if he'd ever be a student here.  Shit like this would be a nightly occurance until the authorities figured out he cared more about drinking, fighting and chasing women than reading Virginia Woolf and lobbying for feminism. 

Not that Alex is much different from Homeslice, but Alex is a little more controlled.  He can fight with his words when he needs to, whereas Homeslice is pretty trigger happy when it comes to throwing down.  I could imagine Homeslice bodyslamming some freshman girl into the table in the middle of a discussion on the ramifications of the Women's Liberation Movement if he disagreed or didn't understand what she meant.  That would go over real well. 

Things calm down, but we start to get goofy with liquor. 

"What the hell is that jug you've got there?" I asks, indicating the enormous glass vessel of cheap wine. 

"Ah, just some wine.  Want some?" he offers.

I go get my coffee cup and he fills it to the brim.  It's not bad, but very obviously cheap.  Not that I can tell chardonnay from Shiraz, but that's besides the point.  I'm wasted. 

For some reason, Homeslice decides to pour his beer into my mug of wine.  "What did you do that for?  Goddamn it, Homeslice," I curse. 

He takes the mug from me and sips from it.  "Shit, tastes like Berry Weisse," he remarks, referring to Leinenkugel's new berry flavoured beer.  We decide to have a few more mugs of the concoction before heading to the bathroom for one last piss before going to the 80's party. 

I have my back turned as I face the urinal.  Once again, I can feel that heavy silence, and feel a twitch in my back which happens when I sense something amiss.  I hear a roar and a crash, and see something metal fly past me and slam into the other urinal before clattering to the floor.  In my drunken state, I finish up before turning around to investigate. 

There on the floor, lies the heavy, metal soap dispenser, bleeding out a viscous flood of pearl coloured soap.  I look up to the spot it previously occupied on the wall, where a sad metal clasp lies empty.  I look at Alex, who is standing with clenched fists and an evil gaze, and try to figure out how he swung his leg over the sinks and knocked it off the wall.  He's not too tall, and certainly devoid of any yoga-esque flexibility

"Motherfucker!" I growl, picking up the soap dispenser.  I manage to reaffix it to the wall, even though almost all of the soap has leaked out onto the floor.  "You just want to keep making this night more interesting, don't you?"

Alex does not reply, he just smirks. 

Things get further complicated when, on the way down the flights of stairs, Alex takes a spill.  Not really one for accepting help, he instead flips us off and hurls a stream of abuse in our direction.  It's only a smidge past 10 at the point, so the night technically hasn't even started yet, and we're already falling down drunk.

We wander over to one of the frat houses, where cheesy 80's music is blasting.  Homeslice briefly meets Ice Dogg, but the two don't hit it off, as Ice Dogg is busy being a gentleman with his lady. 

"Fucking dancing, goddamn it, I fucking knew it!" Alex grits his teeth, looking at the teeming mass of sweaty body swinging to Madonna's "La Isla Bonita."  "I fucking hate dancing!"

Indeed, dancing is the bane of all of our existences, and the only way it seems to make any sort of romantic overtures to these females.  Stupidly, I blame my failure with women on my hatred of dancing, rather than the fact that I'm a socially retarded, weird son of a bitch who smokes and drinks waaay too much.  But Homeslice is in his characteristic good mood, the music is cheesy and 80's (fuck, I can almost imagine this place being transformed into a scene from Party Animal...), and the wine has increased my blood sugar to happy-happy-joy-joy levels, so we decide to show these pukes how to cut the rug.

I jump about, doing whatever disco moves I can remember from Saturday Night Fever, horribly butchering them, before degenerating into an even worse version of that Cossack dance where you kick your legs.  I'm too drunk to notice, so I'll find out tomorrow from Ice Dogg that I am actually kicking people while performing this traditional Carpathian jig.  Homeslice is off somewhere, and though I can't see him, I can see people being thrown here and there as he moshes to Duran Duran.  I wonder for a moment if it's appropriate, before I deem it wholly acceptable for an 80's frat party, and slam my ass into two average girls who have trespassed into my comfort zone. 

Eddie Money's "Take Me Home Tonight" comes on over the stereo, which sends Homeslice and I into an absolute rage.  Why do we go nuts?  Why do we like this song so much?  I have no fucking idea, but shit gets crazy.  More moshing ensues from Homeslice, and I continue my disco moves.  We scream, literally scream out the chorus in a voice more suited for death metal than radio rock.  Alex is even dancing, bobbing his hands up and down, chin in his chest, and collapsing backwards into the corner from time to time, from whence people violently repel him back to a standing position. 

Homeslice notices that people are trying to get away from him, and feeling offended that someone would not enjoy his moshing, pulls the belt from his leather jacket and starts whipping them.  The peals of displeasure cut through the music as he meters out punishment on unsuspecting partygoers.  Chorus again, death metal shouts.  Moshing, whipping, and cossack dance.  Chorus, death metal shouts.  Moshing, whipping, and disco dancing.  Then it is over.  Eddie Money fades away to...Huey Lewis and the News. 

I knew that we were going to be treated to something like this, as this was advertised as a Back to the Future themed party of sorts.  Homeslice, being a huge fan of aforementioned trilogy, goes fucking nuclear on the moshing while "Power of Love" plays.  While he knows all the words, and shouts them out, I only know the chorus, which we end up belting out in some morbid harmony:

"Don't need money!--Don't need fame!--Don't need no credit card!--TO RIDE THIS FUCKING TRAIN!"

In that slow breakdown in the center, I see Homeslice vanish in a swarm of people.  The maelstrom receedes as he pushes his way back out, strong arming people with extreme prejudice.  I don't know how he doesn't get kicked out, or just kicked, but we get through Huey Lewis.  I'm bushed, but Homeslice looks ready to go another 5 rounds. 

"Dude, take care of Alex," Ice Dogg says, coming over to me.  Indeed, Alex is passing out in the corner.  We cannot leave him here, so Homeslice and I escourt him back to the dorm. 

After getting Alex safe and sound back in his bedroom, Homeslice and I head outside for a smoke. 

"Well, should we get back the to party?" I aks him.

"Nah, I think I'll just head home," Homeslice says, possibly sensing he may be unwelcome if he returns to the party.

The next day, I am awakened by a phone call.  It's Chaz.

"Can you come down to my room and talk?" he asks. 

Well, it's only 10AM and I'm up, but shit, couldn't he have had the nuts to just come down and knock on my door?  It's only like thirty feet. 

I step inside, and he closes the door and has me sit down opposite him.  He takes a deep breath.  And here it comes, I'm going to have to explain and apologize for Homeslice's behaviour...

"Did Alex kick the soap dispenser off the wall last night?" he asks. 

What the fuck, this guy's throwing me a curve ball.  Wow, he not only suspects Alex, but suspects that he kicked the dispenser off the wall.  Maybe he's psychic?

"I don't know," I shrug. 

"Did Alex kick the soap dispenser off the wall last night?" he asks again. 

"I don't know," I say.  I did have my back turned when he did it, so I didn't see it.  Who knows?  Maybe aliens blew it off the wall with a laser beam?  Or Alex punched it off the wall?  Or the fat guy living next to me who loves Backstreet Boys farted so hard that it knocked it clear off the wall?  I really don't know.

"Did Alex kick the soap dispenser off the wall last night?" Chaz repeats. 

"I don't know," I say, firmer.  "I was totally drunk."

Neither of which is a lie, if you go by my logic. 

"Why don't you go ask Alex?  I bet he'll be up in about four hours."  I smile.

Chaz sighs.  "Did Alex kick the soap dispenser off the wall last night?"

"I don't know.  Go ask him."

Chaz sighs again, gets up and opens the door.  I walk out and go eat brunch. 

Upon returning from brunch, I stop by Alex's place.  He's partially asleep and pretty drunk still, but coherent. 

"Hey, Chaz is asking about you," I begin. 

"Oh yeah, about what?" Alex says with yawn. 

"He was asking about the soap dispenser."

Alex laughes.  "Did you tell him to come down here and ask me?"

"I told him to ask you."

"Good.  Now why hasn't that fucker showed up yet?  Oh, because he's afraid of me."  Alex smiles and laughs evilly, proud of his reputation.

No one asks Alex about the soap dispenser or anything else for that matter, but I am called into the hall director's apartment.  This chick's nickname is "Hot Dog Down a Hallway," due to repeated unfortunate incidents involving her and whole sports teams and frats when she was a student.  She nervously sits opposite me, shifting in her chair.

"So, uh...there was this guy...he threatened Chaz..."

"Yes," I begin.  "There was.  He's my friend.  He's gone now, and he's not coming back."  I think about that.  Maybe next time I could send him her way.  She might get a kick out of that. 

"Well, he...like, you know...he wasn't very nice and...we can't have people drinking alcohol around here."

"Yeah, good, got it.  Alcohol bad, my friend Homeslice bad, I understand.  Can I go now?"

Hot Dog Down a Hallway squirms.  "Well, did Alex kick the soap dispenser off the wall?"

"I don't know," I say and leave. 

In the end, they finally did question Alex about the soap dispenser.  Hot Dog Down a Hallway called him into her suite a week shy of the end of the year and asked directly him after much squirming.  He instantly replied that yes, he had indeed kicked the soap dispenser off the wall, an act which he repeated the next day, and then kicked it into the shower.  The soap on the floor had dried to a sticky crust by Monday, and janitor spent about a dozen buckets of water to get that shit off the floor.  She pointed this out to Alex, trying to elicit sympathy from him for that sorry janitor, but was wholly unsuccessful.  He had to pay $50, but didn't seem to regret it. 

Moral of the story: always cover for your friends.  I could have been a good citizen, and told Chaz what he wanted, but I'm sure now, 15 some years later, I wouldn't be still talking to Chaz, no matter how many times he turned a blind eye to my drinking.  I still talk to Alex and Homeslice, and both are top notch dudes.

Also, it should be noted that Homeslice made it all the way home that night without incident.  I have no idea how, but he arrived home at covered in beer and piss, dead drunk, in the wee hours of the morning.  Not that it should surprise me: he once got hammered at a wedding and ended up in Detroit the next day, without any recollection of how he got there (other than pissing on a big, blue truck), then hitch hiked all the way home.  Without sustaining any injuries, injustices, or troubles with the law.  If that isn't luck, I don't know what is.

I can give you all advice: if you are going to party hard, you should party with Alex and Homeslice.  Then, under no circumstances, will any harm come unto thee, no matter how many laws of decency they break.