In my second year at UCLA, I had to take a quarter off because I was unable to enroll in a single class that would have helped me graduate. As I recall, the school’s priority sign-up order went like this –
1. Athletes
2. Minorities
3. People closest to graduating
4. [Three weeks during which the people in the first three categories got to change their minds and still get into good classes]
5. People whose first names began with the letters “A – Z” (excluding the letter “J”)
6. People whose first names began with the letter “J” but whose last names did not end in “-ehrman”
7. Me
So on the day I turned 21 — on what should have been one of the most exciting days in my life — I was living with my mother again, working two part-time jobs at a therapy office and a movie theater. In fact, the highlight of the day was that I got to take a few hours off of the theater job to pick up my first pair of contacts.
The evening rolled around and I had zero plans; so, I put in my lenses for the first time, eyes red from repeatedly doing it wrong, and said –
Josh: “Happy Birthday, contacts. I’m an adult.”
* * *
Around 10:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was my friend Joel –
Joel: “Josh, you dirty Jew, I’m taking you out drinking — and you’re gonna throw the fuck up!”
There’s really only one story necessary to understand Joel. Having joined the sleaziest fraternity at Cal State Fullerton, Joel instantly received the nickname DBJ. Although he tells girls who hear the nickname that it stands for “Dream Boat Joel,” it actually stands for “Dirt Bag Joel,” a title bestowed upon him after he (apparently) screwed three fat chicks in one evening. That’s my friend: King of the Dirt Bags.
I didn’t like this “throw the fuck up” part, but there’s really no arguing with Joel. Whenever I question him, he either becomes aggressive or makes a very good point. Here, he did the latter –
Joel: “Come on, bro. I’m paying, you’re Jewish. Win-win.”
* * *
I was one of those weenies who didn’t actually drink until I turned 21. I was always afraid that the minute I took a sip of Coor’s Light, police would knock down my door and haul me off to a very specific kind of rape jail. On top of which, they’d be like –
Police: “AND the food there sucks.”
Josh: {being dragged away} “Nooooooo!”
So when Joel began buying me drinks, I had no idea how much was “too much.” I had two or three different drinks — at the time, I also didn’t know that mixing drinks was a bad idea — and actually felt fine. It wasn’t until I stood up to go to the next bar that I realized –
Josh: “Whoa, shit. I’m drunk.”
Joel: “You’re not drunk, dude; it’s a buzz. I’ve had twice as many drinks as you have and I feel fine.”
Joel, of course, had an amazing tolerance. He drank every night of his life, treating alcoholism like an Olympic event.
Two bars later, I felt dizzy and nauseous, constantly rubbing my eyes. After doing this for a while, I opened my eyes and realized that everything was blurry. Joel said –
Joel: “Yo, I’m gonna get one more beer and I’ll drink [sic] you home.”
(I assume he meant “drive.”)
– but anyway, I couldn’t see him. I had drunk myself blind!!
Or that’s what I thought. In reality, I had just rubbed the brand new contacts out of my eyes.
Still, unable to see Joel and remembering that he had at least three times as much to drink as I did, I wasn’t going to get in the car with him, so I said –
Josh: “Cool. Sounds like a plan.”
Then I walked out of the bar and ran home.
Four miles into the jog and maybe an hour later (I was making great time, actually), Joel called my cell.
Josh: {panting} “I just…decided…to run home. I don’t…really know…why.”
Joel: “What’s the fuck is the matter with you, pussy?”
Josh: “Okay, yeah. Good seeing you, too.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was back home, throwing up.
I was an adult.
