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My second year of college, I dressed as a pagan god for Halloween. The outfit consisted of a green cow’s mask, a pair of blue sweatpants, a tie-dyed nightgown borrowed from a woman who lived in my dorm, neon yellow running shoes, some sheepskin leggings, and an Indian blanket draped around my neck as some sort of cape. It was an absurd costume, to say the least.
After some preliminary drinks with friends on my floor, I headed out solo to a party being held at a friend’s nearby apartment. I continued to drink for several hours there, and the only thing I recall precisely about the party is that at some point I was dancing on a couch.
At some point late in the night, I decided it was time to walk back to campus. I had a 9:00 a.m. Intro to Logic class, and I was determined not finish the semester without having missed a single class. On my way home, I realized that I was staggering and weaving along the sidewalk; this being a small town with a large university campus nestled in its center, the local police were constantly looking for loaded students to charge with public drunkenness and various related offenses. In a burst of ingenuity, I decided that if I could find a straight line to follow, the odds of making it home in my own custody would be pretty good.
I found a straight line, but it happened to be in the middle of the road. After a minute or so of following the double yellow line, I watched a police car pass by; fifty yards or so later, it abruptly swung around and headed back toward me. Still wearing the cow’s mask and all the rest of it, I took off running and ducked into a neighborhood adjoining my campus. I hopped at least two fences and ran as fast as I could manage, not even bothering to look behind to see if the police were still on my tail. At last, I reached a parking lot, where I figured I’d be able to snag a ride back to my dorm. Still drunk and breathing heavily, I approached a group of people who were just about to get into a truck.
“Please,” I gasped. “If you guys could give me a ride to Hoffman Hall, that would be so cool. The cops are chasing me.”
Someone in the group asked me to repeat the question.
“Hoffman Hall,” I said. “I gotta get home.”
“Dude,” the same person responded. “You’re at Hoffman Hall.”
I turned around, and sure enough, I was right behind my own dorm. I could see my own window, in fact.
“Shit!” I was relieved but humiliated. But I was also drunk, so I stopped caring in the five seconds it took me to lurch toward the back door.
Safely inside, I passed out on the floor of my room. I woke up at 8:30, grabbed a package of cheese crackers and a Diet Coke, and somehow found my way to class on time.
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