“Ah crap!”, here my virgin companion suddenly exclaimed as he pointed behind us. Back at the check, recuperation the rest of the group was heading off in the opposite direction – meaning we’d run 3 blocks the wrong way.
“Well it could be worse – god only knows what happened to that guy we sent down the -” Tires squealed. The car, which seemed to have appeared out of thin air, groaned to swerve into the left lane. My hasher friend just stood there, in the middle of the street, still barely aware of what was happening. Yet in less than a second, we were back.
“Woooo! Awesome man! Let’s hurry and catch back up!”, he shouted as we ran across the street. Somewhere, perhaps in deep space, I could feel my reasoning self screaming protests at the top of his lungs. ‘Go home! Your drunk! That dude almost died!’ – all nonsense quickly dismissed by a lust for the next beer stop.
“Good afternoon Doctor Worth!”
My english professor from two semesters ago simply nodded at me. He was on a walk with his wife, and she wasn’t exactly what I expected. A shorter woman with long dark hair and an orange shaw that screamed ‘I never grew out of the love generation’. Then again, I’m sure we weren’t quite what she was expecting of his students either – a pack of twenty hyenas under a full moon running towards the cliff.
“Shit! Double blowjob!”, someone towards the front of the group screamed. This meant we’d have to run two check’s back to find the true trail. In frustration, people began shouting, “Double blowjob!” at the top of their lungs as we ran through the quiet high-class southern neighborhood. A father, mother, and two kids working in their yard simply stared back at this horrific spectacle unraveling in front of their home.
“Tuesday is three fingers day! Monday is a wanking day!”, the crowd belted from the back of some university building. Was it the Ford Center? Was it the Alumni building? The school of journalism? I couldn’t really tell, but this loading dock provided all the shelter we needed from University Police as we pounded Kool-Aid vodka shots from the trunk of our Mercedes beer wagon.
For 18 years this traditional meeting of athleticism and alcoholism had inspired generations of students. 18 years of using a log as a beer holster while you tie your shoes. 18 years of excited guys shoving their hand down a girl’s jeans. 18 years of being able to feel your bones, but not your skin.
“Saturday is a hashing day!” The crowd continued to sing as I glanced around the group. Hair was matted against sweaty foreheads. Deodorant had evaporated hours ago. Makeup was virtually gone. This was humanity with no reservations – no tricks. People in their purest form.
“Saturday is a hashing day!” And perhaps that’s all there is.