Every May, some University of San Francisco senior coordinate a bar stumble to celebrate the conclusion of one hundred and sity thousand dollars and four years of boobs, booze, and SparkNotes. As sophomores, my friends and I stalked our senior friends down the Geary Street Senior Stumble. Our traditional going-out strategy: the more you pre-gamed at home, the less money you spent out. This generally worked, unless you blacked out and forgot the taste of alcohol and the value of money. My girls KT, Bizzle, and I walked to Geary and added our intoxication to the thousands of college students tinkerbelling down the street. When we asked Einstein what bar we were supposed to be at, he checked his watch and pointed to the back of his shirt.
"It's a little after nine, so check the shirt," Einstein instructed.
A senior stumble map and timetable boomed across the shirt's back. From two in the afternoon until two in the morning stood the names of six bars in two-hour increments. The map comprised a circle with the name of a bar and peak hours of libation. A dotted line marked the direction to the next bar and the following two-hour segment. When we asked who paid to have the shirts made, the answer was, Jesus. Ten at night, and we needed to be two blocks down the street at Blarney Stone. As we thanked Einstein and turned away, my bladder bitch-slapped my brain and logic. I announced to KT and Bizzle that I couldn't hold it and was going to piss in the planter box in front of us. Geary is a busy street. People walked by, cars passed. Everyone needs to see a little ass every now and then, even id there is a stream of urine in the image. I dropped my jeans and leaned back, my cooter over the box. KT screamed, "Sympathy beer pee," and squatted next to me. Within seconds, Bizzle had joined us. The three of us crouched in a Quasimodo urination line.
A cop car rolled up. Two cops vaulted out like they had just pounded three Red Bulls each. Bizzle whacked her jeans up to her waist and sprinted down the sidewalk. Giant Asian Cop dashed after her. The waist of Bizzle's pants hit her ankles. She waddled three more steps. To avoid tripping on herself, she halted, hands in air, repeating, "I'm sorry Sir, I'm sorry Sir," and shuffled back. She joined KT, Mexican Midget Cop, and me two feet from the planter box with her jeans still around her ankles. The policemen requested our identification. My underage inebriated mind still included functioning faculties, and I handed them my college ID, no birthday. They glanced at it as rapidly as I would a three-inch penis, and handed my ID back. KT and Bizzle surrendered their fake ID's. Looking from KT to her fake ID, Giant Asian asked what her name was. Giant Asian had braces.
"Caroline," KT replied.
"No, it's not."
"Oh. My middle name's Caroline," she replied.
"No, it's not," Giant Asian repeated.
"Oh. My friends call me Caroline."
"No they don't."
Giant Asian looked to me and asked her name. Her fake ID name could be Kramer, for all I know.
"I just call her K," I shrugged and offered the cops my sober eyes. KT later referred to my sober face as my fucktard face.
Mexican Midget glanced at Bizzle.
"When's your birthday?" he asked.
Bizzle paused. "Mumble mumble, nineteen-eighty-two."
"One more time?"
"Mumble mumble nineteen-eighty-two," stress on eighty-two.
Giant Aisan scrutinized Mexican Midget as if he were judging a pygmy contest and Mexican Midget was a contestant.
"So, let's get this straight," Giant Asian said, rocking from his heels to his toes with both thumbs tucked into his fantastic cop belt. "We can ticket you for drunk in public, underage drinking, identity theft, and indecent exposure, among other offenses. We have to write you up for at least one transgression."
Tears rocket launched out of Bizzle's eyes. She prostrated herself on the pavement and crawled towards Giant Asian and Mexican Midget like a drunken hooker on repeat, "Please don't arrest us. Please don't arrest us. Please don't arrest us." She crawled through a urine stream that had leaked from the planter box. When Bizzle's nose collided with cop boots, she pulled herself to a standing position by grasping handful after handful of Giant Asian's pants.
"We play soccer here and our coach would kill kill us kill us," Bizzle continued, talking as coherently as if her tongue was swollen. She didn't play on our soccer team. "We're just going right there to Blarney Stone, just right there."
"We can't just let you off with nothing," Mexican Midget announced.
"You girls are breaking too many laws," Giant Asian affirmed.
Bizzle added moaning and hyperventilating to her exhibition. KT wobbled to Mexican Midget, snatched his shocked body into a hug, and kissed his cheek.
"Please just let us go," KT went for the sexy whisper. What emitted was a shriek. I couldn't tell if Mexican Midget stiffened because of a hard-on or his eardrums.
Giant Asian returned the fake licenses and told us to go to the next bar. KT and I crutched Bizzle to the Blarney. After swaying sitting in a chair against a wall for four minutes, two of our friends escorted her home.
Three hours and legions of drinks later, KT and I drunk munchied ourselves to a grocery store. KT bought seven bags of food on her dad's credit card. "It's for emergencies only. This qualifies as an emergency, right?" she asked. "Yes."
As we exited, KT bolted to a police car and rampaged into the backseat, chips and cookies ricocheting off the windows. I soldier-marched to the door and demanded to know what she was doing.
"The police are going to give us a ride home," she exclaimed and clapped her hands like a three-year-old after seeing someone fall over.
"Um. What. Have you asked them?"
"No, not yet. Officers, can you please give us a ride home?"
The policemen were Giant Asian and Mexican Midget.
The police car halted in front of KT's apartment.
"Is she okay?" Mexican Midget asked, and pointed out the window. Our friend Hunter laid passed-out spread-eagle on the front steps to the apartment, her mouth open and one hand's fingertips on the top step.
"We actually live three houses down," KT said.
