THE HATCHLINGS OF FALL ’08: A TALE OF TWO UNIVERSITIES
Chapter Three
by Stewart Berg
The Hatchings of Fall ’08 is the story of two Tacoma-area institutions of higher learning and a group of friends who find themselves at the center of the two schools’ traditional rivalry
Chapter Three: A Celebratory Evening
We like to watch you laughing
-MGMT: “Kids”
You pick the insects off of plants
No time to think of consequences
As discussed, the friends hosted a party that weekend. As also discussed, a PLU contingent would be attending this UPS scene. Not unheard of, of course, this state of shared festivities still retained a bit of notice about it, the schools and their students being, after all, rivals. No issue was foreseen for tonight, however, and it was generally the case that cross-school revelry did much to quash any rivalry.
Corey’s first opened its doors that evening at 9:00. As good hosts, the four who lived in the house, along with the three who nearly did, chose to begin the night on the front porch, that enclosed outer living room that renovation had brought into existence. As a further sign of invitation, the porch’s own outer door was propped open, which, though allowing in night air, permitted the house’s music to waft all the way down to the sidewalk.
By 9:30, the party was far enough along that Aaron and James felt comfortable with retreating to the house’s basement for their night’s first game of pool. Stopping in the kitchen on the way to the basement stairs, James selected two cans of beer from the refrigerator while Aaron first changed the song that was playing throughout the house then turned up its volume. Jasmine, meanwhile, stood from her seat on one of the porch sofas, and she started for the kitchen.
“I’m still up $5.75,” James said. “I’m sure.”
“I’m not even sure how many quarters that is,” Aaron replied.
“Four, eight, twelve, sixteen, twenty, and then the three.”
“No one wants to listen to this,” Jasmine interrupted, the words slightly preceding her into the kitchen. “Change it. I can tell you guys are just going downstairs, anyway.”
Aaron paused the music, which did, for a moment, change all.
“Come down with us,” he said to Jasmine. “Becky’s sorority friends are just going to take a bunch of shots then go off to Sixth Ave.”
“Come down to just watch you two play?” she asked in reply.
“You can play the winner.”
“You know how bad I am.”
By now, Aaron had begun the broadcasting of a new song that he knew would be agreeable, and he shifted his full attention to Jasmine with a shrug.
“Jam’s a lot better than I am,” he offered. “You can play the loser, instead.”
“Just put it back on the playlist,” Jasmine replied, “since we’re going downstairs.”
“It is.”
“Let me use the bathroom first. I want to go upstairs to change, too.”
By 10:00, Jasmine had nearly joined Aaron and James in the basement. Detained first by a round of vodka shots with those on the porch, she had slipped away during the discussion of another before being held up in the living room by a classmate recently arrived. The fellow student introduced Jasmine to three friends who had come with her, and only by announcing a pressing need for the bathroom was Jasmine able to get away without the taking of further shot.
When she finally did get so far as to reenter the kitchen on her way to the basement, Jasmine realized that she happened to recognize no one in it. This fact, though somewhat alarming during an ordinary party as well as certainly so under ordinary circumstances, caused her to smile, and it seemed to give the life about her a little of the cinematic, with the speaker’s music, then playing MGMT’s “Kids,” acting as soundtrack.
Of those whom Jasmine did not know, the kitchen’s most conspicuous were two female students standing by the sink. At the oldest, they appeared to be sophomores, and one was helping keep dry the other’s hair while she bent over to use the faucet as a chaser for a recent shot. Not far from this pair was a male student pulling open cabinet drawers, and not far from him was another male student pulling glass bottles out of a plastic bag then standing them on the island. The last unknown present, who happened to appear a number of years older than the others, passed Jasmine on his way back into the living room, smiling widely to her as he brushed by.
“Can I help you?” Jasmine asked the searcher of drawers, instantly disliking the sound of her voice, but she nonchalantly walked to the refrigerator as a cover for it; in reply, he glanced her way then, as she passed behind him, turned his head over the other shoulder.
“Do you know where they keep the spoons?” he asked.
“We keep them there.”
Jasmine pointed to the drawer that the other’s hand was ready to next open.
“Sorry,” he said, keeping the drawer closed, and he nodded to his friend at the island. “We’re trying to take shots.”
“And you need a spoon?” Jasmine asked.
Now pulling open the drawer, the male student triumphantly produced the mentioned utensil.
“We do, indeed,” he answered. “We have to build them.”
“‘Build?’” Jasmine asked, and the mockery in her voice drew from him a smile, which caused her to break character and do the same.
“I’ll show you. Do you want one?”
Jasmine made no answer, but she joined the spooned student and his friend at the island. A total of four glass bottles had been placed on the island’s counter, though one of them, which contained only a small amount of rum, was set aside by the spooned student before he clicked a forefinger on each of the other three.
“Grand Marnier, Bailey’s, Kahlua,” he listed.
Jasmine knew each of the names, but she had only ever tasted one of the liquids. The bottle of rum, though set aside, remained within reach, and she gestured to it.
“Is this really too much?” she asked.
“Shot glasses?” the spooned student asked in reply.
This quick exchange of questions occurred through grins, and Jasmine went to a nearby cabinet then returned with three shot glasses.
“So,” the spooned student said once ready, “the first thing we do is pour in the Kahlua by itself.”
The three shot glasses were now slowly filled by the spooned student until each was one-third full of the coffee liqueur. Performed in the manner of a salesman who regards himself as particularly slick, the act caused Jasmine to make a point of rolling her eyes.
“Now,” the spooned student continued, “comes the tricky part. It’s not actually hard, though. We just have to take our spoon here, and then, we angle it into each shot glass so that it’s down as close as possible to the Kahlua. Just like that, and the concave side of the spoon is, as you can see, up, and the spoon’s handle is held against the glass’ rim, just so. We can now carefully pour our Bailey’s into the bowl of the spoon, allowing it to slowly leak atop the Kahlua. See how they’re staying separate?”
During the demonstration, Jasmine folded her arms on the island then leaned forward so that her head was rested atop them, mocking the stance of an inquisitive child. As promised, the cream-colored Bailey’s sat separate atop the brown Kahlua in the shot glass, and the spooned student went about repeating the process for the remaining two glasses.
“When that’s done,” he continued, “we finish it off with our Grand Marnier. We only need a little bit, but it has to stay separate, too, so we do the same special pouring with our spoon, and that’s it.”
The three shot glasses soon each included their final pour, and the spooned student formally offered the best-layered to Jasmine.
“And that,” he concluded, “is a B-52. Any and all tips to your bartender are welcome.”
Jasmine gave the performance a laugh then reciprocated, taking the offering with a grand gesture before holding it up to the light in mock evaluation, and she smiled in at the orange atop cream atop brown.
“Wait for the two of us,” the spooned student said, though he had by now tossed the utensil into the sink.
“I wouldn’t think of not,” Jasmine replied, and the two with her took up their glasses.
The sudden sound of the basement stairs interrupted the three as they began the determination of a toast; at the same time, the house’s music happened to enter the fadeout of a song, which amplified by way of absence the approaching noise, and, as a final element, the steps bore the unmistakable mark of haste, perhaps even of running. The three shot glasses were held poised above the island counter, but the heads for which they were intended quickly turned toward the interruption, each instinctively awaiting its appearance.
It was James who ascended the basement stairs only seconds later. Having made the climb at a run, he took a moment to catch his breath on the landing, and it was not until he had actually entered the kitchen proper that he was aware of those who watched him from its island; in fact, he was in such a hurry that he made his way to the refrigerator and took down a whiskey bottle from atop it before noticing his sister.
“What’s that?” he asked, addressing Jasmine but nodding to the bottle of rum near her. “Is it ours?”
“It’s not,” Jasmine quickly answered, but she stopped short of saying more.
“We brought it,” the spooned student interjected, and he set down his shot glass in order to offer a handshake; in reply, James mechanically shook hands with both of those whom he did not know, but his mind was obviously elsewhere.
“I have to get back down there,” he said, addressing his sister. “It’s my shot, and Aire will start moving balls around, if I let him. I’ve caught him before. I just had to come up really quick because I lost our side bet. I was trying for the 5-ball through the 7, but it was way too hard. Aaron’s winning, but only because I’m going for shots like that. I’m having some of your whiskey.”
Throughout the hurried speech, Jasmine felt the fairly familiar pang of familial embarrassment. Like any siblings, the pair had a close, working-both-ways bond, and, as twins, that connection was all the stronger; however, this greater depth still worked both ways, and it could, therefore, sting all the stronger.
“Thanks for letting us know,” she said.
“Take mine,” the spooned student offered, waving James over to his spot at the island. “Have you ever had a B-52? If not, take it. I need to go find the bathroom, anyway.”
“What’s in it?” James asked, taking the vacated place, and he had the contents listed for him.
“You don’t want it?” Jasmine asked.
“We still have the whole bottles,” the spooned student answered, shrugging in time with a smile. “Can you point me toward the bathroom?”
Jasmine made the direction then watched the spooned student depart back into the party proper. As that unknown turned the corner, James pulled at her arm.
“That one’s yours, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
Then followed the ceremony, albeit in rushed form, of a group shot. The two twins, along with the spooned student’s friend, first raised their glasses for a careful clink before lowering them in order to make a brief, coordinated knock on the countertop; then, they were again raised, though this time to lips, and finally drained. The three layers of alcohol were hardly inside James before he was turned and headed back toward the basement stairs, dragging Jasmine with him. The spooned student’s friend, meanwhile, collected the three shot glasses and carried them to the sink.
“I have to get back down there,” James said, addressing his sister behind him. “You’re coming, right? That shot was really good, by the way.”
“Yeah,” Jasmine answered.
Only a few steps were required to take the siblings to the start of the basement stairs, and these were soon made.
“You can watch my comeback on Aire,” James said, smacking his lips. “What was the shot’s name?”
“A B-52,” Jasmine answered.
“Who were they?”
“The bottles were theirs, so I didn’t ask.”
This last answer was accompanied by a shrug, but it was lost on James, who only had eyes for the stairs. Jasmine, meanwhile, as she shrugged, took her first step down the stairs, and the gesture was therefore, largely lost in her movement.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Continuing Night
