In
college, my friend Mitch and I would get stoned, make that trek to a frat party across the quad that seemed to go on and on, and play a fun game we called Back Story. I
realize now that it’s not a very clever name, but we probably thought it was
clever enough, everything being slightly enhanced and all.
Here’s
how it worked. First thing was to wend our way to the bar, grab a plastic cup and
get a beer. Then we’d locate a spot against a wall that would provide a good
vantage point to scope and study the crowd for unsuspecting victims. Of course,
given the hazy circumstances, I don’t remember the specifics of any of the games, but I do remember the gist of them. Let’s say, for instance, we spotted a
nerd.
“See
that guy?” I’d say, “his name’s Elmer.” Elmer was not his real name, of course,
but since he looked to be a forerunner of today’s computer geek – which meant,
at Lafayette College, that he was an engineer major – he looked like an Elmer.
“Before
he went out tonight, he called his mom to ask what he should wear,” Mitch would
say.
“Definitely
an engineer.” And then, partially because we were in a delusion of increased
perception and partially because it was just more fun, we’d add something
loopy. “He’s got a twin sister named Edith – Edith and Elmer…uh…
“Norbertwinckle,”
Mitch would say.
Now,
if you ever got stoned in college you know how important it was to find
occasion to giggle at dumb things. “Norbertwinckle” would have satisfied that
need.
In
terms of the game, whoever would riff the loopiest lines, the whacked-out
clincher that could not (no way!) be topped, would win the round and force the
loser to fetch more beer.
“Yeah,
and Edith and Elmer Norbertwincle are twins. When they were in fourth grade, they had matching
pocket protectors.”
“Nice. You know, just yesterday, I saw Elmer riding across the quad on a brand
new bicycle.”
“Really now?” I’d say with a stupid
grin, meaning that, as long as my reality was suspended, I was going to enjoy suspending
disbelief.
“Really. Rumor has it that one night he was
walking back to his dorm and a beautiful cheerleader rode up to him on that
bicycle. She threw the bike to the ground, took off all her clothes and said, ‘Take
what you want!’ So he took the bike, figuring her clothes wouldn’t fit him.
Really.”
Bang zoom! Mitch did it again.
The interesting thing was that while we
usually began a round by playing into a stereotype, the subsequent lines, admittedly
aided by the cannabinoids, demanded an increased dosage of imagination. The victims
became real. Sort of.
“Oh look, there’s Huxley,” Mitch said
to kick off Round 2. Huxley wore a striped rugby shirt, khakis, topsiders, had blond
hair – you get the picture: Huxly was a prepster.
“I heard Huxley sends his rugby shirts
to the dry cleaner and has the collar starched permanently up.”
“I heard that when he was an infant he
had baby penny loafers.”
“I heard he has a plaid bong.”
“No way – he doesn’t get high.”
“Fine. I heard his family has a summer
house and all the curtains are seersucker.”
Obviously this could go on forever, but
Mitch had a talent for this sort of thing.
“I heard he formed his own glee club that
only sings songs from Frampton Comes Alive,” he’d say.
Yes, it was a cruel game. I am not
proud of it. I even thought twice about admitting to it here, but, hey, this
was college and our maturity was up in smoke. I brought
it up because I’ve been wondering what happened to Mitch, and, as I reminisce, I
think Mitch would make a good planner. He found it fun to put himself in other
people’s shoes; he’d be good at bringing the consumer to the forefront of the
process and our imaginations. And it would be fun to work on a project
together. If I found he wasn’t so good at it, or was just a little rusty, I
think I’d know how to loosen him up. And if that didn’t work out, he could always
go back to the medical profession. Yes, I heard Mitch became a doctor.
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