by Jon Lewallen
When a high school student reaches their junior year, they�re bombarded with brochures and pamphlets from colleges they�ve never heard of. �Come to the College of Seattle (Mississippi)!� they cry. �Why not Spiro Agnew University?� they ask (I think the reasons are obvious). When my time came I weighed the options, visited several campuses, and decided on Tulane University in New Orleans, Louisiana. When I tell people I went to school in New Orleans, they always seem surprised that I�m not hooked up to dialysis. �You must have had fun. I�ll bet it gets crazy down there.� Well, yes and no. New Orleans is a great city, and there�s plenty of stuff to do if you don�t feel like drinking (or studying). But I also know that they�re right. It does get crazy down there.
In New Orleans there are two major holidays: Mardi Gras in the spring, and Halloween in the fall. Everyone gets dressed up and heads downtown for Halloween, and for college freshmen who have only lived there for about a month, it�s an excuse to get everyone from your floor together and get to know each other as real people, as not just as neighbors but as sexy angels and pimps. My freshman year was no exception, and the group I went out with included myself, who decided his Dr. John costume should consist of a long-sleeved shirt and fedora, my roommate Paul, who was dressed as himself only drunker, and our neighbors Peaches and Tater. Herewith, an explanation:
I really hate people who give themselves nicknames. It�s probably the lamest thing you can do outside of cheering at a concert because the lyrics mentioned weed. And my freshman year, this happened twice. The first time, I was with a guy who, in a span of about three minutes, went from introducing himself as �hi, I�m Mike� to, �hi, I�m Mike, but my friends call me Cougar.� (Yes, Cougar. And no one had ever called him that.) The second time happened when Neighbor 1 found out Neighbor 2 was from Idaho, and started calling him Tater. Then, in an effort to be less obnoxious (but failing), Neighbor 1 called himself Peaches since he was from Georgia. So, Peaches and Tater. (I�m using their stupid nicknames so I don�t use their real ones. But I am using Paul�s real name, because I can never think of good aliases. Everyone ends up being called �Eric.�) Back to the story!
For Halloween that year, �Tater� had a brilliant idea for a costume. It�s a thing that you put around your waist with an old lady�s head and torso sticking out of the front, and her legs parallel to yours, so it looks like your having sex with a granny. Maybe you�ve seen it. When out little group gets down to the French Quarter, it becomes hard to stay together (not uncommon), so we lose Paul and Tater. Then, since I don�t like the guy, I eventually �lose� Peaches.
CUT TO: Later that evening. I�m taking the streetcar back to campus, and Paul sits a few benches in front of me making out with a girl. He�ll eventually have to get off the streetcar early to vomit then walk back to campus where he�ll call his girlfriend in Atlanta at three in the morning, waking her up. Did I mention that he used one of those internet phone systems, only he didn�t have headphones so I got to hear the entire conversation? I think I just did. One person accounted for.
CUT TO: Slightly later that evening. Sitting in my room, Peaches comes in, drunk. He says something to me. Whatever. I think I was watching Simpsons episodes on my computer or something. Anyway, two people accounted for.
Time passes. It�s now close to three in the morning (Paul is on the internet-phone). Peaches bursts in. �Have any of you guys seen Tater?�
�No.�
�No.�
�Paul, weren�t you with him?�
�We got split up.�
Peaches was worried. Like, oddly worried. �I hope nothing happened to him.� I, however, am (are?) an uncaring monster. �I�m sure he�s fine.�
Time passes. Tater�s still not home. Peaches is still worried. �Jon, I want you to pray with me.�
�What?�
�Pray with me.�
This was the first time I had seen this guy not be a dick. It was kind of unnerving. So we prayed. Or rather, he did and I kind of did. I don�t remember what he said, but I remember thinking it wasn�t quite real. Was it really necessary? He�d be fine, right? Tater�s a smart guy. He can probably handle himself (although the old-lady-sex-costume thing doesn�t really bode well). We went to sleep.
The next morning, 10 o�clock or so, who walks in the door but Tater, freshly scrubbed, clean clothes, sans granny. And he proceeded to tell us of his adventures. How he ended up alone, drunk and with a stuffed woman attached to his crotch, on a side street in the Quarter. How he began crying, and happened upon a young couple not much older than he. How, through his tears, he asked them for help, having no money or sense of where he was. How they took him to the house they were renting by the lakefront, let him sleep on their couch, and gave him clothes and cab fare back to campus.
I still don�t know what really happened that night.