Adi Alsaid - Let's Get Lost

Scott broke off from the group and headed toward the shed, then flicked on the generator, and the lights came on. The lights were about knee high, set up around the perimeter of the field and pointing inward so that the entire area, about the size of a basketball court, was lit up as brightly as a supermarket parking lot. There were random items scattered about everywhere, making the place look like something between a junkyard and a garage sale: twin leather recliners, a glass coffee table, an assortment of patio furniture in various states of disrepair. A large parasol was staked into the ground, a cabinet full of red plastic cups, a huge stuffed version of Rafiki from The Lion King . Toward one end of the field was a children’s prefab playset, its swings replaced by tires. What must have once been just a pleasant, secluded meadow had since been turned into an elaborate Drunkball playing field.

Richie and Scott, after ogling Leila’s body in the new light for a few seconds, raced out to lay claim to the leather recliners, Richie losing a couple of his beer cans on the way. They wrestled for the one recliner that actually reclined. When Scott won the battle, Richie went back to collect his fallen beers, then pulled an MP3 player and some speakers out of the backpack he was carrying and leaned down to plug them into an extension cord that ran from the shed.

“Wow, this is pretty nifty,” Leila said, her hands on her hips, a slight shiver to her bottom lip. Hudson felt like pulling her close to keep her warm. “I didn’t imagine there’d be lights.”

“There didn’t use to be,” John said. “It was Hudson who got the idea to bring a generator. He set everything up. Even built that shed.”

Leila raised her eyebrows at Hudson. “Did he now?”

“Smart guy, this one. It’s why we keep him around. Made it a lot easier to play Drunkball. We used to lose a lot of dice and Frisbees.”

“Dice and Frisbees? How the hell do you play this game?”

“Come on,” John said, leading them toward the middle of the field. “Did you ever read Calvin and Hobbes , the comic strip?”

“Sure,” Leila said. She was a few steps ahead of Hudson now, closer to John.

“Well, Drunkball is kind of a drunken version of Calvinball,” John said as they approached the patio furniture next to the recliners. Hudson pulled a chair out for Leila and took a seat next to her as John continued. “The main rule of the game is that there are no rules. Or at least, no established rules. That way, we never play the same game twice, and we never get bored with it.”

“And we all get drunk,” Scott offered, already opening another beer.

“Exactly,” John said with a smile. “Now, we realized that, as much fun as that idea is, it usually doesn’t work that great. We couldn’t think of enough fun rules on the spot, and people start losing interest. So we brought in a few different elements to the game to give it some structure. Every round, there has to be a new rule for every element of the game.”

Hudson jumped in. “The elements are: Frisbees, dice, cards, and the obstacle course.” He pointed at the playset. “The opening round—”

“Wait, so there are no balls involved in Drunkball?”

“Not when it’s this group playing,” Richie said, barely able to contain his proud laughter.

“You understand that you’re incriminating yourself, too, right? If you’re saying we as a group have no balls,” Hudson said slowly, exaggerating his hand gestures as if he were trying to explain something to a child. “You’re a part of this group, and you’re admitting to having no balls.”

Richie passed a hand through his beard, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what Hudson had said. “All those things you’re an expert on, I should have known balls was one of them.” Richie high-fived Scott, and they burst into laughter.

“It’s impossible to be condescending to these guys,” Hudson said to Leila. She laughed and took a sip from her beer, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

John went back to explaining. “Well, there’s always the option of balls,” he said, glancing at Scott and Richie to make sure they wouldn’t have another giggling fit, which they did. “There’s the option of anything, really. As long as it’s a fun rule that everyone agrees on, any player can introduce something new. The elements are just there to give us something to lean on.”

“How does someone win?”

“We’re seventeen-year-olds with our own island. We’re already winners,” John said.

Leila laughed again, and Hudson wondered if his friends felt the same way he did at hearing her laugh. If John, at being the one who’d made her laugh, felt the same rush of pride Hudson himself had felt, the same urge to be responsible for her laughter again and again.

“The game usually just kind of dies out when everyone’s drunk,” Hudson said, watching Leila drink from her beer can. It was true what he’d said about not being much of a drinker, but at that particular moment, having a beer with everyone did not sound like the worst thing in the world. He reached for one from the pack that John had set on the table.

“Whoa, what are you doing there?”

“Grabbing a beer.”

John reached across the table and snatched the beer out of his hand. “Of all the nights we play and you never want to drink, you choose the one night before your big interview to join in? Nuh-uh, man. You’re not showing up hungover. Leave the stupid decisions to those two.” He pointed at Scott and Richie, who, for some unfathomable reason, were thumb-wrestling.

“We heard that,” Scott said, not looking away from the battle in front of him.

“You can ref one more time. Tomorrow night, after you’ve kicked that interview’s ass, we can come back here and play another round. We’ll all camp out and crash here. But not tonight.”

“Fine,” Hudson grumbled. “I guess that makes sense.”

Drunkball started with an opening round meant to prepare the players for the game ahead. One player would chug a beer while the other players each rolled one die. They’d add up the rolls until the drinker slammed the beer can upside down on the table; then the next person in line would become the chugger, and they’d repeat. Whoever accumulated the lowest score before his beer was finished would get to choose an element first.

Aside from establishing an order of play and matching up a player with the element he/she would be in charge of making up rules for, the opening round also helped to create an establishing buzz. And it loosened muscles to avoid the risk of strains, sprains, or any other injury that might occur during physical challenges.

As ref, Hudson had the privilege of adding any rule at any time, and he had fun with it, making his friends speak in accents or only be allowed to move via cartwheels. He loved the manifestation of Leila’s enjoyment—how she reached out her hand and gripped his forearm, once pulling herself into his chest and laughing directly over his heart.

“New rule!” Leila shouted, about forty minutes into the game. They were standing near the playset, catching their breath from a physical challenge that involved juggling dice while going through the obstacle course. Her hair was now dry, although her clothes weren’t, her cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol and the running. “Any time one of you three looks anywhere below my neck, you have to chug the rest of your beer.” She paused for dramatic effect, during which Scott lowered his sight to her breasts and drank happily. “And then Hudson gets to slap you.”

“Bullshit!” Scott said. “I didn’t hear the entire rule.”

John looked to Hudson. “Ref, ruling?”

Richie interjected, “Wait, why does he get to check you out?”