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thehefnerHey hey, folks! Here's my first draft of the very next chapter in THE HEFNER MONOLOGUES, the official start of the book after the prologue I last posted! While I am loathe to spoil the contents of this story, I want to do all I can to entice folks to read this and give me feedback. This story includes:
-Meeting the Rude Mechanicals
-How I managed to piss off the entire drama clique of Washington College in less than a month!
-Meeting Thomas Leo Clancy, son of Tom Clancy the author
-My adventure at the Playboy Mansion and meeting Hef
-My very first experience with alcohol. A lot of alcohol. And dancing.
We are collectively known as the Rude Mechanicals.
I say “we,” but even though by that point I had been a member of their troupe for over two years, even at that point I still felt like an outsider amongst them. You could chalk this up to the fact that I was twenty then, less than a year away from being able to call myself an adult, while not entirely believing it. The Rudes, on the other hand, were the real deals of adulthood, ranging from, oh, let’s say twenty-six, all the way to early forties, generally speaking. These were people with real jobs and real lives, whereas I was still in that suspended ethereal plane between punk childhood and stagnant yuppiedom known as College. A time I was led to believe was a magical period of freedoms to savor, adventures to talk about for years to come, experiences we’d all kinda like to forget, and newer, better friendships that would, or at least should, last a lifetime. Until then, I was just the innocent kid in a group of jaded and cynical older versions of myself.
Which is of course why they liked me. Even loved me, I came to eventually realize with some amazed incredulity. You gotta understand, I didn’t have a best friend since my Junior High pal Justin. He lost interest in our mutual passions of comics and movies in favor of his budding new obsessions with guitars and blowjobs. It’s hard to have a best friend in high school when your entire grade consists of nineteen students total in a school of around eighty. Private school saved me from bullies, by and large, but extremely limited the possibilities of close friendships, not to mention almost completely eradicating the chances of dating. It’s not so much the school’s fault as much as it for the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, a weirdo.
I joined the Rudes in the spring of my senior year when I auditioned for their production of Shakespeare’s Henry VI. It’s a rarely performed play, mainly because it’s three plays of political intrigue over many generations between English lords with about five names between them. As such, there are about three Cliffords, five Edwards, and sixteen Richards throughout the play.
While I was originally cast in the ensemble role of Fighter #4 (which was better than any other acting gigs I could get at that age; I was too young for Eugene O’Neill but too picky to do children’s theatre, what was a boy to do?), circumstances eventually promoted me to the speaking role of the brave, noble, and utterly screwed Prince Edward (Edward number four, give or take).
It was really our post-rehearsal hang-outs at the local Bennigans, more than the rehearsals themselves, which really set the foundations for the bizarre and lasting friendship that was to come. We would sit in our designated corner, this loud ragtag group of anywhere between seven to fifteen theatre misfits, ranting and joking and laughing over plates of deep-fried deliciousness.
My brother once put it best: “John, in many ways you’re 35, and in so many others you’re 13.” I always had a way of getting along better with older people than those my own age. Even in my compassionate and understanding hippie-run private school, my off-beat tastes in movies, comics, and pop culture made me something of an outcast. These were kids interested in Starbucks, “Friends,” Britney Spears, and the Gap. I was that kid who drew zombies in his daily planner, had a Simpsons quote for every occasion, and was obsessed with the Green something or other, Hornet, no wait, Lantern, that’s it, what kind of weird name for a superhero is that?
But the Rudes were different from any adults or kids I’d ever known. These people were misfits seemingly everywhere else in their lives until they got together three nights every week to perform Shakespeare. It didn’t take any of us long to see a lot of myself in them. I saw them as what I could grow up to be (if I weren’t careful, in some cases).
The nights at Bennigans soon became the highlights of my week, away from the stress of graduation and homework and all that crap, to just bullshit and joke the night away. I’d forgotten that this was what it was like to have real friends. Actually, no, that’s not quite right. Even the friends I had before, even before Justin, were nothing like them. This was something totally different. Individually, these people were all great. But when they were together, they collectively were my best friends. It’s kinda like Voltron.
In those days, I didn’t drive and was reliant on my long-suffering mother to transport me back and forth to rehearsals. Every night, all the way until I was ready to leave Bennigans, she would pull back the seat and sleep in the car. When the Rudes discovered this, they were shocked, insisting her to come in and have a good time. She graciously declined, partially because she was becoming increasingly exhausted every day and partially because she never did feel entirely at home with the Rudes. She never rushed me, told me to take all the time I wanted, she’d be fine. Frankly, she was just so relieved that I actually had a social life.
The summer just before I was to leave for college, I landed a dream role, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, in the Rudes’ next production, Twelfth Night. During this time, the Rudes took it upon themselves to prep me for college life. They savored every second of vicariously through me, partly because they wished, as I would come to wish myself as few as four years later, that they could go back and do it all again. And partly because they were very interested to see just how college life would affect this sweet, totally innocent kid, a virgin even to the kiss of a girl and as sober as a Mormon. In their own words, I became their own little “SimFreshman.”
One night at Bennigans, Jaki stood up and said, with the whole table listening to her, “Just you wait. I just know I’m gonna get a call from John at three o’clock in the morning. The phone’ll ring, I’ll blearily fumble for it, ‘Uhh, uhllo…?’” She began thrusting her hips forward and cheerily called out for the whole restaurant to hear: “‘Jaki! I’m getting a blowjob!’” During my freshmen year, I made certain to hang Jaki’s number over my bed, but I never did get the opportunity to call her.
The show wrapped up and a week later I was off to college. Not very far, just up to Chestertown in northern MD. That is, close enough so I could come back on weekends (cardinal sin of every freshman) but just far enough to get me away from my father. That was how we planned it, mom and I, and that was why I didn’t go to Catholic U. in DC like Dad wanted.
My father’s story is one to which I’ve often considered dedicated a whole book, certainly too long and complex to go into here. All that matters for this story is to say that my father was the head of the music department at Catholic University for thirty-six years, one of the greatest concert oboists in the world, a handsome womanizer with many conquests and a touch of herpes under his belt, and a vicious alcoholic.
As a result, I’d had spent my entire life not just sober but deeply uncomfortable around anybody influenced by anything stronger than aspirin. As much as everyone knew it was the place to party, I already knew that part of college would never be something I’d see. I had endured enough humiliation in my life thanks to my own foolishness. I absolutely hated the idea of becoming a story that starts with, “Oh dude, I can’t believe you did that” as a result of a substance. Thus, I avoided the parties, which severely limited my exposure to meeting new people in that ever-crucial freshman year.
It seems to be the first cardinal rule of freshman year at college: No matter what, do NOT come back home every weekend. Don’t come back every other weekend. In fact, don’t come back at all if you can help it. Cut the cord, ya baby. Looking back now, I can absolutely understand the logic. I probably should have pressed forward instead of backing down from the misery and increasing discomfort as I utterly failed to assimilate to college life. But silly me, I didn’t.
I had gotten a taste of real acting with the Rudes and was anxious to break into WAC’s drama department. At first, my college career seemed bright when I landed a major role in the semester’s very first show, Fuddy Meers. WAC’s drama department shows are almost all thesis productions by the director. As what always happens with troupes and cliques, there’s a strong temptation to cast your friends and classmates, people whose abilities you already know and trust, as opposed to taking a chance by casting newbie outsiders like myself. This is, after all, one’s thesis we’re talking about. I understood this very well, and understood the responsibility. I also realized that this was big chance to make a good first impression. With the scraps of newfound confidence I had gained with the Rudes, I dealt with the play and my fellow drama students with my trademark wit and humor.
Unfortunately, I forgot that my trademark wit and humor has a tendency to come off as belligerence, smugness and smart-assery. Of course, I could joke like that with the Rudes because we already were friends, and besides, the Rudes were all big flaming geeks like me. The drama kids, on the other hand, were not. The summer with the Rudes and away from my high school classmates made me foolhardy and forget what it was like around normal-ish people. Every joke fell flat. Every attempt to retain some grace from a failed joke failed. Every attempt at friendship crashed and burned. Within two weeks, I became the very person I always hated, that guy who always cracks jokes that are funny only to himself, that makes everyone look at him and ask each other, “What’s his problem?”
The directors of Rude Mechanicals shows encouraged feedback from the actors, so I thought, hey, I’ll show the director that I’m determined to do the best with this role by asking her questions about things I don’t understand. What I didn’t quite understand was that the Rudes were in it for fun, but these shows were a single director’s entire grade, and as such there was an unspoken rule against ever questioning your director’s vision. So of course I asked a lot of questions, and I soon became branded in the drama department as the guy who couldn’t take any direction.
Yet even with this I might have been able to bounce back, until Hell Week came. It’s two rehearsals left until opening night, and as per the Universal Rules of Drama, the stage manager is completely freaking out. She was doing her job, running back and forth trying to make sure all the props were in place, but one single item continued to elude her: a package of frozen bacon. Where was the fucking bacon?! Where’d it go?! She ran back and forth, asking aloud to anyone who might help if they knew where the bacon went.
Off-handedly, I just replied, “Ain’t my job.”
Now, I imagine Bogie or Bobby Mitchum could have made that sound as witty and cool as it probably sounded in my head at the time. Said aloud and made real, it was instead just enough to make the stage manager, a girl beloved by the entire drama department, run away to break down in tears. If I had any idea of what I’d done, I would have immediately apologized and felt like an utter shit for the rest of the week. But silly me again, I didn’t. You don’t make the close and personal friend of a tight-knit and tight-assed clique weep and come away looking good. I would not know this until seven months later, when I finally started to wonder why I wasn’t getting cast in any other shows or why none of the drama kids ever talked to me. When I found out, I couldn’t believe it. I was fucking blacklisted? Who the hell did I look like, Fatty Arbuckle? Don’t answer that. Poor man, God rest his soul.
Of course, it wasn’t until the summer when I discovered another unwritten law of college life: that Freshman year almost always sucks. It kinda woulda have been nice to know that at the beginning. Not reveling the prospect of a whole new semester at WAC, I decided that I would spend the spring semester of my sophomore year abroad in London. I always resisted going abroad; I’ve never been good with homesickness and uncertainty. And then there was my father. I needed to get away from him, yes, but I was terrified to think how he might react. I was barely able to get him to accept the possibility that I wouldn’t go to college in DC.
Summer came and went. I hung out with the Rudes occasionally, but since I had school in the fall, I couldn’t participate in their production of The Tempest, so I didn’t see much of them. The loneliness continued unabated. I returned to school for the fall semester and discovered that, surprise surprise, little had changed. My blacklist status had softened to something more of a midnight-blue-list, and would be until those students who remembered me had graduated. This was going nowhere and I needed a change. Within a month, I was registered for London. Once approved, I just had to tough out the rest of the semester. That included trying to get through French 101 with a C and, in my free time, futilely auditioning for plays.
By the end, however, I did manage to get cast in the last of the thesis shows, landing the rather meaty role of Judge Danforth in Miller’s The Crucible. Ironically, perhaps, it was only then that I had really started to make friends. No lasting friendships yet, but the start of some strong connections nonetheless. Two of these friends were Thomas Leo Clancy and Robyn Nuttall.
Clancy was a tall, lanky guy with lazy stoner eyes behind glasses and hair that was pink, then peroxided blond in time for the show. He was also the son of the Tom Clancy, a fact that made our friendship all the more interesting. A Hefner and a Clancy, together as…
Oh shit.
Shit. Now I’ve gotten totally ahead of myself.
Okay. Tangent time. Bear with me, I’ll get back to Clancy and all this.
Shit. Bad narrator!
All right. Ever since kids discovered the more famous connotations to the name Hefner, there have been three questions that I have been asked more than any other questions in my life.
The first: “Are you actually related to Hugh Hefner?” When I’d say yes, that he’s my father’s cousin, which makes him my second cousin or first cousin once removed, we’re not sure which… they’d then ask me either one or both of the next questions:
“Do you get a free subscription?”
And…
“Have you ever been to the Playboy Mansion?”
I’ve always marveled at how, now matter who asks these, it’s always the same two bloody questions. So once and definitely not for all, I’ll answer them here again.
No, I never did get a free subscription. Not sure I ever exactly wanted one. There was plenty of wank material out there as it was for even the dumbest of kids. Besides, I wouldn’t have even been able to appreciate the articles until I was older, when I’d actually know who contributors such as Arthur C. Clarke and Norman Mailer were. Oddly enough, it occurs to me that I actually stopped hearing this question right around high school graduation. Weird. It’s not the case with the latter question, which I get asked virtually every week by some smart aleck who sees my name and thinks, “Boy, I bet he’s never heard this one before, dee-hyuck!” Because clearly everyone who asks me that is a redneck in overalls.
Yes. Yes, I have been to the Playboy Mansion. And since I’m sure you’d be much more interested to hear that story, I’ll keep going with this tangent for a bit.
I was eight at the time. My father had never met his famous cousin, though he had been in correspondence with Hugh’s mother, our Aunt Grace. The total number of Hefners in the entire world included me, my father, Hugh, his two children, his brother, and Grace. That was it. So when Grace learned that my father had never even spoken to Hugh, she offered to talk to her son to see if a meeting could be arranged. Hugh agreed to give us a tour around the mansion, a prospect that would make anybody utterly crap in their pants. Anybody who wasn’t eight years old, that is.
We spent the night at a hotel in Pheonix, Arizona meeting Grace. I only remember her vaguely, a sweet old woman who clearly took a shine to me, as well as my father. Everybody liked my father. The next say we set out for Los Angeles. We pulled up to the gates of the Playboy mansion and announced ourselves to a speaker imbedded in a large gray rock. To my eight year old mind, this was high class. “Wow! He can put electronics inside rocks! This guy’s so rich, he can have things put into other things!”
The gate opened, and we drove up to the front porch of the Playboy Mansion. What I was seeing there was an image I would see over and over again in television and movies for the rest of my life, but never again in person. And there I was with eight-year-old eyes, seeing it and then the man who lived there, for the very first time.
He was there to greet us, dressed in that smoking jacket and those PJs even for rabble like us. I suppose my father introduced me to him, I can’t recall. This man I knew virtually nothing about, save that he was special, bent down to shake my hand. I don’t remember a single thing he said to me the entire time we were there, save for one. The first thing he ever said to me as he took my hand.
“Call me Hef.”
The rest of that day is mostly a blur of touring the mansion of overhearing the two older cousins conversing about things that were meaningless to me. All I remember are the bits and pieces that were interesting to my child mind.
I remember his movie screening room, where he and the bunnies would have long movie nights. I think about that now and I wonder what it must be like to be a part of one of those. If there was anything he and I could connect about today, it’s movies. On the table was a huge crystal bowl filled to the brim with plain M&Ms, the bright colors standing out shining against the mahogany finish of the coffee table.
I remember seeing the grotto, this man-made cave that led to a waterfall and became a swimming pool on the other side. I was utterly crushed when I realized that I didn’t even think to bring swimming trunks, the idea of skinny dipping or even swimming in my underwear, an alien concept.
I remember huge rolling grass lawns, and thinking to myself how awesome it would be to take a roll down ‘em and stumble back up again. Roll, stumble up, roll, stumble up. Repeat until vomit. I bet if I saw them now they’d still be huge and the temptation would still be there.
But most of all, I remember the arcade. Hef’s a huge arcade game fanatic, and had an entire room of the mansion dedicated to classic machines from the 60’s to the early 80’s. He left me in the room for what must have been a full hour. Boy oh boy, it should have been paradise for me, if it wasn’t until the last five minutes that I discovered that, hey, you don’t need quarters to play these machines. By the time Hef and my Dad came to take me away, I’d spent fifty-five minutes in a boy’s dreamland just watching demo screens.
Oh! I remember one last thing about him. My mother and father never let me drink any diet sodas. “Better to have real sugar than fake chemicals,” they said. As such, anything with sugar substances took on a mystical forbidden air. When I once got the brilliant idea to suck down an entire packet of Sweet ‘n Low, any inklings of my budding teenage rebellion were crushed. But when Hef, ever the gracious host, asked me if I wanted anything to drink, I jumped at the chance and asked for a diet Pepsi, which was still in that old school white and gold can design. Hef gave me my very first ever diet soda. I’ll always have him to thank for that, especially when I’m 40, sterile, and possibly glowing.
I never saw or heard from him since. At one point, my father tried to re-establish contact with him, but this led to a falling out that, to this day, I’ve never entirely understood. Whether my father said something wrong or if Hugh didn’t like us or didn’t trust us or thought we smelled or something, I don’t think I’ll ever know. All I do know is that we hadn’t gotten a Christmas card from him since. It probably didn’t help matters when Grace died and my father didn’t so much as send flowers or a card. I don’t think he had any interest in trying to patch things up either. I imagine we’re not even in the will at all at this point.
I’ve personally tried to reestablish contact with a couple letters from time to time, but to no avail. Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent them in to the personal private mansion address, which he might have seen as a breach of privacy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have invited him to my high school graduation, which could easily have translated to his ears as “SEND ME MONEY!” Or perhaps the man who’s the living embodiment of fame, living out his days in gleeful hedonism with everything he could ever want, couldn’t really give two shits about some schmuck cousin who probably just wants his dough anyway.
So no, I don’t get a free subscription. Sorry guys, I won’t be able to invite you all to the Mansion for spring break. And if I could hook you up with a Playmate, don’t you think I’d call first, second, and third dibs? The fact of the matter is that I don’t get any of it.
All I have is the name and this story. Which is to say, meager bragging rights and a hell of an ace when playing drinking games like “Never Have I Ever.”
Still, the name has proved helpful from time to time. Until I got into acting and learned the joy of being a total ham and attention whore, I was always a quiet, chubby kid with looks so bland that no one was ever quite able to capture them in art. I was unremarkable and unmemorable. I don’t know if most people would have remembered me at all if it weren’t for the fact that I was the one they’d remember as “Hugh Hefner’s nephew.” Yeah, for some reason, he was always my uncle to them. I’ve been called “Hef” by so many at this point, I often forget it isn’t my own nickname. If nothing else, I had a bit of name recognition going for me, as well as a great conversation starter. Wherever I went, I achieved a bit of minor celebrity status. Much of the same could be said for Clancy.
You like the way I came back to that? I just tangented and came full circle on yo’ ass!
As I said, Clancy was also something of an outcast. Two years my senior, Clancy had a reputation for being a low-life pothead who took no responsibility for anything, lives very comfortably off of his father’s wealth, failed classes, was undependable, and was basically considered a loser. At least, that was the general consensus, much in the same way that general consensus of me was that I was a smart-assed and cruel kid who was difficult and undirectable. The fact that he knew all this and frankly didn’t seem to give a shit was something of an inspiration to me at the time.
Clancy was cast alongside me in Crucible in the role of wacky Reverend Paris. Over the course of the rehearsal process, we bonded on our mutual geek loves of comics, movies, and all things Simpsons. I didn’t know the details of what other people thought of him. To me, he was a pretty cool guy.
The stuff about him and drugs, well, that was very true. I say again, I never did any drugs or ingested a drop of alcohol, fearful of what even a single can of horsepiss like Natty Boh might do. At the same time, I was also an aspiring novelist who wanted to write a book about designer drugs and rave clubs, and I was reluctant to begin a field study on these subjects. Clancy became my consultant on everything narcotic and hallucinogenic, informing me on such tidbits of drug-culture wisdom such as “If you do ecstasy at a rave, you gotta be careful not to drink too much water or your stomach will burst” and “You can never truly appreciate nature till you’ve done shrooms.”
It was commonly known that Clancy held some resentment towards his father, mainly because Clancy would tell it to anybody who’d listen. I suppose I would too about the 50 millionth time someone asked me about my famous father, if I had one. We never went into details, but it was clear that theirs was a troubled relationship. I once joked to Clancy about how we both had world-famous relatives from whom we were estranged, even though that wasn’t really the case with him. Regardless, Clancy the Elder did come to see Crucible on opening night. I have often dreamt of becoming a published author, running into him at some writer’s conference, and saying, “Hey, you saw me in Crucible! And that excerpt of Rainbow Six that I read in ‘Electronic Gaming Monthly’ was the bomb, yo!”
Though we were dramatically different in our lifestyles, our mutual geek passions gave us that special bond that only geeks can share. It is truly amazing how no matter how different people can be, they can still be brought together through deep-seated interests in even the most trivial of fields. He wasn’t my best friend, but he was certainly one of my only friends. And so was his girlfriend, Robyn.
Shit, I did it again! Yes, that Robyn I mentioned, like, three pages back but completely forgot about. That’s what you get for wanting to hear the Hugh Hefner story. Bad narrator again!
Robyn was a pale hippie girl with long, straight golden blond hair. Her sharp sense of humor and flower child good looks attracted me to her instantly, making it easier for me to ignore her self-confessed promiscuity and rampant pot-smoking. I had visuals of her and Clancy spending their days inside an impenetrable cloud of opaque smoke shaped in the size of a dorm-room. Regardless, I secretly hoped that when I’d returned from London come next fall semester that she and Clancy would have broken up so I could have my shot.
Crucible wrapped and not long after that I was off to London. Away from WAC, my father, everything. I spent four months in a lovely flat with a couple dozen other students. Good enough kids, but nobody I could really connect with. They were political science majors, stoners, frat boys, pretty girls, preppy girls, and four different Jennifers. Not a single person whose idea of a hot date was snagging some Cadbury Fruit and Nut bars and hitting up a West End show.
The only thing these people did have in common with the Rudes was the morbid curiosity of trying to make me lose my innocence, once they discovered how purposely inexperienced I was. They tried to get me to drink at least socially (“A coke? You’re in a pub in London and you’re drinking coke?!”) and the smell of pot was constantly floating in the air. They occasionally managed to drag me out pubbing and clubbing, which proved to be experiences that were boring at best for me. Eventually they seemed to lose interest and left me alone to hit up shows or to bum around Picadilly Circus.
Then came the class excursion to the town of Bath, where the old Roman baths still operated from hot natural springs. No theatres in this town, save for a Patrick Stewart and David Warner show coming the next week that I seriously considered taking the train back to see, I acquiesced to go to a pub with them for awhile. By that point I had taken to nursing a pint of Guinness whenever I went to a bar. Everyone else loves the stuff, but I must admit I share my hardcore alcoholic father’s opinion of Guinness: “It looks like motor oil and it tastes about the same.” After nearly getting burned at the stake in college, I’ve learned to keep such opinions to myself by and large.
So I had my pint, ready to nurse over the course of the next hour, when closing time was announced. Not wanting to have wasted my cash, I completely down the entire pint, determined to go back to the hostel and crash before I feel the effects. However, en route I am intercepted by a group of my classmates who try once again to persuade me to go to a club.
“No, I’m not really into clubs, I just wanna go back and sleep…”
“Hef. You’re in England. A million miles away from home. On vacation from classes. Fucking live a little!”
Though I wasn’t quite sure if this ‘living’ was all it was cracked up to be, I said fine, ok, let’s go. The club was this hole-in-the-wall joint that gave away plastic shot glasses with the club logo on them. Cleary, this was a high-class joint. I grudgingly paid the five pounds cover and went in, immediately to be engulfed in smoke, people, and loud music. Loud bad music. Imagine my horror to discover later that American clubs were exactly the same.
I never liked clubs. For one thing, I didn’t drink. Secondly, I don’t dance. What I do is talk and make conversation, hopefully witty and interesting conversation about things why I think Bryan Cox was arguably the better Hannibal Lecter than Anthony Hopkins, but it’s too loud and do dank to do anything like that. So I’m already seeing my five pounds sprouting little wings and flying away when one of the Jennifers comes up to me. We called this one Prada Jen.
Let me give you an idea about what Prada Jen was like. During the whole trip, most of us spent around $4,000-$8,000 in personal finances. That’s including food, pubs, trips to other countries for the weekends, etc. Somehow, Prada Jen managed to spend $25,000. I don’t know if she bought a small car or what, but suffice it to say that Prada Jen was no cheapskate, either for herself or for her friends or even for casual acquaintances whom she was determined to get wasted.
She came up to me and yelled, “Let me buy you a drink, Hef!”
Now. I know I said I didn’t drink. But at some point along the way, I’d decided that if I ever were to drink, it wouldn’t be on my own tab. Because hey, if I did get drunk (a prospect I still loathed!), at least I wouldn’t hate myself for spending my own money to do it!
So I said, “Yeah, sure!”
We went to the bar and she asked, “What would you like?”
I said, “I want something that actually tastes good. I mean, I don’t want a girly drink or nothing, but I want something that doesn’t taste like crap. Something nice.”
“How about a… Bacardi and lemonade?”
I said, “That sounds just fine.”
She put in the order, plus a few others for herself. She gave me my drink and I took a sip. I thought, this is nice. It’s cool, it’s mellow. Yeah, I could nurse this for the next couple hours and everything should be fine, great.
Then before I’ve even had three sips, she hands me a shot glass filled with a green liquid. She said, “Here, drink this! It’s illegal in most countries!”
Of course, worldly in the ways of literature and art as I am, I immediately know what this is. “Oh, yeah, absinthe!”
Without thinking, I slam the shot glass back and almost instantly am overcome with a sensation that’s like sulfuric acid laced with licorice. Gagging in pain as much as the taste, I flail around desperately looking for something to wash away the horribleness of what’s occurring in my throat. I grab the Bacardi and lemonade and chug it back, the ice cubes almost choking me on the way down. Whew! Sweet relief! Ahh!
So I go to the lounge area to sit down and hang with some of the guys. We’re chatting and shooting the shit, and I start to notice something really odd. These guys are… my god, they’re actually interested in me. These kids who always treated me on the friendlier side of indifferent tolerance are actually interested in me! Wow! This is starting to get really cool! Maybe I shouldn’t have avoided pubbing with them before!
Then one girl, a petite and pretty bookish Italian lass I’d had my eye on for most of the trip, asked me to dance. Me. To dance! With a girl!! Too stunned to think, I let her take my hand and lead my zombie-like body out to the throbbing dance floor.
At first, I begin dancing with my body pretty much completely stiff; arms at the sides, shuffling back and forth. Then after a few moments, I feel rhythm coming into my hips, swaying back and forth in fluid, if not graceful, motion. Then my arms start getting in on the act, first bopping up and down like a wind-up monkey without a drum, then swinging around, then outright flailing. Next thing I know everything is a blur of motion, sweat pouring out of my body, and all I can hear over the music is the girl yelling at me to “watch out, you might hit whap somebody!”
Now I’m humping this girl’s leg, grinding up and down, up and down her body, and it’s a good thing she doesn’t seem to mind since if she did I probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Before I realize it, my hand is planted firmly on her ass and we’re going at it right there on the floor amid the throngs of oblivious people. Then another girl from my class, another one who never gave me the time of day, now she’s up against me, writhing and grinding, and I slap my hand behind me and dig into her butt too, and there I am sandwiched between two women, each hand on an ass, grinding dancing writhing grinding dancing writhing grinding dancing dancing dancing dancing and then Prada Jen shows up again with identical clear iced drinks in rocks glasses and yells:
“HERE HEF, I GOT YOU ANOTHER DRINK!”
“THANKS JEN!” I yell back, graciously accepting the drink. And there I am, girls on all sides, sweat pouring down every inch of my body, and I’m trying to sip my drink, trying to nurse it but I can’t dance and nurse, man, I can’t dance and nurse, so I down that motherfucker right there, and I rub the ice cubes on my overheated flesh and I’m dancing and dancing and then Prada Jen comes back:
“HEF! I GAVE YOU THE WRONG DRINK! THAT WAS MY GIN AND TONIC! HERE’S YOUR BACARDI AND LEMONADE!”
“THANKS JEN!” I snatch it out of her hand before the “-ADE!” even comes out and then I down that motherfucker so hard it made the first motherfucker look like a little bitch, and I’m dancing I’m dancing I’m dancing I’m dancing I’m dancing I’m dancing I’m dancing, head flying back and forth, sweat drops spraying all over the crowds… and that’s when the cramps hit.
I’m out. Down for the count. I peel myself out of the throngs and I head back to the bar, desperate for hydration. Prada Jen joins me soon thereafter, her mussed hair and pleasantly laminated appearance making her look like the happy survivor of a dry-humping orgy.
“How you feelin’, Hef?” she asks.
“I’m cool, Prada Jen. I’m cool.”
“Lemme buy you aunnuder drink,” she offers.
“No. No, no, no. I’m good. No more drinks. I’m done.”
“C’mon. Just one.”
“No.”
“Look, here,” she hands me a plastic shot glass filled with a shivering clear brown liquid. “Have a shot of whiskey.”
“No. No, thank you.”
“C’mon. Just one.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Sigh. Oh… all right,” I say, and I raise the glass to my lips.
Annnnnnnnnd then I’m dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing and dancing, hand on butt, hand on butt, butt butt butt butt butt butt dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing “Here Hef,” Prada Jen hands me another shot glass “this is Goldschlager, it’s got little bits of gold in it that cut into your skin and make you absorb more alcohol faster,” “THANKS JEN!” chug dancing chug dancing dancing dancing dancing
And then I wonder where everybody went.
Guys? Where’z all my peeps at?
I… oh! There they are! In the back room of the lounge. And what’s going on there? Oh, they’re having a make-out party! Wow, after all these years of being the odd man out, I finally get to be a party of a make-out party, oh yeah! Well, I’ll just sidle up to… um… or maybe I’ll just slip in here and… oookay, I’ll just sit here and make she and I will… will… uh…
The writing mass of horny drunk college kids proved as impenetrable as ever, so I guessed some things never changed. But that was cool. It was all good. I have a great night, that’s all that mattered.
Prada Jen came back up to me and asked, “How you doin’, Hef?”
I said, “Pretty good. Y’know, Prada Jen, it’s strange. I mean, sure I feel a little woozy, but even after all that, I really do feel like I’m in control.”
And she says, “Yeah, Hef, that’s because you’re” and the word hits me a reverberating scream into a canyon, “DRUNKDRUNKDRUNKdrunkdrunkdrunkdrunkdrunkdrunkdrunk…”
And. My. Mood. Just. Plummeted.
In that instant, it all came rushing over me in a great tide of piss and self-loathing. Furiously I kicked the wall, then I got even more furious when I realized that all my friends saw this and were about to and then actually did say, “Oh, so apparently Hef’s an angry drunk!”
I stumbled back to the hotel, was smart enough to drink four glasses of water, and passed out. I had the dubious comfort of knowing that I had gotten drunk for the first time on a pint of Guinness, a Bacardi and lemonade, a shot of absinthe, a gin and tonic, another Bacardi and lemonade, a shot of whiskey, and a shot of Goldschlager, and I suffered only a mild hang-over the next day and no vomit. I was almost proud, if I hadn’t still been feeling the little pangs of self-loathing. My metaphysical ten-year-old self came up to my metaphysical twenty-year-old self and kicked him in the metaphysical hoo-has. I was just thankful the Rudes weren’t there too. I would have never lived that one down. I was just with a group of casual acquaintances. Leave it to your true friends to remember your embarrassing shit till they day you die.
But still, if those two years showed me anything, it was exactly just who those true friends were. A month before my return to the US, Elise offers me the role of Silvius in her upcoming Rudes production of As You Like It. Silvius is the lovelord idiot shepherd boy, a role truly made for me. I’m not back in the States for more than a week when I meet back up with the Rudes for the first script read-through.
“Heffie!”
“How was London, Heffie?”
“We all missed you, Heffie?”
“Did you bang Kiera Knightly, Heffie?”
Heffie? What the hell is a Heffie?
While I was gone, it seemed I got a new nickname and never even realized it. Not Hef, not even John anymore. I chuckled a bit in wonder at it all. After all these years, I was no longer “that Hefner kid,” or “that John loser” or “Hef.” I had actually earned my own identity. It’s just one of those little neat things, y’know?
Some of the newer Rudes would not know my real name for months. But they would eventually, as those that stayed with the troupe soon joined the ranks of those closest to me. People like Nell, Erin, Paul… and Tammy.
Comments very much appreciated, as always.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 07:15 am (UTC)Very neat! And well written. The Rude Mechanicals sound like a wonderful bunch, and by some strange coincidence your first experience with a large amount of alcohol mirrors mine in some ways, except more actually fun (what with the dancing and the girls and being in what's arguably an exotic locale).
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 07:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 04:46 pm (UTC)Oh, and after seeing your comment on the Green Lantern Corps thread, I can recommend several good GL stories... *bats eyes*
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Date: 2006-01-27 01:03 am (UTC)Yes, well. My best bud is still in my hometown, and I'm only a train ride away. Plus, I've become not very good at the whole turning friendly acquaintances in friends things. It's kind of easy to just pack an overnight bag and head home when you've got no one to hang out with. But I'm trying. I'm in a fun club with a great bunch of guys, so I'm working on it.
Uh, anyway:
Oh, and after seeing your comment on the Green Lantern Corps thread, I can recommend several good GL stories... *bats eyes*
Sure, go for it. Although I promised myself I wouldn't buy anything until after I bought my textbooks. So, assuming my bank account survives intact.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 04:14 pm (UTC)So you're a freshman now?
First and foremost, if you haven't yet, I wholeheartedly recommend Mark Waid's JLA: YEAR ONE and the follow-up FLASH/GREEN LANTERN: THE BRAVE AND THE BOLD. Barry/Hal = OTP.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 01:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 04:12 pm (UTC)But yes, we are good and I much appreciated that. Cuz Coste and Kolacki, I could understand them not liking me. But I always thought that you, Mikey, Ridgaway, and Booth would have liked me if I hadn't made a damn fool ass of myself (Liamism, again?)
And yeah, as to the Playboy mansion thing, we are gloriously pitiful in our Zoidbergian ways, are we not? :)
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 04:47 pm (UTC)BTW, the SM looking for frozen bacon was a wuss. You. Don't. Cry. In. Front. Of. The. Cast. First rule of SMs everywhere, even HS.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 04:59 pm (UTC)Glad you liked it by and large. Thanks for the critique!