Georgetown

Of all us, Peter Denning was the only one that got kicked out on that otherwise boring morning after. He was sitting in the health center, alone, shaking with withdrawal, and trying to cover up his worry. They had found the bag of drugs and alcohol from the night before in his dorm room. When they asked who else was with him that night, he didn’t say a single name. I told him I loved him and cried as he left my life for good. He was headed for a rehabilitation center and to trial for possession. He told me I was the first man to tell him that they loved him. At this moment, I finally understood what it meant to be inside. Boarding school meant we were all trying to make a home for ourselves, only to be discarded once again. I stopped keeping track of each fallen Robbin. 

…

The townhomes in Georgetown, D.C. stick together like a vertical labyrinth of old victorian boxes akin to those of downtown London. The vices and virtues of my first days beyond childhood in boarding school are encapsulated, like a daguerreotype, in that place where politicians and the reckless young find peace. One night, in the winter of my senior year, Georgetown became my first love. It was there, in that time, that I had my first taste of vodka and my first touch with a woman. It was there that I finally understood. 

Boarding school in D.C. was like something straight out of Fitzgerald. The heirs and heiresses of trust funds larger than reality lived as if the world was a subject to them. Drugs and alcohol were hidden in dorm rooms of children who spent more money in one week than their teachers earned in a year. Mothers and fathers were congressmen and CEO’s. Ancestors were founding fathers and English royalty. The truth always seemed like an exaggeration. 

Campus was a bubble. The gates held in the community as if it was some sort of tragic utopia. We fabricated our own scandals and our own joys. No one outside the gates truly knew what it was like within. Most didn’t even know how to enter. Visitors were exclusive - everyone within that gate had to serve a purpose. The most esteemed guests - congressman, pulitzer prize winners, and world renowned scientists - were given 24 hours. 

When the gates opened on the weekends, the city became the honored guest of our afflictions. My first real night out was in the winter of my senior year. It was then that I watched my peers perform the dance they had perfected over the past three years. They called the cars to pick them up, they opened the doors to their empty second homes, and they gathered their bottled poisons. 

The occasion this weekend was a concert. A rather routine and dull excuse to serve the true occasion: the weekly drug induced gathering of the tribe. I had been invited as somewhat of an afterthought. It was my first time really seeing my peers in their world. They were different beings outside of the gates. They had a certain grace. Of course, inside the gates they were ivy league bound kids with small quirks. Outside, they were teenagers of the roaring 20’s. 

I felt great pleasure the first time I walked with them across the city. Strangers looked at us in such great curiosity and to add to their fascination, they couldn’t get familiar - no matter how hard they tried. I was surprised to see how many of my peers were there - across all grades, freshmen to seniors, they were there for the singular purpose to get lost in substances. Still, membership in this tribe was exclusive - I had no right to be there. Everyone was white, good looking, and most importantly rich. Between them, they owned at least 30 homes across the city. I was some sort of great exception. 

The night began outside of the Vanderbilt residence. I still believe it is the biggest home in all of Georgetown, covered in authentic art twice the price of my home. William Jones’ mother had married her way into the home after her first failed marriage. I believe in that sense, William was glad his mother had divorced his father. There was no other way he could have found his way in the tribe. Being a friend of his was the only reason I was in. Neither of us were ever poor. We were both sons of Harvard Graduates turned Lawyers and Professors. But the house of William’s stepfather was our ticket. 

There were five of us staying at the Vanderbilt residence that night. Between us there was a silent agreement that we would of course stick together throughout the night even as we later met up with the others. To start the night, we went outside the Vanderbilt home and smoked a joint. We stood in a circle as our leader, Thomas Redd, the upper eastsider, gave a speech regarding the traditions of our native american forefathers. He then did a roulette of sticking the joint in our mouths until it was gone. It didn’t matter whether you wanted to smoke or not, you were smoking. It was a crooked ritual. Next, we did the same dance with a bottle of Jack Daniels. At this point, I felt a way I had never before - a mix of paranoia and absolute liberation. The weed and alcohol coursed through me like a waterfall. I didn’t know how to feel. I could only comprehend excitement. The others seemed to be rather numb as if they had expected this euphoria. And of course they had the right to. 

We smoked cigarettes as we waited for our town car to pick us up and take us to the thai restaurant by the waterfront. Cigarettes were my forte. French Inhales and Ghosts impressed my peers but only to a certain extent. When we arrived to thai spot, my face was flushed red from our opening ceremony and I could barely breathe as my heart pounded outside of me - it was then that I discovered I had a genetic almost-allergic reaction to alcohol - it was the asian glow. I went to the bathroom to splash water on my face. When I returned, drinks arrived. They were non-alcoholic for only a moment. Peter Denning, a close friend known around school for being bisexual, son of two brutally divorced parents, and the genius heir of a large newspaper company, reached into his bag and pulled out three small bottles of Vodka. My body played victim as I knew that the contents of the bottles would have to go down my throat. He kept the bottles hidden underneath the table and spiked each of our drinks. He then pulled out a silver bag of gummy bears. We each took one and waited for them to kick in. 

It was then that Thomas proclaimed, “No matter what happens tonight, it's always a pleasure with you boys.” 

Immediately, Jacob Foster, the fifth boy of our group and the jewish heir to the Folger theatre, made Thomas knock on wood three times and throw salt over his shoulder. Apparently, the previous occasion in which Thomas said those words ended in the back of a police car. We spent the next five minutes giving Thomas shit. Peter even took the liberty to smack him. 

When the small Thai woman came to take our order to eat, we each ordered Chicken Pad Thai. It was possibly the greatest meal I have ever had. I ate as if I hadn’t eaten in years. The THC coursing through my virgin veins made each bite a symphony of flavor. I didn’t even realize I was hungry but every bite gave me such satisfaction. I licked the plate like a toddler without care. The scene in Ratatouille made sense to me. 

As we were about finished, Thomas signaled the waiter over and he along with Jacob ordered five shots and a beer. They had the best fake id’s of the group and not before long they were on their way. They downed the shots magnificently. Licking salt, smacking the table with the glasses in rhythm, and punctuating their joy with a lime. The beers were more of a decoration. 

When we left the restaurant, I was somewhat surprised I was still conscious. Yet, I was reinvigorated by the idea that the night had only just begun. We of course smoked more cigarettes before our town car arrived again. When it did, the ride to the concert venue was a sing-a-long. We sang tunes as the driver looked at us in disgust. By this point, we were all amped. Peter pulled out more small bottles of vodka and passed them around the car. Each were empty in one go around. 

The concert is where we met everyone else. The whole tribe was there. Girls in their sparkly and tight dresses, guys in their jerseys and balenciagas. The youngest among us was 14. The oldest was 19. We were all faded just the same. I entered a new world as I walked inside the venue. Colors flashed all around me as I saw my peers dancing and hugging each other - they were free, as free as I had ever seen them. Guys and girls I have never spoken to before in school yelled my name from across the room and ran to embrace me. They were, in the strangest of ways, unbelievably happy that I was among them. 

The concert was a shit show. Throughout the few hours, I counted that my peers were responsible for three fights, countless hookups that would be regretted, and four semi-overdoses that were cured without much attention or consequence. At one point, a girl I had recognized as a part of the student council stood in front of me barely conscious and falling against her friend who kept asking me for advice on what to do. I handed them over to Thomas. Thomas Redding was the king of taking care of people who had too much to drink and smoke. He made the girl vomit twice and then found a pedialyte for her to shotgun. Minutes later, she was dancing while thanking Thomas repeatedly. The person who really needed the act though, was the actor himself. Not Thomas, but the artist headlining the concert. He would be dead exactly one calendar year later - an overdose of percocets.  

Soon, the concert itself became nothing more than an intermission of our true intentions. We became pissed as we sobered up to loud music while our fakes got swiped. When Xander Eddington, a sophmore, got kicked out of the venue for threatening to fight the bartender who wouldn't serve him drinks, we all decided to leave and get drunk somewhere else. The plan was for about a quarter of the whole tribe - around 14 of us - to go to Katherine Jane’s house, a block away from the Vanderbilt residence. When we got there, there were about 20 people. The gathering however, looked small in the scope of the size of the home. It wasn’t nearly as big as the Vanderbilt’s but it had a true Georgetown-esque elegance to it. It made anyone feel like Yoko Ono for a moment. 

When I walked in, I was immediately anxious. The concert made me sober enough to realize these kids were the same that would never talk to me inside the gates. Inside the gates, apart from the fantasy of substances, they were kind to me but I wasn’t one of them and we all knew it. I immediately saw myself to the kitchen where Katherine had an assortment of drinks. I had learned quickly from earlier this night that being under the influence was the gateway to friendship. I mixed vodka and hennessy in a cup and drank it as fast as I possibly could. I then went outside and smoked a bowl with Peter and the captain of the lacrosse team. Quickly, I felt at home. Quickly, these people became my best friends.

Soon, I joined the others in the living room. We talked about the smallest of things and enjoyed our disfigured state of minds. Colby Graceington offered me 50 dollars to buy her a pack of cigarettes and I learned about how her mother died when she was seven years old. Jonesy Remington, leaned her head against my shoulder and we took a picture as I thought of how she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I flipped through a vintage art book on the coffee table as Katherine laughed and told me I was going to ruin it. I watched as Peter yelled at Jack Jones for waving a white lighter across his face. Something about bad omens. 

At some point, Katherine took the book away from me and whispered into my ear. She told me to meet her in the kitchen. I dragged my disconnected body and trailed her into the empty kitchen as some early 2000’s indie song played. I tried to think that I was some burdened main character being taken away by the heroine of a western. She looked the part, I don’t know if I did. Once there, she asked if I wanted a drink. I smiled, agreeing. I sat down in one of the perfectly white chairs at the counter as I watched her play bartender in front of me.

She cut a fresh lemon, took a chilled glass from the freezer and filled it with Vodka and mixed it with chasers of every sort. 1/4 club soda, 1/8 simple sugar, 1/4 pink lemonade, 1/4 cranberry juice, 1/8 of citrus and a handful of ice. So delicately, as if she was concocting a drunk symphony. She pulled out a single cherry from the fridge, laughing at me while swirling it into the drink. She was wearing a small hand-threaded white blanket over her shoulders that complimented her blonde hair. She had a certain way of moving. She swayed tightly. She passed me the drink she had made me and I looked over the glass as she smiled. It was as if she thought I was some sort of puppy. I didn’t mind. I complimented her on the drink. 

“I think I always wanted to be a bartender.” she smiled. 

“Me too.” I replied. 

I then stayed, looking at her for what seemed like forever, wanting her. I drank, hoping I could drink enough to find the courage to bring myself to her. We kept stealing glances, until, not knowing how, I was on the other side of the counter, right in front of her. I looked at her, I put my hands around her waist. I slowly pushed them forward until I was holding her underneath her blanket. I felt the warmth and wholeness of her against me. 

I looked at her and slurred something desperate, “You’re so nice, you’re so nice.”

“I know.” she smiled. Her eyes deep green. 

I placed my lips on hers and felt better than I ever had before as she exhaled color into me. I grabbed her tightly, running my fingers through her hair. I kept bringing her closer to me until there wasn’t much space left. I held her face and bit her lip slightly. She locked her tongue with mine and smiled secretly behind her lips. 

I took a moment. Taking a breath to look at her, hopelessly in love with Georgetown and the afflictions of boarding school we spoke of. Not caring for the tomorrow that would come.