california.

You would think "Cheap Vodka Night" would have taught me a thing or two about keeping alcohol out of my purse, but instead it became rather a theme once I arrived at USC. As my purses got bigger, so did the containers of liquor. A cell phone met a tragic end when stored next to a 40 of bacardi on Halloween. A skirt was irreperably stained after being used to conceal a corked bottle of wine. But it was all worth it for the popularity I gained at parties after the kegs ran out.

"Whoever finds me a wine opener gets the first sip!" I trilled, waving bottles in the air and sending frat boys scurrying in every direction.

At parties where the supplies were ample, I saw nothing wrong with taking something with me for the road. Unfortunately, this became such a habit that when I did not have a purse to store the containers, I would march straight out of the party with a carton of cheap vodka under my arm. While the hosts of the party were usually too drunk to notice, the campus police officers stationed outside always objected.

There's a certain element of security in having alcohol with you wherever you go. I liked to be the one to provide it in the least obvious of situations.

“Anyone want some tequila?” I whispered down the aisle at Cinema 190’s screening of “Jurassic Park.”

"Anyone want a mimosa?" I asked, waving a water bottle, when some friends joined me by a fountain at lunchtime.

"Anyone want some schnapps?" I asked Bonne on the first day of our art history class together. She declined; she was always very engaged in the material, whereas I would stick around for half the class at most, getting increasingly annoyed with the pretention of modern artists such as Frank Stella and scribbling angry notes in my margins. Then, at the break, I would wander off somewhere to be angry and finish the Schnapps.

At restaurants I always ordered alcohol just to see if I could get away with it, but usually lost interest once I was served. Olivia and I went for sushi before meeting up with the rest of our friends to see the latest Harry Potter. I obtained a small bottle of sake that I couldn’t stand the taste of, yet couldn’t bring myself to waste. It was a bit tricky keeping the open bottle upright in my purse for the next hour, but it was all worth it one we got inside the IMAX theatre.

“Anyone want some sake?” I hissed as the opening credits rolled.

bernice.

Bernice was my bicycle, and she was quite a girl. We joked that she had developed a reputation thanks to her antics with the boy (and sometimes, girl) bikes that lined the Parkside exterior.

"Everyone's had a ride on Bernice," we said. 

The more we teased Bernice, the more she seemed to take on a life of her own, consistently providing us with new material. 

One night we returned from a frat party to find her seat stolen. Much to the amusement of the various boys who had followed us home, I hopped aboard anyway. 

I couldn't figure out what was so hysterically funny about this until I looked down to see the bare pole sticking up where the seat had been. 

"I'm not going to sit all the way down, you idiots," I said, but they kept right on howling. 

"Have a very pleasant ride!" They yelled as Bernice and I took off into the night. 

I always hit at least three bushes on the weekend ride home, and once I hit a person, but she should have been walking in a straighter line. 

When I was high I would take Bernice on an extended ride, finding wheelchair ramps and riding up them and down again. 

"Wheee!" I yelled when I thought no one was in earshot. 

On weeknights we would jaunt through campus, Bernice and I, to our favorite gardens and fountains, into alleys over cobblestones and sidewalks into lighted corridors and out again, round and round and round. 

And then by day we would jockey with the throngs of other bikers for a path to class, not remembering whether to keep to the right or the left, and sometimes trying to change sides at the last minute only to capsize or collide with other riders.  

I could never remember where I left Bernice, and sometimes I forgot about her all together. Thus, three or four days after our last ride together, I would be wandering the entirety of campus, checking all the various bike racks, as well as lawns and gardens, restraining myself from calling her name. 

One such night, around 11 or so, I had been to all of the daily hotspots twice over, and was beginning to give up hope. Bernice was not at the gym, nor Bonne and company's apartment complex. She was not outside any of the coffee stops or convenience shops. She was nowhere near the track, or the bookstore, or the student center. She wasn't even over at the University Village shopping plaza. Where else could she be? 

I had a vague memory of attending an art history class, but it seemed like something that had occurred in the very distant past. Surely I had ridden Bernice since then! But, just to be sure, I made my way over to the courtyard behind the cluster of art galleries and classrooms. I always threw Bernice somewhere on the lawn, since I was usually running at least ten minutes late. 

As I rounded the corner, my heart began to sink. The lawn was empty. Perhaps Bernice was gone for good this time. 

But as my gaze continued upwards, my heart began to pound in shock and awe.

Directly ahead of me was a fountain, a pool of water surrounding a large stone statue. The statue was crouched, humble, with head cowering in penitence. And on the head was draped Bernice. She lay completely vertical, with spokes pointed towards the heavens. 

"BERNICE!!!!!" I screamed for real this time, running toward her. 

"Is that your bike??" A random guy yelled from the sidewalk.

 "Ah.... I.... yes.... !" I stuttered, trotting frantically around the fountain, trying to figure out a way to dislodge her without becoming completely submerged. 

"Wait one second! I'll be right there!" He offered, swinging his leg over the fence that separated campus from the outside world.

I was still trying to process what was happening. Oh, sweet Bernice and the scraps you get yourself into. If only, if ONLY I had my camera. 

Now the guy was at my side, and he was all business. 

"I'll kind of straddle the water and hand her to you," he said. "You just wait on the edge of the fountain here."

"Ok," I said, secretly disappointed that my Absurd Experience was being resolved so fast. 

Demonstrating impressive balance and flexibility, the young man swept one leg to rest beside the statue, placing one hand on its head while using the other hand to maneuver Bernice off the arm. 

"Do you do this often?" I felt like asking him as he handed her to me, with nary a splash or drop of water between her wheels. 

Once Bernice and I were properly reconciled and settled on dry land, he was off again, perhaps to find other midnight situations to rectify. As for Bernice, I gave her a long, soothing walk home, stroking her handlebars all the way. Back at Parkside I tested her lock three times, to make sure she would be having no more impromptu adventures, at least for the time being. 

the end of sophomore spring.

The second semester of sophomore year was drawing to a close, and I was ready. Part of me could have gone on partying and skipping class forever, but another, larger part was exhausted. Now I had 72 hours where all that stood between me and home was packing up my room and shipping its entire contents across country, handing in two term papers, and studying for exams in classes that I had attended a handful of times. The worst would be art history 121, my last exam. I had gone to lecture maybe three times, and that’s counting the incidences where I came in late, sat for ten minutes passing notes back and forth with Bonne, and left again.

I, of course, justified my behavior in all kinds of ways. The class was remedial. The teacher spoke in a monotone drone. It was impossible to concentrate since everyone else was on their cell phones, chatting, passing notes.

It was a carnival land outside; why memorize useless facts about Gothic architecture when you could be eating fresh sushi in the garden, followed by ice cream perched next to a fountain, then lie on the sunny lawn for a while digesting, then burn everything off with a spinning class followed by yoga to cool down, then you call your friend Pam and she meets you outside at the pool with mojitos (concealed in water bottles, of course) and you lie back and tan and drink and talk and soon before you know it evening is settling in and its time to find the gang and see what’s on the entertainment agenda: party on campus or the Hollywood Hills, movie night, dinner in LA, art gallery opening... or a little bit of everything?

That was my daily schedule and I was loath to change it. Especially with something so prosaic as class.

I somehow completed the initial papers and exams in a whirly blur of libraries and snacks and vodka and early morning cigarettes, of racing from place to place on Bernice, of curling up on the pile of clothes in my friend Ana's room with computer and champagne...

Ana had coerced me into spending the final days of madness on her floor, and somehow, the mess of her life made me feel comfortable and cocooned. However reckless and unprepared and unstudious I had been that semester, I was nothing compared to Ana. She insisted that I have a good time even as I worked, and so in between paragraphs of analysis I was shown clips of movies, introduced to new bands, served experimental drinks, and taken out for flavored cigarette breaks. I encouraged her to join me in feigning productivity, considering she had a 10 page paper due the next day, but she waved me off, concentrating instead on the considerable stash of pink champagne. 

I passed in my paper on Andy Warhol. I had one exam, and the packing up of my room, to go. I spent all day Wednesday organizing, boxing, taping. I was fraught with anxiety that I couldn't ignore any longer now that the champagne was gone. How was I going to get this all shipped before tomorrow? How in the WORLD was I going to learn all I needed to know for art history before 11am?

I made both a smart move and a mistake in admitting my incapacity, and calling my friend Simon to ask him for the favor of helping me with the boxes. It was smart in that he cheerfully and quickly helped me load all seven or eight boxes into our friend's SUV, and drove me to the closest FedEx, where business was taken care of in no time. It was a lesson in how easily things can be done when you swallow your pride to ask for help. 

But on the way home, I saw the flip side of involving other people in your affairs; you have to accommodate their own whims. And Simon's whim was to drop by Barbara and company's apartment just to say hello, and so we did, and they were there and already well into the smoking loon and pink champagne, on account of this being our last night and all, and before I knew it I was agreeing to a glass, just a glass!, of smoking loon. 

"Maybe it will help me relax," I told myself as I drained it. And that was the beginning of the end. 

hunt's wild ride.

“That just smacked the drunk out of me,” Bonne said.

Hunt was undeterred.

“Let’s go off roading!” He yelled, accelerating the car forward onto the grass and then backward into a parked mini van.

“Uh oh,” Hunt said.

We looked around, first assessing the damage and then each other.

“What do we do now?” Simon said.

“I don’t think anyone saw,” Bonne said.

We looked to the left and we looked to the right. The coast was clear.

Then we looked ahead, and there, blocking our path, was a campus police SUV with its headlights pointed straight at us.

“Uh oh,” Hunt said again.

He put the car into drive.

And then we went off-roading again, over the grassy knoll and onto a side street, and towards the nearest freeway just as fast as the little car could go.

“Are DPS like... REAL police? Or just kind of.... security?” Bonne yelled over the wind.

“I’ve never really thought about it.... I mean.... all they do is like... break up parties. And let you in when you’re locked out. So they don’t really seem that police-like to me,” I responded.

“I think that once we reach the freeway, that means they don’t have jurisdiction anymore,” Simon shouted definitively, to which we all nodded eagerly.

“Yes, yes!” We cried, hair blowing wildly. “They most certainly do NOT have jurisdiction!”

We ran a red light, and then another.

“Don’t turn around, Bonne,” Bonne said in a low tone.

“I won’t. Don’t you turn around either,” I said.

We nodded solemnly, and then slowly, stealthily, peeked over our shoulders to look.

The DPS cruiser was directly behind us.

“Faster, faster!” We whirled around. “We’re almost to the freeway!! JURISDIC-"

The shrill tone of a siren drowned out our cries, accompanied simultaneously by flashing blue lights and the low growl of a megaphone, “Sir, pull over the vehicle and step out of the car. SIR. PULL OVER YOUR VEHICLE AND STEP ONTO THE PAVEMENT. NOW.”

We all trembled as Hunt idled the car over next to a gas station and fumbled open the door.

“Be strong,” we whispered.

He was met by two burly officers who produced a pair of handcuffs: apparently DPS did do more than just break up parties. Hunt was locked in them and promptly shuttled to the curb. He sat, forlornly, waiting for whatever was to come. Meanwhile, the four of us in the car were being held under the vigilant scrutiny of one of the more disgruntled officers. We whimpered to each other as we handed around the pack of cigarettes, shakily lighting up one after another in efforts to calm our nerves. At one point Simon dropped the pack and ducked to retrieve it.

“Stop fumbling about in the car!” The DPS officer barked. “You’re making me nervous!”

Simon snapped back up in terror. He didn’t move a muscle for the next ten minutes.

We certainly didn’t want to give the officer reason for coming any closer when there were two cans of beer concealed under a sweatshirt by Simon’s legs. We were in the process of realizing just how dire the consequences of this situation might be, considering all the evidence that could be used against us.

Hunt was drunk, barefoot, and possibly high. He had no ID or license on him and the car was technically stolen since its owner was passed out cold in her apartment. He was from England and already had one criminal offense pending after he had been fined on Frat Row for walking around with an open container of alcohol. Any more misdemeanors, and he could legally be deported. Now we had remembered we had alcohol in the car and could only thank the heavens that Hunt had not secured any cocaine at the Radisson.

It was in the midst of all these bleak thoughts that LAPD pulled up. I thought I might wet my pants when I saw the squad car.

“It was nice knowing you guys,” Simon whispered, on the verge of tears. Bonne could manage only a small squeak in response.

We waited for the second time that night in petrified anticipation, a feeling of doom growing stronger with every second. Finally, the doors of the police car opened. We cringed. I closed my eyes in a brief prayer to I knew not what. As I opened them slowly, my first glimpse was of blonde hair. Then, a police badge pinned to a rather ample chest. I widened my eyes in shock. Could it possibly be?

It was. Not one, but two young, female, and I may say hot cops were striding confidently toward the place where Hunt was being held captive on the curb.

This might be time to add that Hunt is about as good-looking as one can get, a wavy-haired, blue-eyed Peter Pan with an endearing smile and model physique. He also has a charming British accent that he plays up or down according to the circumstances.

“Uncuff him,” the blonde said immediately.

The three of us in the car felt a simultaneous thrill. We snuck a glance in each others’ directions before turning to watch the scene unfold.

Hunt was released before being helped to a standing position. His hair flopped about fetchingly as he staggered upright, his half-way unbuttoned shirt revealing his defined chest. On his face was a look of absolute guilt and repentance. We couldn’t hear the exact things he was murmuring but we saw the blonde officer’s mixture of sympathy and bemusement as she shined a pencil-light at his pupils.

the talking clock.

“It’s 4:57 PM,” the friendly clock announced.

“Shut up, Shut Up!” I hissed. The rest of the passengers in the crowded elevator turned and stared.

I gritted my teeth, gave an apologetic smile, and tried not to think about the fact that I was still in last night’s party clothes, reeked of smoke, had make-up running down my face and circles under my eyes, and was glistening with sweat. Half of my hair was matted, the other half stuck straight out. And I had a talking clock to boot.

Down we went to the third floor, where a horde of faces fell when they saw that there was no room left. There was an awkward stare-off between the elevator group and the outsiders as those inside fruitlessly jabbed the button. Finally, the doors slid closed and we were back in motion... only to arrive moments later at a disconcertingly familiar location. We were back on the fourth floor.

Several passengers, including myself, let out a groan. It was clear that with the sheer volume of people trying to navigate the dorm, the normal system of elevation was off. There was another bout of increasingly violent pounding on the lobby button, an exasperated pause, and then we were dropping back down again... only to be met by the same sour faces of the third floor. I, for one, could take no more.

“Hold the doors!” I yelled from the back corner, inciting another collective groan.

“Scuse me, pardon me,” I said as I jostled my way through the masses, garbage bags swiping the shins of the slow to move. An Asian parent trying to enter the elevator received a particularly hard hit at the knees.

“It’s 4:58 PM,” the clock informed him.

Two minutes! I had been through worse, I reminded myself, as I swerved and shimmied past parents and furniture, over hockey bags and squatting students, into the stairwell, where a rub up against the clock let me know that another minute had passed. Indeed, it was quite vocal all the way down the stairs, since I was no longer lifting the bags so much as letting them drag along behind me.

“What the hell is that?” A confused passer-by asked, but I had no time for trivialities. I had reached the lobby. Slamming through the door, I dashed for the first bit of empty floor I could find and dumped the bags on top of one another.

“It’s 5:00 PM!” Came from somewhere deep within the mound.

“I KNOW!” I shouted back, turning and sprinting towards the stairs.