I think we've passed the statute of limitations on this one.

TequilaCon was this weekend. And also, Grad School Reject had asked for tequila stories. Although there is no actual tequila in this story, the characters herein are tequila-related in my mind. Eventually, I will write tequila stories as well.

1997. My last semester of college. This class is held in one of the university's theaters. I'm sprawled in the third row, legs up on the seat in front of me, listening to the instructor differentiate among power tools and address their various theatrical uses. I take out the plastic container of leftovers I've brought for lunch, mostly consisting of slices of candied yams. He watches me, quizzically.

Fuck. I forgot a fork.

I eat with my fingers.

He watches me some more. Not so quizzically. He tosses in some mention of how this will be tested. I keep eating. And listening. And nodding. Eventually, he stops speaking.

Staredown.

He's not pissed off; he's trying not to laugh.

"You don't seriously think I need to take notes on this? I think I'll recognize the power drill on the midterm."

*****

Late some Saturday night a few weeks later. I'm flopped on a cushy thing near the bar inside of some Pan-Asian restaurant. This piece of furniture could seat three, but right now it's just me and the guy beside me. With some space between us. The place is dark, vaguely shadowy, and I'd probably be able to give more details if I hadn't drunk quite so much vodka. But that's okay, because I'm not the only one in such sorry condition--he's not much better, and neither are the people we arrived with. This is when the sober people show up.

And by "sober people", I mean "high-strung and anal retentive". There are two of them--one man, one woman--and both of them have some strange fixation on my sofa companion. I tell him he ought to start his own cult. He says that it's just a hobby. He'd rather be a designer. At the moment, he's also stuck being an adjunct instructor. Of course, when he says that it's just a hobby, what he really means is that he's done with her, and can't I please stop her from sitting down so he doesn't have to be the bad guy.

I can, and I do. Actually, we do it together. She approaches; he spreads his knees; I grab the inside of his thigh. Then we both look up and smile. Neither she (a grad student) nor the man in denial of being fixated on the man beside me (another adjunct) smile back. How rude.

They pull up two chairs, chat with the drunken posse, and order vegetable sushi. More conversation ensues, people come and go, we drink more.

Here's the next thing I remember:

Drunken sushi-eating female grad student filled with rage approaches the sofa, but remains on the other side of the small coffee table. She carries an immense martini glass.

The martini glass contains the partially-digested remains of her vegetable sushi.

Ceremoniously, she places the vomit martini on the table in front of us--an offering to we gods of we don't give a fuck.

Yay! A present!

She says something. What she says I have no clue, because my male cohort is shifting his body from serving as my pillow, and is searching for something. Feverishly. Checking every pocket. Shifting stuff around in the bags at our feet. He finds it.

A pen.

He pulls off the cap, grabs a napkin, and begins sketching.

The vomit martini.

Sketching. The vomit martini.

"Look at that." He is deadpan, sincerely excited. "That spittle on the side of the glass, hanging down..."

(Indeed, there is a long path of drool dripping to the table.)

"The perfect detail. It fucking makes the shot."

We look on as he finishes. He is practiced--the sketch is quick and accurate. Someone puts her in a cab, our group disperses, one of our friends goes home with the inked napkin. Actually, one of our friends takes another one of our friends to her home, and with them goes the sketch.

Or maybe she takes possession of it later.

Not sure.

Mostly, what I'm sure of is that they all left us alone.

And a glass of vomit isn't as big a distraction as a sober person might think it would be. If you've consumed enough vodka and are too busy making out on the sofa.

And I honestly can't remember at which point the bar staff cleared the glass from the table.

The end.

...but not really, because I haven't even gotten to the tequila yet.