Waltz of Her Life

Linda was pretty sure there was some kind of Jewish law that would forbid Nancy's appearance at a party, but she invited her anyway. Nancy declined. She would be at someplace called the Hillel Foundation that night and every other Saturday night for the rest of the semester.

Four quick days later, Linda arrived at Lauren's apartment early, to see if she could help her set up or cook anything.

Lauren and her roommates were not serving any food at the party, but they placed two large kegs of beer in huge vats of ice in the living room. "How many people are you expecting?"

Linda also noticed the stacks of plastic cups and cases of soda.

"I told everybody I know," Lauren replied. "Shelley told everybody she knows. Marie told everybody she knows, and Naomi told everybody she knows."

"That's a lot of 'everybodys,'" Linda said. "Aren't you worried everybody's going to trash this place?" She looked at the expensive stereo and thought about the scrumptious bedroom furniture upstairs.

"Nobody's allowed upstairs, except to use the restroom," Lauren said. "And most of the party's going to be in the courtyard anyway."

Over the next few hours, Lauren changed into a low-cut teal floral top and her tight, hip hugger jeans to go with high-heeled sandals. All of her roommates dressed the same way, causing Linda to feel out of place in her conservative-by-comparison long sleeved knit top. Friends of theirs began to trickle in and by ten o'clock every inch of the apartment and the courtyard outside thrived with beer-addled joviality. On the couches in the living room, a guy named George started taking hits from a tall, neon red plastic bong. He passed it around the room, the girls and guys causing the water to bubble left and right.

Marie handed the bong to Linda, who politely refused it by shaking her head. "You don't want any?" she asked. "You don't know what you're missing."

But Linda knew what she was missing: a feeling of disorientation, dry mouth, and a sudden, ravenous appetite. She walked around in the living room, squeezing through crowds of people, weaving this way and that way, nursing one beer, witnessing guys and girls return to the spigot time and again, filling and refilling, knocking back cupfuls of beer.

A guy she didn't recognize, with round, John Lennon type glasses and a scruffy chin, brought in a six-pack of his own beer. A small crowd had gathered around him in the courtyard.

"I'm going to show you guys how to shotgun," he said. He took a can opener out of his pocket and cut a triangle opening into the bottom of the beer can, causing some to spray out sideways for a moment. He put his lips around that opening, held the beer can upright, sucking hard on it. With his free hand he reached up and popped the top on the can. With a whooshing sound, his eyes opened wide and he coughed and sputtered on twelve ounces of beer that rocketed down his throat in one gulp.