Wounded Soldiers

                                                 Wounded Soldiers

                                               A Short Story by The K.O. Kid

           

            The smoke clung to the air as if to remind each of the room’s inhabitants that things were not the same. A rough circle of people crowded around the center of the host’s room. Waiting. Some sat silently, taking in the experience, while others remained jovial and talkative. Being the “K.O. Kid” (a nickname I have adopted referring to how quickly I pass out) naturally, I was one of the former, and I shifted my glance periodically from the mirror propped against the wall opposite of me, and the circle of co-ed students waiting their turn -- all without uttering a word.

            “Wait, I think it’s going that way.”
            “No, they had it” I explained.
            “Jefferson… Jefferson, did you hit this yet?”

            “Once. Is it coming around a second time?”
            “Oh, s**t, I’m already having short-term memory loss. No, bro, it’s over here.” He stopped to laugh before taking in his hit.
            “Here, here you go!” he whispered loudly, all while trying to hold in as much smoke as humanly possible.
            “Corner it” the host said without looking up. She sat at her desk counting the beautiful seeds of nature in her mason jar. Above her desk candid pictures hung, taped directly to her plaster walls. Photos of family, and friends smiling and laughing stared down at her as she calculated her possessions. Between captured memories were reminders: “Hannah, clean your room,” “Test next Friday, April 11^th” etc…

            I took my hit and passed it back to her.

            The room became chaotic about the time we began to leave.
            “I’m cool to drive” my friend said as we stepped into the glow of blue Christmas lights, still hanging and still lit. I looked into his eyes and laughed.  A lone sky-blue tube floated in a sea of blood.

            “Your eyes say otherwise man,” I countered.
            “No, man you’re not driving, we’re walking,” someone else added.

            “Y’all are probably right, I’m having a little trouble standing.”

The group burst into laughter and we made our way onto campus, past the police station and back into the frat house.

            As we stepped inside the house I began to wonder about the nature of transitions. Inside to outside. Is that not like the transition from young to old? It’s not… but at the time, the two seemed relatable, inseparable even. My mind began to wander in a million directions. I soon found that I was inquiring about why we are here if only to die? Is it to make life better for others? They’ll die too, won’t they? One day we’re going to be some future species’ “dinosaurs” and what did we do with our time here on earth? We made deadlines. We made rules. We gained control over the planet, but in so doing we began to control ourselves, to limit our possibilities, I thought. How come we’re the only specie that has a soul? If we aren’t, then why is religion only important to us and not to other species?  If the afterlife is infinite, then our lives are incredibly insignificant. Why? Why is there creation? Why is there a God if what the hell are you doing over here man?

            Huh?

            “Hey, K.O., where have you been man?”

            Reality came crashing back in waves. I was standing in a room surrounded by couches in front of my confused friend. I thought for a second and came up with my reply.
            “You don’t know where I am” I argued in an attempt to explain myself. The habitual existential questions that accompany each experience rested in my mind like a dark dream in the early morn. Always fleeting. I thought about expanding my friend’s mind with the questions I had just raised (before I forgot them), but the thought was ephemeral and soon interrupted by the timely entrance of Carl.

            Carl was a tall and gangly Phi Kappa brother. He habitually wore jeans and a soccer t-shirt (not your average fraternity wear) and on Friday and Saturday evenings he moved his body in a way that shouted to all in his presence- “I’m drunk, so what?”

            “Phi Kappa Hornin!” he exclaimed as he walked into the room. “I challenge you to a game of Wounded Soldier Beer Pong.”

            “What the f**k is a ‘Wounded Soldier’?” Chris Hornin, my friend with the sky-blue tube eyes inquired.

            “Oh, I’ll show you, m**********r.” He nonchalantly ambled across the dance floor toward Chris.  “You see this here beer,” he held up a previously opened beer which had been sitting on the newly painted beer pong table (equipped with room for a cooler installed in the center of the table) “this beer has a purpose, and its purpose has not been realized… yet” He looked up at us as if to make sure we were listening.

            By this point, my friend Danny arrived and together we discovered chairs and sat down to watch the spectacle. If only we had popcorn.

            Carl began to pour the contents of the used beer into a plastic cup- also used.

“The beauty of wounded soldiers is that they can be anywhere… and they’ve always got a story,” he chortled to himself as he searched for the next soldier. He began shaking beers and tossing them until he came to another somewhat-full can. “Bingo!” he’d exclaim and began to fill the plastic cups.
            “Now once we can fill 6 of these babies” he said, pointing to the plastic clubs surrounding the trashcan, “then we’re in some business for Wounded Soldier Beer Pong!”

“That is sick. I’m about to throw up already. You know I played anchorman earlier.”

Chris seemed desperate but, then again, he was a pledge and he knew his fate before the first word left his mouth.

            “Bingo” Carl exclaimed at his latest finding, without addressing Chris’ plea.

            By this point, Danny and I had realized that our chairs had wheels and naturally began rolling across the dance floor.

            “Y’all are freaking me out” Carl said. For the first time acknowledging that Danny and I were, in fact, there.

            My friend and I did not pretend to be fazed by his complaint and continued to spin around the room, laughing and carrying on. Carl’s agitation seemed to recede as his interest in carrying out “Wounded Soldiers” grew.

            “Do you have six yet?” Carl demanded.

            “Five, I’m trying to find one more.” Chris explained

            “Here” The minor contents of three beers joined forces to fill the last of 12 cups.

            “Been-Go!” Carl remarked as he shaped his cups into a small equilateral triangle.

            “One on one Wounded Soldier Beer Pong, here we go.” 

            Chris looked over at me, pleadingly. His well-lauded accomplishments in anchorman (a drinking game which results in four people trying to collectively down an entire pitcher of beer) were about to work against him and he despised every ounce.

            I, however, could offer no condolences. I leaned back in my chair and hummed to myself. “In the deepest ocean… the bottom of the sea” I sat up and looked into my friends bright pink eyes, and noticed he was smiling with recognition “your eyes, they turn on me…” we sang in perfect unison.

            “Let’s go!” Carl screamed, instantly ending our sing-along, and the game commenced.

            For being drunk, both players played quite well. Each sunken ball meant one more stale, warm, backwashed beer to down. Before long, Chris was throwing up after each beer. Halfway through the game, Chris made one last plea.

            “Carl, you’re my brother, if I told you that if I keep doing this I’m going to be sick would you still make me do it?” Carl looked toward Danny and I, as if expecting support.

            “Chris, you don’t have to play, I’m just saying it would be fun if you finished this game with me.”

            Given this, Chris returned to frat-mode. “Is everything that we do supposed to be fun?”

            “Sure.”

            “Ok, then I’ll do it.” And with that, Chris picked up a half full cup of warm Keystone, and poured it down his throat and without missing a beat, walked toward the room’s teeming trashcan and regurgitated all that he had consumed.

            “I’m ready”

            “Do you think you can win Phi Kappa Hornin?”

            “Of course”

            “Then let’s make this a little more interesting.” Carl smiled. There was a look of malice in his eyes. He proceeded to spit into each of the three remaining cups.

            “You better hope you win, cause if you don’t, guess what  you’ll be drinking!”

Chris, smiled back, and quickly added saliva to his remaining cups and the game continued.

            As the game proceeded, Carl became increasingly talkative. “Man, the problem with waking up at 4:30 everyday, which I do… everday, is that you can’t get anything done! You know?”

            No one responded, but he carried on nonetheless.

            “Like, take today for example. I got up, and thought, man I need to get some work done. So I get on the computer, right? And the next thing I know I’m on Youtube watching crazy Asians doing crazy-Asian stunts. That s**t is f*****g awesome! But one related video led to the next and I found that I was sitting there watching fatal car crashes! Then, without realizing it three hours have passed and I’ve been sitting there the whole time watching people die.” He held up the ball and made his shot. If the cup had had a net you would have heard a swoosh. Chris looked at his cup in disbelief and took his drink near the trash, for convenience’s sake.

            About three years later (aka ten sober minutes), the game ended. Chris had lost by one cup.

            “You aren’t going to drink my spit, that’s f*****g nasty, just leave them here.”

            “Good game” Chris said, relieved. The boys shook hands and headed out of the room.

         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~0~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            At approximately 4:30 pm, the next afternoon the four of us men woke up to a crowded house. Each felt like a ghost. When we finally removed ourselves from the comforts of the couches in the main room, we made our way through the house.

            “S**t, not again” Carl cried out.

            We laughed in response and decided to take a short tour of the previous night’s damage.

            The dance floor had been mopped clean. The beer pong tables had been put away and the trash, which had cluttered the room only hours ago, had been removed. Parents were walking the halls of the house, beaming with pride.

            However, as we looked closer, we realized that, alas, four wounded soldiers remained. We looked at each other as if we alone held a secret from the world.

            “You hungry?” Chris asked, to no one in particular.

            “You bet.”

            With that we stepped outside of the house just in time to watch the sunset. As we piled into Carl’s white SUV parked outside, I remembered something that made me smile: “The beauty of wounded soldiers is that they can be anywhere… and they’ve always got a story.”