Risky Business

Just a fun story

If you know me, you know that I am what some would kindly call “different”, and what others would not-so-kindly call “f*****g weird”. That’s why starting high school (in Ireland, the 7th grade) and adolescence as a whole, was a big deal for me. I had finally been accepted into a social circle, and however strange that social circle was, I now had people to do whatever the things that people in social circles do together. Although, I must have found just the thought of camaraderie enough for me, as I can’t recall doing much of anything that year with anyone other than my dog. Regardless, I now had people I could call my friends. Also an addition to my life this year was my minds curious ability to land on subjects such as, let’s say, breasts, or the color of the attractive waitress’ undergarments, something I couldn’t quite rationalize without the use of aliens or poisoning from my rather suspicious, but admittedly sweet, grandparents. Now my mind would wander gloriously, opposed to focussing on things arguably more important, such as homework or whatever “essential life values” my parents were trying to instill in me. 

These two introductions into my life made the perfect pair. I now had the ability to not only taste the forbidden fruit (as designated by my overly-concerned parents), but I could now retell, discuss, and eventually become ashamed of my actions, as every good, budding teenager should. Unfortunately my first experience with this didn’t come in the form I had hoped it might (moonlight, young love, Rachael McAdams), but rather in the form of some girl’s youthful reckless abandon and excessive alcohol consumption. While not ideal, I wasn’t in a position to be picky, as I knew there wasn’t much out there for a fat kid whose voice hadn’t broken.

Anyways, these two elements came to the height of their existence in February 2010, notably during my German class’ trip for a weekend in Cologne. At the time, Germany represented the promised land. Young drinking ages, unrestrictive sex laws and hot dogs in vending machines. What more could an overweight Irish teenager want? My friends and I were overwhelmed by the possibilities, meticulously planning out our weekend: we were going to slay b*****s, get wasted, go to a few soccer games, stuff our stomachs with currywürst (a foreign and intriguing german sausage dish which could only be described by my teacher at the time as “exotic”)  and probably see a museum. That last bit took a little coercing on my part, but after I convinced them that the National Socialist Documentation Center was a prime location to pick up hot tourist chicks, we were all happy. The weekend was set to be one we would all remember forever. 

As I’m sure you can imagine, things didn’t turn out as we had planned. Besides the fact that we only had 48 hours, we eventually came to the realization that our teachers weren’t going to allow 60 fourteen year-olds to run around in a foreign city by themselves. Also, it turns out Nazi documentation centers weren’t the place to be if you were a young and attractive tourist. And thus, our weekend was rather anti-climatic. Our nights, which were meant to be spent partying and regaling one another with our booze-filled, sex-crazed escapades, were spent playing half-hearted poker and complaining about how crappy currywürst was. Even our soccer match was a disappointment, with our class’ original plans to see an important Bundesliga rivalry replaced with a meaningless division two match in Duisburg. If you haven’t heard of Duisburg, don’t worry. It’s not because you’re ignorant or uncultured, but rather because you’ve had better things to do in your life than learn about a German “city” which is home to 500, 000 (probably depressed) citizens and is known for its vibrant steel industry. Actually, I’d argue that you’re better off knowing nothing about it. 

Eventually Sunday came, and we all got into our school’s bus, with our bags packed and our egos deflated. We had done nothing we had set out to; no drinking, no sex, and hell, I hadn’t even bought a hot dog out of a vending machine. Germany, the place we had once thought of paradise, had turned out to be much like home. The only real differences were that it was slightly colder and no one could pronounce their w’s. With all of these things painfully prevalent in our minds, we arrived at the airport. 

Now, when we talk about it today, I hold that it was my friend Ben’s plan all along, but he insists it was simply a stroke of genius on his part. Regardless, just as we sat our bags down at the waiting area for an opportunity to get some food to fill our stomachs with and some drinks with which to drown our disappointment, I was casually reminded by him that you only have to be fourteen to buy a Playboy magazine in Germany, and that there was a Hudson News, which looked liked it could use a little business, near by  with the latest issue sitting on its shelves.

I immediately rejected the idea, brushing it off as ludicrous and flat-out irresponsible. How could I walk back to my teachers with such blasphemous material in-hand? What if I were to get caught? There was no way I was going to return to Dublin with my head hung in shame and my proverbial tail between my legs over a picture of Jenny McCarthy’s tits. But Ben was relentless, thinking of every way which he could somehow convince me to do it. After traditional persuasion proved to be useless, he started to hit below the belt. He said I wasn’t man enough, that I didn’t have it in me. He even questioned my sexuality. And then I broke. After the disappointing weekend, I, no, we, needed a win, and I was not going to leave Germany without a story with which to remember it by. Also, Jenny McCarthy was looking pretty good. 

Don’t get me wrong, while I had obliged, I was still petrified. I walked briskly over to the newsagent, hands shaking, trying to mentally prepare myself for the task at hand. I spent a few minutes loitering around the new fiction section, pretending to take note of the new John Grisham novel, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. After gathering up enough courage and reading the backs of at least three different James Patterson novels, my time had come.  I walked over the the aisle with the Playboys, quickly snatched one up and purposefully walked over to the cash register. My heart was pumping and the adrenaline was coursing through my veins. After I muttered some unclear, and very false, explanation to the person working at the register, I paid my five euro and came into possession of what felt to be the holy grail.

With my cheeks blushed, the bag carefully concealed under my sweater, and my pride at an all-time high, I walked back towards the group. What I had not thought about was Ben’s penchant for spreading news particularly quickly. 

Just as I walked within the vicinity of the group, wearing my best poker face, the whole class, not only my group of friends, erupted in applause. Not the kind of applause one hears at a local broadcasting awards show, where it’s simply out of politeness or pity. This was the type of applause which signified pure joy and elation, for one of their comrades had finally broken the mold and done something they saw as great. As I walked closer, classmates lined up to shake my hand, pat me on the back or give me a few quick words of congratulations, much to my embarrassment. In that moment, I had become their leader, their pride and joy. They had made me their king, and I was to reign over them. 

Unfortunately, my tenure was only to last about two days, and after a slew of kingdom mismanagements, I descended back down to my old position as simply Jacob. But while it turned out that a king’s life was not meant for me, and I was meant to be no more than just me, at least I can rest at night knowing that in Germany, I did as was intended and certainly created a few memories.