DR Drinks for 23 Hours

This story is dedicated to the memory of The Summer of Dan.

“Dan loved his summer more than summer loved summer itself”

-          Dan, 2001

Iowa City, Iowa – Saturday, September 1, 2001

The alarm clock buzzed.  Dan reached blindly for the snooze button in a brute manner.  The sound stopped.  Dan stared at the ceiling, its white facade glimmering from the red light of the alarm clock display.  It was absolutely dark outside.  It was 4:45 in the morning.

Dan headed down the hallway and to the showers, whistling the tune of a madman…a madman set to drink for 24 straight hours.  Minutes later he found himself back in his room, staring at his closet.  He had run through this moment in his mind many times over the previous days and weeks.  Dan wasn’t just getting dressed in the early hours of any Saturday, he was getting ready for the first tailgate of the year.

The tailgate is where Dan truly lived…where he breathed the sweet air of drunkenness.  This wasn’t something new for him.  He had made quite a name for himself at these events.  Whether Dan was pumping a keg, riding a girls’ banana seat bike through a gauntlet of rolling kegs, standing with a sign that read “I NEED TICKETS” no more than four feet from a man with a sign reading “I HAVE TICKETS”, or just enjoying slamming full beers on command…being careful not to spill on his grey t-shirt with raised, felt letters saying “OFFICIAL – KITTY SWATTER”…he was on top of his game.  He was the belle of the ball.

Dan soon headed down the stairs.  As he descended the two flights, he passed an open window.  The cool breeze shot through the button fly of his pink cotton pants and caused his grey t-shirt to rustle against the vintage button-up below it.  Dan took the last step and opened a door to find a sea of sofas with random men sprawled out upon them.  He looked through the crowd for his man, McG, and awoke him with the sweet sound of the beer can opening.

It was now 5 in the morning and Dan had begun drinking.  Fresh off his exploits of The Summer of Dan, he was like a locomotive, fueled by his insatiable thirst for the sauce.  He and McG went back to his room to drink and listen to Jay-Z’s “Izzo (H.O.V.A.)”…Unplugged album…masterful.  McG didn’t take much to get going.  He could usually go from zero-to-Irish in about 3 beers.  Three beers were all it took and an hour later Dan and McG headed out.

The walk to The Outhouse was especially exciting that morning.  The two men were giddy with emotion in anticipation of this first outdoor drinking marathon of the year.  They arrived at The Outhouse to find a ready-to-rock Noodle on the front porch, beer in hand.  Noodle was a pro.  One of the Four Horsemen of the Tailgate Drink-Apocalypse (along with DR, Eric D, and Matt S), Noodle was always game for a good showing…whether jumping out of a Cambus window or getting pinched while urinating in the Iowa River…the man had his dials turned up to 11.  Numerous beers were enjoyed on the front porch while waiting for others to awake and prepare.  One by one, Hendu, Matt S, Joey Bag of Donuts, and Matt F trickled down the stairs to join the shindig.  Spirits were high, as were blood alcohol levels.  Wiping away the remains of any residual carryover, the men drank and listened to CCR.

Then trouble started.  An old man across the street showed up, seemingly out of nowhere, at the front porch.  He was an angry fella and he complained about the noise.  It was only 8 in the morning but we were already in full force.  Tired of this dickhead’s comments, we left the porch and headed to Melrose Court.

The walk to Melrose Court was a long one.  That day’s journey was filled with irrational conversations cursing the “bright moon” (a.k.a. the sun) and stops at Handi-Mart to chat with Neil and Sarah, and to pick up the necessary smokes and microwaveable breakfast sandwiches.  The men then journeyed through the streets until finding a cab that whisked them away to another place.

University Heights is an enigma.  A city surrounded entirely by Iowa City.  A city seemingly built for one purpose…tailgating.  The crew departed their cab mid-traffic and headed out on foot.  As they traveled west on Melrose they passed copious amounts of stands selling trinkets, apparel, and large pieces of meat.  Learning that the Hawkeye’s opponent that day was Kent State, Dan erupted into several versus and orally-performed riffs from CSNY’s “Ohio”.

The posse continued over the railroad tracks, making a hard left onto Melrose Court.  The air was filled with the sweet sounds of gangsta rap, collegiate fight songs, drunken assholes’ conversations, and the effervescent screeching of skanks’ voices.  As they neared the field the group expanded, now including such favorites as The Choz, Lunchbox, Gundy, Horse, MDR, and, of course, the Big Spender.

Dan made a beeline towards a large circle of people.  They were surrounding the keg like wild animals feeding.  Dan finagled his way through the crowd using his cunning speed and cat-like reflexes.  The man controlling the distribution of beer looked up at Dan and put the hose directly into his cup.  You could hear others in the hodgepodge of a line murmur “Why does this guy get to cut in line?” and “Who does he think he is?”…they clearly had no clue of what was to happen.

Out of nowhere, Matt S shouted “Bull Moose” at Dan.  Dan looked up at him with a psychopathic smile, nodded, and slammed his beer.  It was a rule…he had to do it.  However, he didn’t take the punishment the same way others did, he somehow enjoyed chugging beers on command.  It was 10 in the morning.  He was on a mission.

The next hour was electric.  Dan made his rounds through the crowd assembled in the field.  His mirrored aviator sunglasses blocked the bit of sun that slipped through the transparent blue brim of his San Diego visor.  He drank an alarming number of beers as he walked about, making witty comments nearly on command and giving Techmo Bowl-esque high-fives.

Eleven o’clock came and went and so did some of the crowd, choosing to see a foolish sporting event rather than consume liquor in a modern-day Parthenon of drunks.  Completely intoxicated, Dan began to grow weary.  A combination of his multi-layered “creative black tie” attire, the hot September sun, and his need for “something stronger” made him anxious to leave the field and continue drinking in a more civilized location…an Iowa City bar. 

After finding no one to comply with his request, Dan went on to the next best thing…a drunken wrestling match with McG.  Encouraged by Bisk and his means of persuasion, Dan struck McG across the face, sending his father’s kickass hunting-style Ray Bans off his face.  The squabble was soon over and so was this tailgate for Dan and McG.  They headed down the road, side-by-side, to find whatever was next.

As they stumbled down the street, they ran into a man they knew, but not too well.  He was a number of years older than the two and was once a prominent bartender at Bo James (yes…I know “prominent” and “Bo James” don’t go together).  He informed the two wide-eyed twenty year olds that he was heading to a downtown establishment, Martinis.  The group was now at four with Dan, McG, the bartender, and some trampy friend of the bartender (seriously…she was a skank).  They sat in the beer garden and drank…aggressively.  Shots were followed by more shots that were followed by, yet again, more shots and chased down with cocktails of bourbon and scotch.  Needless to say, things got messy.

Time was no longer decipherable.  The same was to say for McG’s coherentness and Dan’s tact in conversation.  The two soon left the bar and stumbled through the streets making their way north on Dubuque Street.  They stopped at Handi-Mart, once again, and picked up a thirty-pack of Old Style.  As they headed back to 702 North Dubuque Street they estimated, judging by the “bright moon” that it was around 3 in the afternoon.

The two delinquents headed straight for the corner room on the third floor.  A glorious barrage of fake wood paneling, Dan’s shoddy drywall work, and a stereo with outdoor speakers on the castle-like turret greeted the two men.  Dan and McG soon found themselves outdoors again, drinking like kings on the balcony of their castle.  Beer after beer were consumed as the two listened to the sweet sounds of Dan’s illustrious mix CD “The Kirk Cameron Workshop” while sitting in folding lawn chairs.  After a few hours of pointless conversations that would make sailors blush, the two realized that all the beer was gone, with Dan handling the lion’s share of it.  Almost as soon as the beer was finished…so was McG.  He then disappeared, only to be later found on the very sofa his day started on, a mere twelve hours earlier.

Dan could not let this departure slow him down.  He had to continue.  He had to persevere.  As Dan sat alone on his futon, the volume of his music started to draw several newcomers to the scene.  Seth, KGB, MDR, and Jeff all stopped by to take part in at least some of the debauchery.  Dan was slowing down and so was the speed in which he was consuming the bottle of Dewar’s in hand.  He realized he needed a change of venue…anything to keep going.

Venturing down to the next floor he stumbled into a room to find a belligerent MDR and, a new addition to the day’s calamity, MJN, fresh off his shift at whatever fucking restaurant he worked at.  After several left-handed cigarettes, MDR excused himself for a drunken cruise across town to pass out.  It was now about 9 at night and Dan needed to go out for fear that if he didn’t, he would soon be sleeping like the rest of the losers.  Reading this look in his eyes, MJN gathered Jeff and the Big Spender to head back downtown.

The walk back down Dubuque Street was almost painful for Dan.  Every step taken seemed to require all his energy and thought.  Dan tried to keep his composure on the outside while repeating a mantra in his mind.  “Tell your brain, to tell your leg, to tell your knee, to tell your foot, to take a step” repeated in his thoughts.  The walk was daunting.

The group of four soon reached their first destination, Mickey’s.  Mickey’s was a special place for Dan and MJN.  Only weeks earlier, during The Summer of Dan, this location was a haven for Dan, MJN, Hendu, The Choz, and MDR, stopping there nearly every evening to enjoy a $1 pint or $2 cocktail after their shifts at the hospital, restaurant, or Sunglass Hut had ended.

The four ordered several beers and cocktails.  Dan was reaching a comatose state.  He could order drinks, consume the drinks, but that was about it.  Mild conversation was difficult and Dan could tell the others at the table agreed.  It was nearly 11 at night.  Eighteen hours down, 6 to go.  Unchartered waters.

Needing a change of pace to keep going, Dan suggested leaving the bar.  MJN said that they should go to Martinis.  Dan had already spent a fair amount of time there, but agreed as he knew how MJN kept his wallet around his neck and had connections to a Jewish cheerleader working the patio that night.  Dan led the crew out of the bar and did the running man while heading through the doorway.  Once again, they were on Dubuque Street.

The streets were alive…filled to the proverbial brim with underage drinkers, stumbling to and fro.  As the men headed south on the sidewalk, MJN realized Jeff had disappeared.  He had discretely slipped into an alley to vomit.  His night was done…and then there were three.

Dan’s mind started to fade.  Like an elderly man facing the effects of Alzheimer’s, he became forgetful.  His conversation skills had almost completely vanished.  Simple words like “yes” and “no” were soon replaced by head nods and shakes.  They passed through the indoor crowd en route to the back patio.  When they emerged through the door, it seemed all eyes were on the three gentlemen.  Dan slipped his way into a plastic lawn chair and the others followed.  The feel of the plastic, cool from the night’s air, sent a shiver up Dan’s booze-drenched spine.  He was invigorated.  He had three hours before the bar closed…he was ready. 

The Jewish cheerleader came by for the drink order.  After some nearly-witty banter from MJN, he ordered his cocktail, the Big Spender was next.  Seconds seemed to turn to minutes as Dan repeated his drink order in his brain, once again, a mantra…“Goose Island – Honkers Ale, Goose Island – Honkers Ale, Goose Island – Honkers Ale”.  By the time it was his turn to order, he froze.  Dan tried to open his mouth, he tried to get the words out, but nothing.  He looked to MJN for some sort of sympathy or help but received nothing.  Just then, Dan lifted his right arm in the air.  His elbow was bent at ninety degrees with his hand and fingers pointing away from his body.  He then billowed out an enormous “HONK”.  Somehow in his pseudo-comatose state he had mustered the energy to let out a sound so magnificent it got the attention of the entire patio.  Dan had officially become mentally retarded.

The goose sound that billowed from Dan was loud enough to get the attention of another table, further back in the patio.  The Lunchbox arose and walked over to Dan, MJN, and the Big Spender.  The combination of knowing Dan’s plan for the day and seeing him in the current state must have both scared and entertained the Lunchbox.

The three hours that passed next seemed to go by fairly quickly for Dan.  He was non-audible and, besides the occasional journey to the men’s room, was drinking steadily.  At some point with professional drinkers it becomes routine.  The body takes over.  The mind relaxes and systematically shuts down motor skills.  It can’t be proved, but there was a short time where Dan was deaf, blind, and had no central nervous system.  After a few more embarrassing drink ordering fiascos, the bar closed.  Lost in the shuffle was the Big Spender…no one will ever know what happened to him that night, but he made it home somehow.

The next few minutes must have been difficult for MJN.  He had traverse Iowa City’s pedestrian mall and search for drunk sluts while keeping an eye on Dan.  MJN was torn.  He, of course, wanted to coerce some dumb, innocent tramp into going home with him but he also wanted to see Dan’s dream come to fruition.  Twenty-one hours down, three to go.

The world goes dark.  The next thing Dan realized is that he’s back in his room, sitting on the futon, listening to music.  He has a beer in his hand and he’s not alone.  He looked to his right and sees MJN on the balcony with some NeRF (non-registered floozy).  Dan can barely see but can tell she looks young.  He thought to himself that MJN is most definitely an NRSO (non-registered sex offender).

The world goes dark again.  It feels like Dan is stuck in the midst of a giant, slow-operating strobe light.  A minute of consciousness, a minute of darkness.  Then, in a moment of true clarity, Dan jumped up from his seat.  He grabbed the alarm clock to see the time.  Dan saw the numbers 2:45…he is ecstatic.  He didn’t miss anything…he could still finish this thing.  Dan headed to the stereo to change the CD.  Noticing the break in the music, MJN turns his attention indoors and notices that Dan is ready to rock.  Their eyes meet briefly.  MJN is caught in the stare of a madman.

Dan puts on U2’s cover of “Unchained Melody”.  He slams his beer before taking an air guitar solo.  His seamless finger work on the imaginary axe is almost dwarfed by the deafening volume of the song.  Dan continues to drink for the next hour with intermittent breaks for left-handed cigarettes.  He is on his way.

Darkness again.  Dan came to and sees his alarm clock has finally failed him.  It is 3:45 in the morning and he is surely dying.  The next bout of darkness is ended with MJN slapping Dan’s face and pouring a beer in his mouth.  He doesn’t resist the liquid being poured down his throat…he embraces MJN’s encouragement.

Then the world goes dark again.  Sleep.

September 1, 2001 will live in infamy in Iowa City.  Iowa beat Kent State 51-0 and DR failed his goal…he only drank for 23 hours.