A lot of kids in high school mature much faster than I and at age sixteen are already six-month veterans of dating, drinking, and pot smoking, and quite ready to play the expert when I decide to try alcohol and ask what it feels like to get drunk. Everyone assures me it’s fun and to hurry up and do it. I’ve refrained because I don’t like the taste which still makes me gag but on this special night I force myself to keep drinking beers until, finally, they start sliding right down, and I become more elated every gulp and start crushing each can upon completion, a manly celebration. After about six brews I deem myself ready to walk around and proclaim, “Look, I’m finally drunk, and I love it.”

I shake hands with a couple of friends and bound to another, who sits on a sofa, and bend to bite one of his shoes, and by the time I arise I conclude if six brews are wonderful, a few more will be even better. And I want to take advantage of beer temporarily tasting like water instead of a prickly carbonated drink. So I guzzle on, exhilaration rising as coherence decreases. Foolish pranks follow but most can’t be remembered.

At the climax of the party I do realize I’m no longer happy. I’m dizzy and bloated, my stomach hurts, and a pervasive bad taste nauseates me as I stagger into a bedroom, thinking, “Uh oh.”

I holler for help and a few friends run in and laugh and make uncomplimentary remarks while I lie on my back and groan. And then, when the ignominious moment arrives, I say, “Wastebasket,” and my abused stomach strikes back.

“I’m never gonna get drunk again.”

“Oh yes you will,” said one beaming fellow. “And your hangover’s gonna be terrible.”

He was right.