I’m visiting my brother at the University of Maryland, and I’m really going through a U2 phase at the time. My trademark accessory is a leather jacket featuring the Joshua Tree album cover art. Sure, it’s been more than a decade and change since its release, but that album undoubtedly goes down as their greatest achievement.
My brother has just gotten in to a frat. He’s on his path, I’m on mine, and we both enjoy infiltrating the other’s turf under cover of family.
We go out with the rest of the frat brothers to the big event of the night, a Duke vs. Maryland basketball game at the old tiny stadium. Maryland wins. A typical sports riot breaks out: people are climbing on traffic lights, jumping on buses, flashing skin, etc. The Riot Truck shows up. All of them are dressed like Batman. The crowd is alternating chants of “DUKE SUCKS!” and “U-S-A!”
The cops form a solid line across from the semi-circle perimeter of rioting students. I’m drinking a bottle of Carlo Rossi wine. It’s time to be a hero. I roll the dice. Edging into a space between students and police officers, and thinking on my feet, I shout: “NINE-ONE-ONE! NINE-ONE-ONE!” At the same time I throw up nine fingers, then one finger, then one again.
I can’t say why exactly, but the patriotic undertone seems to resonate at the height of university pride. The crowd follows suit, and everyone’s chanting “NINE-ONE-ONE!”
Hell’s bells.
The cops open fire. We’re bombarded with pepper spray and everyone scatters, a bunch of yahoos laughing and screaming. It’s time to regroup with the frat brothers and drink for the rest of the night.
***
The next night back at my parents’ house, my mom’s having a splash of wine and watching TV.
“How was your visit, honey?” she asks.
“Oh you know, pretty good. Maryland won the game, I hung out with Bri.”
The pause in the conversation comes at the exact moment that the screen cuts from the news anchors to images of the chaos after last night’s big win. It shows the cops gearing up to flank the crowd, and then there’s me—U2 jacket and all—leading the 9-1-1 chant.
My mom sees it, I see it, I see her see it, but there’s no DVR to rewind. The image only lasts a second until they cut to Bob with the five-day forecast. She nods, looks right at the jacket I’m still wearing and says: “Sounds fun.”
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Mother's Day At The Orphanage: Stories Without A Home
Non-FictionMother's Day At The Orphanage is collection of semi-autobiographical short stories about odd jobs, fake businesses, mistaken identities, close shaves, and near misses, written by David Leigh Abts and Michael Shattuck, edited by Leslie Blodgett, and...
