Soul Today...None Tomorrow

For a very brief moment during my freshman year of college I was totally into a certain boy. Let’s call him...Emanuel (as always, I’ve changed his name for the sake of anonymity, but don’t think his real name wasn’t just as Old Mannish or just as Jewy as “Emanuel”). For some bizarre-o reason, I though this dude was great. After actually speaking to him for more than five minutes, however, it became painfully clear that he was pretty much the worst person on earth, a fact everyone on campus could agree upon. He was as fake as Nicki Minja’s, well, everything, and approached life as if he were perpetually in the midst of some sort of extraordinarily fierce political campaign: I am quite positive he exited the womb at the end of 1983 with a “Vote Mondale!” pin affixed to a chest slick with amniotic fluid. My friend summed him up perfectly when one day she proclaimed him to be “the type of guy who has a lot of jackets.” 

Thankfully my fling with Emanuel was short-lived, but my excessively deplorable judgment was not something that was easily dismissed: to this day my friends still tirelessly tease me about my shameful past. More hilariously, however, was that although Emanuel had been the one to end things with me despite my being the “type” of girl he was looking for (read: Jewish), the following year, for some odd reason, he decided that he was once again interested. He could never say it to my face, but back in the days of AIM it was pretty easy to try to tempt me back into his evil lair while cowering behind his screen name. For a solid month, he’d IM me every night. Little did Emanuel know that when he did so, I would grab my computer and sprint upstairs to my friends’ suite, and we would all gather round my laptop and mercilessly egg him on. I’d feign interest for hours, before finally denying him, while my friends and I would giggle with glee. Whoever said revenge is for the weak had clearly never tortured Emanuel via AIM. We got him to say ridiculous things, a fan favorite being “Oh, come on, Sasi, just for old time’s sake!” I saved each and every conversation, which, incidentally, I still have readily available on a flash drive. Just in case.

Soon enough, the game with Emanuel got old, and my friends and I all lost interest in his late night harassment. Despite my change in tune and constant “No way”’s, Emanuel persisted. Because I was so bored of having to carry on these conversations night after night, I finally agreed to have a “chat” with him in person. When he showed up, I was wearing the single most unflattering pair of pajamas in the world (supersized flannels emblazoned with multi-colored Trolls) but apparently that did not deter him in the least.  He immediately pounced and made a move that was heartily inappropriate given our history and my adamant refusal to be within ten feet of him. I promptly dismissed him and made sure to tell each and every guy friend I had what he’d done.

Of course Emanuel wasn’t even slightly ashamed of his nasty behavior. He was, however, wholly disheartened that a significant group of male members of our college class now deemed him even scummier than before. Mr. Future President couldn’t bear the idea that note everyone loved him and everything about him! I successfully ignored his existence for the next year and a half, and when I was forced to be in his presence, made sure to shoot him a look of disinterested disgust. 

At the end of Junior year, Emanuel’s fraternity had a one of those invite-only date parties. I was friends with most of the guys in his frat, so, as usual, managed to secure myself an invite. It was a Champagne Only party. God knows why I ever even thought that would be a wise choice, but, of course, I happily partook. I mean, what is more fun than dancing around to Outkast with a bottle of champagne in your hand? Or both hands? Also, even though many of my girl friends were close with boys in this fraternity, only one of them had attended. She’d come on the arm of her newly coronated boyfriend, so as always, it was me and a bunch of dudes and annoying girls I didn’t know. I enjoyed my champagne and made the best of it despite the fact I was ignored early on. My shoes came off and, apparently, stayed off, as the next day I discovered the bottoms of my feet to be black with Baltimore sidewalk tar and who knows what else.

But before I braved the Baltimore night in my bare feet, I took to the dance floor. It seemed fun at first, until I realized all my guys friends had snuck away with their dates, and since my one female friend was now being carried out the front door by her man, that left me there, completely alone on the dance floor. Nothing new. Enter the infamous Emanuel. There was no where to hide, no one left to save me, and with all that champagne fizzing in my stomach, I was unsure I could’ve properly navigated away from the scene anyway. Emanuel cozied up to me, despite the gagging noises of revulsion I made as he did so. He then proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes apologizing, a year and a half too late, for his abominable behavior. Although I was still repulsed by his mere existence, his dirty deeds were long since water under the bridge. I made him suffer though, told him I needed more of an apology than that. Eventually, so desperate for me to discharge him of his wrongdoings, he promised me “Anything you ever need, I promise you I will do it for you. If I can ever, ever help you out in any way, I really, truly will.” 

Now this is where most people would say, “Oh, OK,” and perhaps remember the sweet, apologetic Emanuel years down the road when they need the contact information of one of his colleagues, or perhaps would like their child to get an internship in his office. But I knew exactly what I wanted then and there. I looked Emanuel straight in the eyes and said with total, complete honesty, “Well, you know what I really, really want?” I paused for dramatic effect. “I really want a six-pack of Rolling Rock.” And before I could even realize the enormity of the fact that I had literally just sold my soul for a six pack of beer that smells unmistakably like creamed corn (go ahead, smell it, you’ll see), a pledge had sprinted down the street to the bar to pick me up the desired beverages. And so I spent the rest of the evening dancing around with my six-pack of Rolling Rock, which, let me tell you, is a whole lot more fun than a champagne bottle, even if you don’t have a soul anymore.

Rolling Rock was my go-to beer all throughout my college career, right up until the end. This was taken during Senior Week.