Peter McFeely

The tequila burned the whole way down, first stinging the lips, then the tongue, the throat and finally leaving a nasty warmth in the gut. At any second it felt like the fire might retrace its path. It was the type of tequila designed to be shot; there was no way anyone could sip this stuff. But drinking it in one didn’t make it any better.
The boys whooped. They sucked air in through their noses and forced back the tears at the rims of their eyes. High-fives and fist bumps were exchanged. Glasses of watery beer were clinked and gulped, the fizzy amber hopefully about to suppress the somersaulting stomachs. The Saturday night ritual of drinking to get drunk was well under way.
There were nine of them. Friends from a school sports team. Different sizes and shapes. The sporting rule of natural selection could not be applied, the pool of talent so small and split between the handful of schools in the town that the capable and athletic played alongside the willing and eager. The boys had bodies yet to fill themselves. For some, angular bones showed through tight t-shirts. Others draped loose shirts over doughy mid-riffs. Two unwisely stretched fabric over boyish breasts and flabby arms. The trousers were tight and rolled high, belying quadriceps which weren’t quite there. Still, ego filled the space where muscle should have been. The boys moved in a pack, friendships forged fighting for the ball and toiling together in the early Saturday hours. There was no obvious leader, though two or three did dominate the conversation and steer the decision making. Unsurprisingly, they were two of the more talented sportsmen.

“More shots?
The question wasn’t a question. Nobody had the option of saying no. The big boy didn’t really want them himself, but it was his duty both to ask and to pretend he wanted more. In posing the question, he almost convinced himself of desire, his resolve strengthened by the feigned enthusiasm and whoops which were roared in response. Each boy forced fingers into slim pockets, pulling out just enough money for a drink. Nine was too big a group for one person to carry a round. Despite their bravado, nine was also approximately eight more tequilas than any of them could confidently hold down. The big boy gathered the money from the table and deposited it in the hands of the pal to his left, sending him off to the bar with an accomplice of his choosing.
The boys had started drinking about three years earlier. It wasn’t a conscious effort – one Saturday afternoon they had gathered to watch a match on TV when one had produced beers from his kit bag. They were warm having sat amongst dried mud and sweaty socks since the night before, but drinking them seemed like a good idea. In truth, most of the boys had been nervous but didn’t want to look childish. When one of the gang spoke up to say he didn’t like the taste he was chided, resulting in a quick agreement to try again and see if he liked it the second time. Like the others, he mentally committed to learning to like the bitter fizzy flavour. That he still didn’t like the taste wasn’t something he felt he could say now. They had graduated to dark corners and clearings among bushes in the park, building false confidence before starting to venture out to bars. It wasn’t a smooth transition, the less physically mature retreating as their boyish looks betrayed them. Their number gradually swelled once more, as members acquired self-belief and ratty facial hair transformed into tight bristle. Now they drank openly, cajoling each other in the bar as they showcased their birthright to torture their digestive systems in shows of machismo. Though the liquor tasted bad, they loved the bond it created and strengthened. Outwardly, it was the camaraderie of sharing a drink, a laugh and a memory which they enjoyed. Subconsciously there was probably a level of satisfaction that everyone was going through the same discomfort, that the group were prepared to voluntarily suffer a poisonous substance such as bottom shelf tequila; some grand exhibition of sacrifice.

The shots dispatch returned.
“What are these?!” The big boy eyed the garish liquid. He choked on a laugh, amused that his friends had obviously eschewed tequila for a ‘girly’ drink but realising mid-bray that his money may have been wasted.
“Sour apple or something. I don’t really know but it was two for one and it’s 30%. So now we have more booze. And it won’t taste like crap.”
The shots were thrown back.
“Well, I’m not afraid to say,” the smallest boy raised his head above the parapet, “that tasted a hell of a lot nicer.”
A querying look from one of the boys sent him retreating to safety. “Tell your sister thanks for picking it.”
The boys erupted in laughter.
“Listen, it’ll do the job.” The boys nodded in unison, this sage statement apparently the most profound they had heard in their short lives.
“More beers?” the big boy instructed. Money was extracted once more, passed around and another courier group was dispatched. Using their size to force their way between patrons at the bar, the boys returned shortly and dregs of the previous pints were quickly consumed.
“What type of beer is that?”
“Don’t know. Some Eastern European stuff. Cheapest they had. Over 5% though.”

Today had followed the usual pattern. They had played their game in the morning, spent the afternoon half-watching various sports on TV as they planned their night out. Dinner was often foregone, but tonight the matriarch of the house upon which they descended took pity and several frozen pizzas from the back of the freezer. She hoped that lining their stomachs would curb the impending drunkenness but such was the aggression with which they tackled their seven day sobriety, the pizzas were like paper barricades trying to restrain a flood. The boys quickened their pace as the musicians on stage increased the intensity of their performance; their manic aggression only encouraged the boys to attempt more obscure and supposedly-manly concoctions. One after the other, they laid down challenges – one-upmanship taken to an extreme. To outsiders, like the group of quiet 20-somethings in the carriage who watched them, it must have looked like bullying but the boys were genuinely good friends so, despite their differences in size, sporting ability and alcohol tolerance, the role of victim in the group was passed around. Even the biggest took their turn – though much less frequently than the others and only when happy to. However, after he had finished a pint for some minor transgression, he turned on his accuser. With confidence even larger than his frame, it wasn’t long before the others joined in and the victim was berated into mindlessly chugging his own drink. Yet, in truth, the big boy was far from a bully. He would have done anything for any of the group and had dug them out of trouble on more than one occasion. He’d also put a few actual bullies to right in school – despite the arrogance he was well liked by classmates and adults alike for his willingness to stand up for people with whom he wouldn’t voluntarily be seen. Outwardly he was a typical jock but he had a level of well-guarded emotional empathy that his parents would have been more proud of were it allowed dominance over his manufactured persona more than once in a while.

While drinking allowed the boys to express themselves and strengthened their collective bonds, it had another, very strategic yet unspoken, purpose:

Girls.

The boys were desperate for female interaction. It was the real reason they started to drink and the reason they did so in such a conspicuous manner. It was intended as a display of maturity; like a peacock spreading its feathers, an animalistic showcasing to potential suitors that the boy was a man and a man of interest. The boys would learn as they aged that their group drinking usually appeared to females as anything but mature and welcoming. But the boys wanted the most bang for their buck, so they drank quickly in order to accelerate the evolution of their confidence. Though self-assured in their circle of testosterone, while sober the boys struggled to hold meaningful conversations with females. Alcohol helped them overcome that unique inhibition and the boys didn’t want to wait until late in the night before loosening their lips and hopefully more. Thus, shots and a rainbow of drinks.

One by one, glasses were drained. Eyes fuzzed and grins became broader. One boy threw his arms around a mate on either side. He guided them in an arc, scanning the bar from corner to corner.
“Some top class skirt in here tonight.”
All nodded in unison, cleavage and curvature standing out as their hazed eyes traced the same arc.
“I might do some damage tonight”
The boys laughed and jeered. “When was the last time you did any damage?” “Sit down. The only damage you’ll do will be to yourself.”
He suppressed a laugh of his own and instead looked grumpily at the group.
“More shots?” The question hung in the air.
The big boy drained his glass and thumped it on the table at the same time as the drummer pounded the conclusion of the song.
“Nah. I’m going for a lap. You coming?” he instructed.

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