Justin and I conjured some phony friends in an effort to wax poetic on the rambunctious fraternalis style of partying that we so came to detest after three years in college. Our wholly imaginary cohorts epitomized the popped-collar lifestyle. There were four or five of them (it’s hard to remember exactly how many, because we were so fucking blackout wasted every time we hung out with them).
The main man (not our main man; the main man) was Doogie. He was in charge. Always bought the Bud Light, which, consequently, was what we were there for.
“I’m just here for the Bud Light,” Justin or I would say. In fact, we pretty much started that phrase. The commercials copied us. Seriously, dude.
There was Scooter. No, his name wasn’t Scott. No, he didn’t ride a scooter. He just wanted a nickname that sounded kinda like Doogie. Scootie (his preferred moniker) really liked Doogie. It got awkward at times.
T-Bone was the token black guy. He could be the center of attention or leave whenever the hell he wanted. Pretty babies loved da Bone. He hated it when Justin and I would say that.
It was easy to forget about Kevin. He was completely unremarkable in every way. He was always there, though, and usually brought the Bud Light. Kevin was the transportation, since Doogie got a Dewey driving his girlfriend back to her dorm after a homecoming party.
And my personal favorite, hands down, was Lazy Man. He’s not to be confused with the chair. Chairs were for boys, and Lazy was a man. He was always laying down, always catching some z’s. Dude had a whole couch specifically for himself. Super Bowls, lacrosse parties, mudwrestling, Lazy kept snoozing. He was a rock. Managed to bang more girls than the whole house combined, Justin and me included. Chicks seem to go for the dudes who just don’t give no shits.
These were our bras, our dudes, our servants and our served. The six or seven of us (it’s hard to remember how many, exactly) had what the kids like to call ‘times.’ Can’t seem to recall most of them, come to think about it, but they were there.
It should be mentioned, once more, that these people were imaginary.
As is what often happens with imaginary friends, they slowly faded into obscurity. Justin fell deeper and deeper into his career as a drummer. Before I knew it, he was a member of close to 15 bands. I increased my immersion in student media, juggling roles as popular arts correspondent for the paper, college radio DJ, co-moderator of a creative writing forum, and all-around indie socialite. It became harder and harder to hang with Doogie, Scooter, T-Bone, and Lazy Man. Oh, and Kevin. Always forget about him.
Last fall, Justin came to me with a request. Claiming to be in great appreciation of my writing, he asked me to construct an artist bio for him. This profile would be utilized in the pursuit of sponsorships from drum companies. I graciously accepted this request, thanking Justin for thinking so highly of me.
I sat on the project for a few weeks but couldn’t find the motivation to produce a professional biography for one of my best friends. Justin prodded me for results. I had none to display. He grew angry and threatened to have his sister write the thing. I respectfully asked for another week. Justin allowed it.
Then, inexplicably, on a bus to Chicago, I found inspiration, channeling the long dormant voice of our party friends, our dudes, our bras. In particular, the voice of Scooter seemed to cry out from deep within me. I popped my collar, reached into my satchel, removed my Moleskine notepad, clicked my pen, and began to write while scenic Indiana whisked past.
The letter, the bio, the result, compliments of Scooter:
Dear Drum Peeps:
Justin Housemann, that guy’s a hot shot. I mean, his dick’s huge. And his car is totally sweet. It’s this black civic with a kick ass muffler and a stick. He fucking flies around town in that shit, blasting the turbos. He’d blast the stereo if it had one. But he’s so sweet, he doesn’t need music. He is music. His dick is huge. If his dick was a drum, it’d be, like, a gong or some shit. That’s funny, a dong-gong. Funny shit.
Yeah, he’s a drummer, if you couldn’t tell. Dumb ass. God, what the fuck else would that guy do? Fuck his girlfriend, that’s what. Dude, she is hot. Fucking smoking. Doogie and me were talking about how we want to run a train on her. Justin can join in too, I don’t give no shits. Shit, I’d fuck him. And I only fuck chicks. But I’d fuck him. Justin wouldn’t fuck me, though. He’s too sweet. You know what? If a dude tried to fuck him, Justin would kick the shit out of him. Then he’d fuck his girlfriend in front of that dude, then he’d play drums for 17 hours on his face. Justin Housemann is drums. It’s, like, in his blood or, like, in his dick. That thing’s huge. That means he’s a huge drummer.
Why am I telling you this? Shut up, don’t ask questions, pussy. I’ll tell you why. Because you’re giving him your money. Sponsor him or some shit or whatever. Either way, bra needs money. Else he’s coming down there and making a drum out of your face with his dick. Huge. That thing’s huge.
All I’m gonna say, dude. Justin gets pissed when you talk about him too much. Shit, he’s gonna play drums on my face. Give him your fucking money, d-bag. Peace, dawg.
Much love and peace and respect or whatever,
--Gavin “Scooter” Pierson
Scooter’s voice quickly fled after this outburst. Afterwards, I never could bring myself (though I tried) to write a serious account of Justin’s drumming career. It had something to do with the completeness of Scooter’s account. What more is there to say, really? As an aside, I believe Justin’s sister ultimately wrote his professional bio. I blamed my failure on our party friends. Neither Justin nor I came in contact with this group of friends ever again. That’s one of the benefits of imaginary friends—they’re there when you need them, but not offended when you don’t. Farewell, bras.