Page 48 of Tagging Bases

He hangs up on me, and I stare at the ceiling, thinking about how weirdly different things are here compared to back home. There aren’t any Chets or Mabels or Roys at Ashford U—just people like me going through the motions. Waiting for that one thing that’ll make them understand why they’re here on this earth, living the life they lead.

Realizing what time it is, I shake off my deep musings, grab some cologne, and spray myself until I’m pretty sure I’ve killed every mothball in the tristate area. Then I head to Kappa Sig where I plan to dance until my legs fall off or until Javi sings Queen again—whichever comes first.

By the timeI arrive at Kappa Sig, the party is in full swing. The bass from the sound system thumps through my chest, making my heart beat in time with the music. A dense fog of sweat and cheap beer hangs in the air, and bodies are packed so tightly together that moving from one room to the next proves difficult.

I find my teammates huddled around the dining room table, engaged in a twisted game of strip beer pong against a group of Kappa Sig members.

“Charlie!” Javi shouts, his words slightly slurred. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers and a single sock. “Get over here and help us beat these losers!”

I sidle up to the table and take in the scene before me. Two of the frat guys are in their jockstraps, three have their pants on but no shirts, and one has his shirt on but no pants.Bad day for him to go commando.

As for my teammates, they’re at least faring better than Javi. Only one is completely nude.

“Why aren’t you playing against the sorority girls?” I ask, nodding at a group of women cheering from the sidelines. “A missed opportunity, no?”

“We’re trying to impress them with our mad skills,” Javi explains, lining up his next shot. “Show them what real men are made of.”

“I don’t know,” I say, noticing that their eyes are glued to the guys’ taut muscles and glistening, sweaty skin. “I think they just want to see you naked.”

The game progresses, the stakes growing higher, and the clothes coming off faster. I find myself getting caught up in the excitement, my gaze lingering on the hard planes and smooth curves of the men around me. I tell myself I’m merely admiring, comparing myself to those around me. But deep down, I know it’s a crock of shit.

Javi sinks the winning shot, sending the frat guys scrambling for their clothes amid a chorus of groans and cheers. As my friends celebrate their victory, I peel myself away and find the makeshift bar located in what used to be the kitchen.

A guy from the lacrosse team playing bartender flings bottles around with all the finesse of a drunken Cirque du Soleil performer.

“Charlie McManus!” someone shouts over the music. I turn to see a girl from my English class waving frantically in my direction. “Congrats on the win!”

“Thanks!” I yell back, reaching for my newly made drink. She blows me a kiss before disappearing.

I take a long sip, relishing the burn as it travels down my throat and into my stomach. Suddenly, a large hand slaps me on the back, causing me to nearly spill what’s left of my drink.

“There’s the man of the hour!” Turning to my left, I’m met with the grinning mug of Joe Bryce. “Come do a keg stand with me!” he shouts in my face. My eyes roll back at the pungent smell of alcohol that coats his breath.

He gestures out the kitchen window, where a crowd has gathered on the deck to watch people take turns hoisting each other up into the air. Usually, I’d be all over it, but tonight, I kind of want to wallow in self-pity.

I want Daniel here. I want Harrison here too. We all had something going on that night we tagged Harrison’s parents’ place. But then Daniel and I got busy with baseball, and we didn’t have Harrison’s phone number to keep in touch.

I tried to find him on social media, but he’s either one of those people who despises social media, or he blocked me before I even thought to look him up.I really hope it’s the first one.

“Maybe later,” I tell Joe.

He frowns but shrugs it off quickly enough. “Suit yourself.” He staggers into the backyard, high-fiving people as he goes.

I drain the rest of my drink in one gulp and toss the empty cup into the trash. Walking into the living room, I realize that someone has cleared out the furniture to make room for a dance floor. The lamps are gone, too, replaced by strobe lights and a disco ball.

The DJ plays Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” which happens to be my favorite song of hers, and the crowd surges onto the dance floor. I feel a twinge of nostalgia for freshman year when every party was an adventure, and we all lost our minds over the latest pop anthem.

As I watch the mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor, my hips start swaying of their own accord. Thealcohol coursing through my veins acts as a catalyst, breaking down my inhibitions piece by piece. Soon, the tension that’s been coiled tight in my shoulders all day slowly unravels. My thoughts dull to nothing.

Almost without realizing it, my feet carry me toward the dance floor. The sea of dancing bodies parts for me until I end up in the center of the room. When the chorus hits, something inside me ignites. The driving beat, the pulsing bass line, Lady Gaga’s electrifying voice—it all coalesces into a burst of energy that takes over my entire being. I throw my hands in the air and surrender myself fully to the music.

I spin and twist, my limbs a flurry of motion, not caring who might be watching. People bump and collide with me as I lose myself in the song, each jostle sending me careening in a new direction. I never lose my rhythm, never miss a beat. If anything, the chaos only adds to the unpredictable nature of it all.

The strobe lights catch fragments of faces and bodies, turning the scene into a choppy, nearly drug-induced dream. By the time the song ends, I’m breathless, drenched in sweat, and shouting along with everyone else for another Lady Gaga song.

Man, it feels good to let go.

As the night progresses,I go from having a buttload of fun to needing to take a week-long piss.

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