We Are Never Meeting in Real Life

My freshman year of college I accidentally became best friends with a couple of grade-A douchebags. I didn’t even want to go to college. But I couldn’t fix cars, and I couldn’t do hair, and I hadn’t had a baby sophomore year, so an accredited university was the next best choice. What I really wanted to do was pull a blanket over my head and listen to Pearl Jam’s No Code on repeat while eating snacks and pretending to be searching for myself all day (fuck, that’s all I want to fucking do now), but I couldn’t find anyone willing to pay for that shit. The state, however, was offering me $15,000 to sleep through English 102 and watch The Young and the Restless. HOW COULD I REFUSE?

The bro was called Adam and his brah went by John, and it was my first experience with the species inside its natural habitat, a medium-size state school with a, uh, flexible GPA admissions requirement. I ran into them, literally, while getting off the elevator on the sticky-hot freshman move-in day. Adam reached for my large cardboard box full of grunge CDs and an economy-size bottle of Head & Shoulders, while John grabbed the small television tucked under my arm, and they marveled at my minimalist approach to dormitory life. “You don’t know any poor people!?” I asked as I struggled to keep up, the backpack stuffed with my two good pairs of jeans and a handful of T-shirts shifting uncomfortably across my spine. They were seniors, John told me over his shoulder as we pushed past the crying parents and exasperated teenagers dotting the hallway, and had been roommates for all three years prior. He was inordinately proud of their novelty disco ball and “fridge full of brews” and promised to show me their room later.

Adam, though Jewish, was from the north side of Chicago and considered himself a homie, as was evidenced by his low-slung baggy jeans and the insertion of out-of-context Snoop Dogg lyrics into almost every conversation. (I hate the fucking word “wigger” more than I hate anything else on earth, but if I’m being totally honest, that’s exactly what this dude was even though it grosses me out to say so.) He had large, sleepy brown eyes and a slow smile and was the kind of guy who hit on black girls by demonstrating his encyclopedic knowledge of Luster’s Pink oil hair lotion and BET prime-time programming. John was your typical west suburban, chest-thumping meatbag, with a body built for date rape and a giant shellacked auburn head that remained defiantly empty, save for a handful of professional baseball statistics and whatever Greek letters you need to learn to pledge the fraternity with the most lenient academic prerequisite. John was the kind of dude who already looked like someone’s dad; you know what I mean? Like, the kind of dude in mirrored shades who chews bubble gum really hard with his arms crossed over his chest, the kind of perpetually tan, leathery-skin motherfucker who always looks like he’s standing on a sideline somewhere. The kind of asshole you are continually surprised to find without a whistle around his neck; a gentleman who should be shouting red-faced into a Bluetooth or standing on a deck he proudly built flipping burgers on a grill he got on sale at Lowe’s.

They weren’t bad dudes, though John’s slicked-back hair and unironic gold chains sometimes made me want to punch him in the dick. I kind of felt bad that these dinosaurs were still working on BAs in communications and eating cafeteria lunch with eighteen-year-olds despite their visibly graying beards. Over time the three of us became friends because, in exchange for my discounted tuition, I had to post up at the overnight desk in the lobby of our dorm as part of my work-study package, checking IDs while trying not to fall asleep or get vomited on. It was not glamorous work, and I was not very good at it. Mostly my job was blocking drunk dudes from entering a dorm they didn’t live in and keeping the Papa John’s guy company as he waited for girls in topknots and printed pajama bottoms to come down and collect their cheese-only pizzas. John and Adam loved what little nightlife DeKalb, Illinois, had to offer, and after several nights of staggering in at 2:00 a.m. totally shithoused and with no identification, they started to recognize me on our floor and would call out, “Hey! Amanda!” every time I walked past their open door with a giant bag of Doritos on my way to watch Jerry Springer in the communal lounge, because I would risk the tenuous grasp I had on that job to give them a pass.

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