In the suburban New York City town of Suffern, N.Y., a handful of 10th-grade confederates and I (boys, almost always just boys) would enlist an 18-year-old friend, or someone with suitable fake ID, to buy us each a quart of beer from a convenience store called Hi-Health. I opted for Miller High Life. We'd then stroll aimlessly around a residential neighborhood, talking the stupid shit that adolescent boys talk, pissing copiously and gamely working our way to the bottom of our bottles. Pride was at stake. You had to finish.
On my first outing with this elite cabal, I found myself struggling after a little more than a pint. It was a muggy summer night. The brew grew tepid, lost its fizz. I gagged a few times. With a couple of fingers of Miller remaining in the quart, I slinked over to the sewer drain, where I furtively poured out the last few ounces of that flat golden liquid. One of the guys spotted me. Busted! I tried to smile through my humiliation and never let it happen again. I still wonder, though, how many of my companions did the same, but just had better dumping technique.
This article appears in Oct 17-23, 2007.