We thought we were past such behavior.

Twenty friends, a big black school bus replete with stripper pole, blasting tunes, three hundred cans of Pabst and Busch Light, and a PVC pipe into which we put our empties that made them disappear somewhere below the bus.

It’s like we didn’t even drink the beers. Like magic a crushed can vanished, and another cold one appeared in its stead.

We had planned on meeting up with the party beforehand, having a couple beers but NOT getting on the bus, going somewhere to chill for a while, and then meeting up with the drunken carnival after their ride to catalogue the damage and maybe share a laugh.

Keep our wits about us. Take the evening slow. Ease into adulthood by making the responsible decision and passing on the party bus. Our smug smiles would make us feel so good, as would the knowing glances the two of us could exchange at the bar afterward, soaking up our friends’ insanity, reveling in it vicariously but saving ourselves the massive, destructive hangover. The gutted pack of cigarettes. The despairing lack of serotonin.

It was a birthday party, though, and one of the women in whose honor the party had been thrown caught us as the bus was leaving, on the way out, horrified that we weren’t on the bus already.

We explained our logic.

“No, you have to come!” she implored.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said.

“Seriously, you have to!” she insisted.

“Well, we’re not, so, uh…” I said.

“But what else are you going to do tonight?” she demanded.

“You know, now that you mention it…”

I tried to think fast, come up with something, but our easiest excuses were at a wedding, out of commission. I didn’t want to lie. One friend across town wasn’t going anywhere quickly, and another went somewhere to relax without stopping by the pre-party, saved from having to face down the inquisition.

We didn’t have anything better to do. And party buses are always fun.

I looked to my girlfriend, raised my eyebrows. She sighed, smiled, nodded.

“Okay, let’s get on the bus.”

“Yay!!!” our friend cried, and the night was off from there.

Four hours later, I looked up at my girlfriend from a flowerbed with no idea how I ended up on my ass, in a bush, legs splayed. Why we were outside, even. Why we weren’t still at the bar. Where my friends were. Where we had just been. And was that gyro I tasted on my breath? Who was coming to get us? Where were we going? What had we been doing? How did I get so drunk? What the hell was going on?

Oh, and did I mention everyone on the bus was wearing disco outfits? Not us, of course, because we’d felt ourselves above such things. And from that flowerbed, not knowing much of what was going on, man was I happy to not be wearing a leisure suit.  Flannel and denim, because it was cold, not to mention confusing, outside.

So yeah, it was a good time. Drinking beer on a bus so often is.