A bedtime story

The following is a true story. Names have been changed to protect the guilty. It depicts the actual events of one night of collegiate frivolity. And lest you think I mean to glamorize such behavior, I will relate subsequent dark tales, too. For now, grab a snack and a blanket, and listen while I impart the harrowing tale of midterm-Ethan.

On the eve of my philosophy midterm, second semester of freshman year of college, I did what most good cosmologists do before they regurgitate Aristotle's theory of Form: shots with friends. Having exhausted what entertainment we believed we could muster for ourselves in the confines of our own apartment [read: we expended our on-hand liquor supply and were ready to drink someone else's surrounded by a crowd of strangers-soon-to-be-new-best-friends], Ethan, Adam, and I ventured to a party across campus. Adhering to his modus operandi, Ethan immediately evaluated the room to locate the woman with just the right combination of intoxication and/or low self esteem to make her the most willing to return home with him that evening. It didn't take long for him to acquire a target, though his aim was, shall we say, imperfect. The particular individual for whom he had eyes that evening preferred the company of other women. Not one to be easily dissuaded, Ethan kept a close eye on her for the remainder of the evening, and when she'd partied all she could, she departed, followed closely by an increasingly intoxicated Ethan. Adam and I took turns, and it was my night to play Ethan-sitter. Taking quick note of his absence, I gave chase, catching him before he had time to do anything warranting a restraining order. I convinced him that his chances of swaying this woman to have a one night stand with him were even lower than usual, given her adamantly-expressed sexual preference, and he decided to return with me to the festivities. We were greeted warmly back into the fold, and for a time Ethan forgot his failed conquest and settled into friendly banter with the event's host. No sooner had I forgotten my charge than he ducked out of sight, again in pursuit of his lesbian would-be lover. I drew my conversation on the merits of socialism to an untimely close and gave chase. Admittedly, I did not have to chase for long, because Ethan had forgotten his purpose in leaving the party, exhausted himself, and chosen to lie down on a park bench about 30 feet from the party. This time, I managed to convince Ethan it was time for the night to end, so we walked together across campus to tuck him into bed for the night. With his assurance that he would not leave his bed except to purge himself of excess liquor, I returned to what remained of the party. When we'd had our fill of discussing drunken solutions to world hunger, and upon solving our own immediate hunger with rations from the local late-night sandwichery, Adam and I returned home, unsurprisingly, to an empty apartment. Deciding we had done all we could to protect Ethan from himself for one night, Adam and I both slept soundly, guiltlessly. We awoke the next morning to calls from Ethan, who'd attempted to return to the party, only to get lost, somehow, in the labyrinthine business school, conveniently open 24 hours to allow dedicated students unlimited access to study space during midterms week. He'd found comfort where he could: an Ikea arm chair in a study room, conveniently adjacent to the classroom in which he would take an economics midterm just hours from then. Serendipity, indeed.

Despite Ethan's failed pursuit, it was I who learned a lesson that night: you cannot stand in the way of another man's dreams; just sit back and let him screw it up on his own.