April 2004

James Ehrmann • Will You Respect Me Tomorrow?

Tonight was my fraternity’s exchange with Chi Omega at the Sports Column, yet another downtown establishment well-renowned for its Coca-Colas that never seem to lose that fizz. And I should know—tonight I downed five of them, without paying any money. Yes, I was the designated driver—the person who, no matter how much you hate him, you’re going to suck up to, because he’s the only thing keeping your drunk behind from walking home in temperatures that would make a penguin shiver. Hence, free fizzy Coca-Colas.

One of the best things about being a designated driver is hearing a multitude of stories and seeing a plethora of emotions that will all be forgotten come tomorrow morning’s headaches. For example: "I was so close to bringing a girl home tonight, you don’t understand! Oh, man! So close! Her friends wouldn’t let her go with me."

Me: "Well, why’s that?"

Disheveled passenger: "She has a boyfriend. Can you believe it?"

Me: "Can I believe her friends wouldn’t let you take her home? Yes, yes I can. Well, we’re here now. Need me to walk you in?"

Such is my life on this cold, Thursday February night. I hear about how "Someone’s gonna get their ass beat tomorrow" and how I am "a really smart kid. We [guys in the house] all respect what you’ve got to say."

I’m offered money in exchange for rides and am given compliments that are probably as sincere as any compliment that is slurred to the passenger side window. Five hours and about 30 people later, I am back in my dorm room watching old Nash Bridges episodes and wondering if anyone will remember me tomorrow morning.

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