My name is not important. I’m a regular guy, like you and the people that you know. Only with two big exceptions. 1) I possess more ruggedly handsome features than you and 2) Although I’m a generally intelligent person, I tend not to put a lot of thought into my actions, which inevitably leads to getting myself into some pretty weird and sometimes frightening situations. Join me on my journey, where I take you through my misadventures as a guide of 1,001 things not to do.
It’s your typical lazy early Saturday afternoon and I’m doing what most college guys are doing. I’m relaxing on my couch, sitting back, and watching some college football, nursing a hangover with a case of cheap beer. Well, “hangover” may not be an accurate description, as most kids at that age are constantly alternating between a state of “hung over”, “drunk”, “wasted”, and then “hung over” all over again, and you’re never really fully immersed in any one state.
So, I’m hanging out in my room, flipping through the channels on my television, and the UNC/NC State game captures my attention for a bit. My friend Kyle stops by. We shoot the shit for a bit and he makes a suggestion that we should head to Chapel Hill, since it looks like UNC’s about to beat NC State and there might be some celebration parties around campus that night as it’s somewhat of a rivalry. I think it over and it adds up. Chapel Hill’s my home town, it’s about an hour drive, there are flocks of attractive women in that town, and we have plenty of places to crash at for the night. We round up a couple of others and we head out. Chapel Hill, here we come.
The other two guys that tag along are the Nicks, as in they’re both named Nick. I had met them through Kyle, who introduced them to me as “Nick” and “b-Nick”, because naturally one is black and that was his quick fix way of differentiating them. “b-Nick” is not particularly fond of this nickname, which is pronounced “Nick”, just with a slight “b” sound preceding it, but it stuck anyways. Despite the fact that he’s a block of muscle, being a former division one point guard, standing around 5’9 and 210 pounds, and he could rearrange any of our faces if he so pleased, he allowed us to call him that. He’s a good spirited guy, nothing but nice, and we’re happy to have him with us. The other Nick is a smooth talker Jersey kid who spoke as soft and reassuring as the game that he spat to the ladies. He doesn’t look or act like a kid from the shit-hole that is New Jersey, but he does wear a hat either sideways or backwards most of the time to keep in touch with his roots, despite the fact that he’s equally as likeable as b-Nick. We all get in Kyle’s SUV and we’re off.
I decide that now’s a good time to check my bank account and withdraw some cash to see how much damage I can afford in Chapel Hill. We stop by an ATM on the way to the interstate and I get out of the car, waiting behind a very large man who stands at least 6’6. I step up to the ATM, enter my code, and withdraw a pathetically meager amount of money from my shriveled checking account when I hear from behind me “Hey!…..Don’t you know to never stand behind somebody at an ATM?” I turn around and it’s the aforementioned very heavily muscular, tall man that was before me in line. His car’s running and he’s in the passenger seat as his driver appears to have stopped the car momentarily just so his friend could talk some shit to me from the passenger seat. Pffft, I pay him hardly any attention, as I give him an unimpressed sneer, turning back around to grab my fifty dollars from the machine. I had quit the track team last year and I’m now a man of somewhat impressive stature who had been kickboxing for the last year or so….I can handle my shit. I’m a former D-1 athlete in the prime of his life….I can handle myself, right?