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Impossibly bright, ground-zero bright, the seven AM sun blasts through the bank of uninterrupted windows.

“Hell of a way to wake up… Shouldn’t someone be cooking bacon or something?” Wes doesn’t so much say this. It is more of an expulsion. Like the words themselves are at the same time unpleasant yet necessary and somehow connected to the action of rolling over on the couch.

Other bodies stir on the floor, one rising and the other falling as the air mattress and its occupants seesaw to life.

The Black One covers his eyes with his tattooed arm. “Why is that so bright?” One arm being insufficient, now raising the other. Agitated and increasingly high pitched. “Did we do something wrong?”

The White One, significantly more composed, says something indifferent and muffled by his pillow.

There is no use trying to fall back asleep as each soon realizes. The pair on the floor slowly gain enough consciousness to reach that critical moment that males often experience when waking up after a long night of drinking and find themselves in a bedspace with a fellow (and usually only casually acquainted) male. White One to the loveseat and the moment is handled adequately.

“Wes, I want you to know I’m still pissed off that you didn’t come talk to those girls at the country-western biker bar last night,” the Black One says, rubbing his eyes and checking his phone.

“Those cougars?”

“Those girls were in college.”

“Whatever, I didn’t have my glasses. Doesn’t matter, though.”

The Black One sighs. The White One turns on the TV. Despite the abundance of channels, the most interesting thing on (but perhaps only interesting precisely because it isn’t interesting) is the BYU Network (this exists!), showing classic gymnastics.

“This exists.” Says the Black One, starting to giggle uncontrollably.

The White One has produced (oh, what’s this now?) a bottle of Jagermeister from his duffel and holds it, mischievously grinning. “A shot every half-hour until everybody else wakes up?”

The Black One giggles even harder. Wes eyes the White One and narrows his eyes. They have competed before. “Every half-hour? What are we? Mincing, turtleneck-wearing faggots? Every five minutes.”

And so it begins. Predictably, classic BYU gymnastics becomes genuinely rather than ironically interesting. Wes and the White One keep up the pace while the Black One becomes rather more engrossed in sending a text message to one of the non-cougars from the previous night. After much deliberation, the ideal text is decided to simply read “moist.” It does not illicit an immediate response.

As the clock approaches eight, the Jager approaches extinction. Stirring is heard elsewhere in the house. “I have a flask of bourbon in my bag. Well, blended bourbon. It isn’t very good,” Wes’s intonation at the end of this last sentence somehow makes it sound like an endorsement.

And so it continues. Just as the flask joins the Jager bottle in emptiness, footsteps on the stairs. Somewhat needlessly (no shame in an eight AM drunk), a silent agreement is made to act sober.

Our mystery footsteps belong to the Lord of the Manor as it were, the gracious host of the three groggy imbibers. “Good morning, boys. Hope the sun didn’t wake you.” Somehow, the three share a knowing glance without actually looking at each other.

“Mr. Palumbo, you haven’t shaved.” The Black One, despite drinking the least is the most inebriated. However, drunk as he may be, his observation is spot-on.

“Yeah, I’ve never seen you like this. You look DRUNK.” A calculated risk by Wes, gambling that the Black One wouldn’t explode in a fit of drunken giggles. Admirable restraint and the gamble pays off.

“Good heavens, you’re right!” Mr. Palumbo, a slight man with olive skin and dark features (Jewish? Mid-forties? Who knows…) reaches for his face with a look of abject terror and sprints down the hall and back up the stairs.

The dam breaks and the giggles roll. “And get that wife of yours to cook us some damn bacon!” the White One yells after the flustered host. Now in an exaggerated whisper, “You wanted bacon, right Wes?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m a vegetarian.” Wes rolls off the couch. Interestingly, it’s taken this long for his traditional morning erection to subside. Stumbling toward the kitchen, “How much beer do you think these people have?”