Let me just state for the record that I am NOT a thief. I don’t get a thrill out of theft, like some kleptomaniac. I’ve never once stolen from a store, unless you count a badass stint during my fifth year of life when I pocketed a pack of rainbow Post–Its from Staples. The five–finger discount just ain’t for me.
But with fraternity parties, things are a little different. I’m not talking about sneaking into rooms and taking sweatshirts—bitch please, do I look like Winona Ryder? I’m talking about the alcohol. The awful, disgusting, is–this–alcohol–or–is–this–rat–poison liquid of the ultra–exclusive Banker’s Club. There it sits behind the stained mahogany bar, bottles upon bottles, just waiting to be poured into already–used Solo cups. And it’s free. Free alcohol. For college students. So now you see.
The method to my madness is quite simple. When I approach the bar, I don’t ask for a drink—I reach for the handle myself. Nine times out of ten, the drunken freshman pledge won’t even realize it and if he does he won’t care. Slowly, I reach into my bag for an empty Poland Spring bottle. Fill her up. Put the handle down. Walk away. Victory.
It doesn’t just stop there. One time, my friend brought a bag big enough to stash the whole handle. That one kept us going for months. The weekend before last year’s Spring Fling, we arrived at one frat empty–handed and left with ten full water bottles and a box of Franzia. No one really remembers who acquired that last one, but it tasted great at our celebratory BYO at Charles.
I tend to think of my actions as Robin Hooding-—taking from those with so much and giving to those with so little. It’s just common decency, you know? Sharing is caring, even when it’s anonymous. Let’s all get drunk together! Nothing tastes better than free Banker’s. Except maybe every other kind of vodka.
