The Drunken Porch Dive

A true story by Kalin Ringkvist

On Halloween one year I dressed up as a redneck with a dirty old delivery uniform shirt, some buck teeth, a Hooters baseball cap and most importantly, a 24 ounce can of Rainier beer, which I insisted on pronouncing Ron-Yay.

I went to a party at my friend McLean’s house and opened my beer. I drank it quickly and refilled it several times with the good beer from the keg, but was careful to keep a hold of it, since it was the most vital part of my costume.

McLean was dressed as Link from The Legend of Zelda, and had a little fake sword that people kept stealing. I watched several people grab the sword then get caught in the crowd and fight over it before giving in and letting McLean take it back. It all kind of reminded of being in seventh grade, but I was drunk enough at this point that after McLean was done yelling at everyone and telling them he’d beat the next person to touch the sword, I ran forward and snatched it from its sheath on his back and darted through the crowd, asking people to step out and block McLean’s path along the way.

I ran out the back door, his sword in my left hand and my Rainier in my right. I ran down the steps, watching my feet, but when I hit the bottom I turned to see McLean take one leap across the porch, hit the edge and spring outward into the open air toward me.

And in my drunken state, time seemed to slow as he flew through the air toward me, and a number of thoughts ran through my head, like the idea of jumping out of the way, which I felt I did not have time for, and more prominently, the amazement that McLean was able to fly like that and would be willing to risk injury over a fake sword.

But all my thoughts in that moment were overwhelmed by one far more powerful: My Ron-yay; and the fear that my beer would spill, and even worse, my can would be crushed.

So I looked at the concrete steps that I had taken the care to actually use, and threw my beer, careful to keep it upright.

McLean slammed down on top of me and drove me to the ground into the leaves and dirt, but as I hit the ground, I saw from the edge of my vision, my beer settling onto the step, almost exactly where I had aimed, still right-side up and spill-free.

McLean was screaming and clawing at me, grabbing my collar and my Hooters cap and demanding his sword, until I finally let go. I tried to tell him about my beer, but he simply screamed louder about his sword.

He jumped up in what seemed like an instant and turned back toward the house. He leapt up the stairs taking two at a time, his first step landing directly on top of my Rainier can, crushing it, sending beer splattering everywhere.

And how we both walked away from that without so much as a scratch or a bruise, I will never know.