By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Kyle Swenson
The guys in the room listened intently, even though they'd already heard the story.
"She's like, 'No, that doesn't make it better,'" Brett continued. "So I go up and start kissing her on the lips. Like we're just making out right there in front of everyone. And she's like, 'Nope, still not enough. We should go to the beach and maybe you can make it up there.' So we walk down to the beach, and right away we start skinny-dipping. And we come back up here and go in my room and start showering off. We start doin' our thing, you know, and we didn't even realize there was a towel over the drain or something. Like half an hour later, we look down and realize, 'Oh shit, that's water like pouring out of the shower.' And it was everywhere, the entire room was flooded, my bag and clothes and everything. But still, that was one hell of a first hour, right off the plane."
"You still should have road-tripped it," Paris said.
Soon the Betas and ATOs of IU were swaying and shouting into the afternoon air, to anyone who would listen. The raunchy chant went something along the lines of "Shit! Fuck! Cunt! Bitch! Piss! Ass! And I fucked your mom!"
A family of four who had parked near the hotel and walked to the beach was returning to their van. The mother heard the singing first and rushed the two young boys into the vehicle.
Brad was in such a hurry to start his spring break road trip that he left the brace for his recently broken ankle in his Kentucky bedroom. Even worse, he forgot his fake IDs ("we have a printer that can make them for just about every state"). No worries, though; he still had his parents' minivan loaded with seven people, plenty of booze, and a giant bag of pot. Fifteen minutes into the 16-hour road trip from Lexington, someone pulled out the nitrous oxide. "It gives you the wah-wahs," Curd explained later. "You try to talk, but it just comes out 'wah wah wah.'"
They left the Friday that kicked off spring break, the moment that Brad, a friendly, muscular, 20-year-old business major, finished the midterm for his management class. He'd given his friends the keys so they could pack the van while he was taking his exam and pick him up on the way out. "I was ready to blow off some steam," he said. "I'm not gonna tell you I didn't throw up somewhere on the trip. But I wasn't driving anymore by then, so it's cool."
Kacey and two others made the trip in Kacey's Acura, he said, taking shots of Kentucky Gentleman the whole way.
Early in the week, they hit bars along A1A. They saw the Girls Gone Wild crew filming on Sunday. They spent an evening at Off the Hookah trying to take advantage of an all-you-can-drink special; Kacey got drunk there but not so much that he wasn't aware of how fantastic it was, he said — not the bar per se but the moment in general, the euphoria. He toasted spring break and then he slipped into a fist-pumping trance for half an hour.
"That's my thing, like my move," he said later. "When things are going really good for me or something, I do this thing where I spread my legs and just pump my fist... Plus, they were playing a lot of techno, and secretly, when I'm drunk, techno is probably my favorite music to listen to."
On the second night of the trip, Brad met a few attractive young women who worked in promotions, which meant basically that they were paid to go to a bar and look hot. It was 7 a.m. by the time he made it back to the Premiere, only to discover that his key didn't work in his door. Someone had fastened the deadbolt. So Brad went to the manager and said he'd been locked out. As the two of them went back upstairs, Brad said, an odd thing happened. Each room at the Premiere has a window, and beneath the window are glass slats. As they walked upstairs, two glass slats fell from the second floor, crashing on the concrete below.
The manager looked at Brad. Brad looked at the manager. Then, where the slats had been, they saw a foot with red toenails.
Brad was tired but intrigued, so he followed the manager to the room in question, and recounted the following exchange:
"Is this your room?" the manager asked the girl who answered.
"Uh, no," she said. She seemed drunk.
"You have on the wristband," the manager said. Paying guests are given wristbands to help distinguish freeloaders.
"Yeah, so maybe it's my room," she said. "What's the problem?"
"You broke the glass there. You have to pay for it."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
By then the manager had entered the room and found a guy in board shorts, without the blue wristband. "You get out," the manager said.