Some people make every moment interesting. Peter was one of them. So, I became his sidekick. Or you might say, an accomplice.
We met right after freshman year began. He was a D.C. native and his family was hardcore. His father once stole a firetruck and had worked for the CIA. To test her character, his mother refused painkillers after major surgery.
Peter went to St. Albans, an all-boys prep school on the grounds of the Washington National Cathedral, and dated a girl who called Chief Justice Rehnquist, Uncle Billy.
He loved the plays and movies of David ‘Rhymes with Damnit’ Mamet. What eighteen year old loves Mamet?
Peter looked like a rounder Colin Firth and dressed, and sometimes smelled, like a river guide (which he was).
Sophomore year, Peter was my R.A. until he was fired for holding the door open for a freshman rolling in a keg. While actively aiding and abetting underage drinking was the grounds for dismissal, the major hurdle to his appeal was that they also found out he helped build a “hot tub” in one of the second-floor dorm rooms.
Not just help put it in, but argued for the structural nightmare’s legitimacy by exposing loopholes in college residential life bylaws; thus pissing off the administration many-fold and reducing his chances to ever be reinstated as a Residential Adviser to zero.
Peter would constantly give me a hard time. One Saturday morning he asked why I looked so sticky and confused “Hey!” I replied, hungover and indignant, “I’m not confused.”
It should come as no surprise that when Peter was also accepted to the Washington Semester, we knew it was game on. He officially became my co-conspirator.
Added bonus, the professor being sent by the Government Department that year happened to be a former classmate and close friend of Peter’s parents. Double yea! Someone to bail us out!
Triple Lindy bonus, Peter turned twenty-one in November. Someone to buy alcohol legally! Despite this, in the end, it didn’t matter.