Part One

A dusty evening ’twas, yet another Friday night: one more blurry mass whose cup had that rummy bite.

My buds and I had found ourselves in our cups again, with suds spilling on an old bookshelf as swelled an uproarious din.

It broke upon the makeshift table, to the delight of my partner and I: we had won another game of pong, even skunked the other guys.

“Another night, another game,” my friend smugly put it best, and as he went to get us two more brews I asked, “Who has next?”

As if in answer to my query, to the table walked a grizzled figure: a 20-something aged with wary, who’d seen one too many winters.

“Hold my boy — I’ll take your challenge,” said the man who wasn’t new, he pulled potion from behind his back, “If you don’t mind, I’ll drink for two.”

We started the game and played our best; the balls went back and forth two to one and outnumbered yet, we direly discovered our worth.

The game came down to one cup each, and the old foe never wavered; he took both balls and sank them at once, achieving the ultimate favor.

“Redemption I’ve denied to you,” the victor spoke with sorrow,”but hear me out and I’ll tell you how you may find it upon the morrow.”

He gave up his spot to the next two fellows who wanted a shot at the title, and we walked through the cluster of buzzing bluster to find a soft spot for a while.

“My boy,” he said, “humor an old soul, what age are ye to be here?”

“What are you, the ALE?” I replied with slightly no fear.

“Of course not my son. Forget that I asked,” said the man, not taken aback.

“I can see in your eyes with my own, my boy, that age is a thing you lack.”

“But what of it?” he shrugged with a forced light grin. “I’ve come to tell you my tale: a yarn of youth that now passes as wisdom so when the time comes you will not fail.”

Part Two

“One February night my sophomore year, three friends and I ventured out much like you and your young friend here fall into this dark night’s doubt.

We often found our evenings packed with carousing and depraved fun, rarely would we find the way home when our late revelry was done.

Yet my boys and I were fairly different: opposite corners of the square, to find a more diverse entourage upon this Earth would be rare.

And so this eve we walked about, searching in accord with our bent, and came upon a wasted bum whom we felt might meet our intent.

‘Excuse me sir,’ I said to the man, feigning some formality, ‘Might you do us a favor this eve, in exchange for more of your reality?

We require you to buy us beer. I think a case will do just fine.’

‘I’ll get it from this store here,’ said he, ‘if the change of 20 will be mine.’

Thereon that fateful transaction commenced, and after merely five moments the bum walked out of the store most convenient, case in hand with some doughnuts.

‘Here you are,’ the bum proclaimed, ‘but don’t run off quite yet!

You’ve bought more from me than this tonight, a chance you won’t regret!

A normal beggar I certainly am not, far from run of the mill, a genie of sorts from a land far north, with more for your money than swill.'”

“Hold!” I cried to the old senior’s tale. “You expect me to believe this?

That you and your friends had awakened then some spirit granting three wishes!”

“Four in fact,” the aged man replied, “one for each of us there, but each desire limited to a question few are brave to bear.

So listen closely, give me your time, turn off that incessant phone, and I’ll continue to tell you why, as best I can, I play beer pong alone.

‘You boys are college students no doubt,’ the bum told us chomping a pastry. ‘Hear out my offer to your trusting souls and you’ll be on your way quite hastily.'”

In next week’s parts three and four the senior continues his story, the old bum’s gifts quickly become curses and we get to hear the passed out frat boy in the upstairs bathroom say, “hey big man, lemme hold a dollar.”

E-mail Ken a tale or two at viewpoint@technicianonline.com.