The First Destructo
Sometime during our final semester at Servite, somehow we determined to have a Destructo. We had never had a Destructo. We knew of no one who had ever been to a Destructo. The fact of the matter, there was no such thing as a Destructo. We just came up with the idea, and the name. It turned out to be our First Destructo, but not the last.
The other Destructos happened at Austin’s house, and the Cal State Fullerton Newman’s Club. I remember we had at least two and possibly three at Cal State under the auspices of the chaplain, a certain Servite friar named Donald Duplessis whom we referred to as “J.B.” Not sure what the initials stood for, any more than we knew what a Destructo was. We just made it up.
The First Destructo occurred in Whittier, on Rushford Street on a Friday night when my parents were out of town. It was highly unusual that my parents would be out of town. I cannot recall where in the world my younger brothers and sisters - all four - had disappeared to. But it was wholly unexpected and highly unusual that I would have the entire house to myself. Maybe that’s why the Destructo concept was conceived.
The cases of beer were most likely bought and delivered by Delgado’s older cousin Art Beas. Art was the perfect older cousin - old enough to have a valid I.D., but not old enough to act like a responsible adult. He was our Fairy God-cousin - not only would he bring home the goods, he would love to see his younger cousins raise some hell. The drunkest I ever got was under the tutelage of El Profe, Arturo Beas.
Besides the beer, Paul and I went to the local Von’s grocery store and stocked up on a couple packs of “crooks,” so called due to their wavy, undulating shape. The main reason we chose them was that they were cheap, and rum-soaked. Yes, cheap, rum-soaked, and crooked seemed to resonate well with the Destructo we envisioned.
Fittingly, the Destructo occurred in the back of the house - the back room. It was a Friday night and the boys all wandered in.
We sat around a round table and dealt the cards, and lit up our smokes. It was time for some serious poker playing. A two cent ante gets you in the game, gents. We started with 5 Card Draw, but as the night proceeded our beer-titrated brains kept upping the ante: to 5 Card Stud, to 7 Card Stud, to Spit in the Ocean, to 7 Card Stud Spit in the Ocean - Deuces Wild. Which inevitably led to 7 Card Stud Spit in the Ocean Even, Odd, and Royalty Cards Wild. At the point everybody in the game was scoring a royal flush and splitting the pot equally meant that everyone was getting back whatever they had put in the first place.
So what’s the point? The point was - if you are wondering about the point it is a clear indication that you need another beer. And Indian Poker. Indian Poker is a simple game - you pay in a big ante - like 5 cents - and everyone draws a single card. At the count of “KE-MO-SABE!” everyone puts their card to their forehead without looking at it. Now everyone else’s cards are plainly visible, however you do not know what is on your own card. And then you bet on your card - sight unseen. Theoretically the game strategy is to try to read the other players reaction to your own card to help guess if you have a good or bad card. But if you are thinking strategy at this point, it is a clear indication you need another beer.
After a few rounds of Indian Poker we proceeded to the logical next stage: Indian Chief Poker, where now you held up five cards to your forehead. If you have trouble juggling the five cards it is a clear indication you need another beer.
The hilarious part of this game is to see people acting tough and raising the pot while everyone else can see they have a dog crap hand. So naturally we changed up a few rules and played a few rounds of Pinche Pendejo .
We were laughing so hard our stomaches hurt when the last beer went down the hatch. We gathered up our change, closed up the back room and went to the kitchen in search of more alcohol. My parents had a liquor cabinet which produced a pretty well-filled bottle of vodka. My last memory was chugging vodka, laughing, and sliding down the wall of our front hallway.
* * *
The sound of birds chirping….
I open my eyes. Where am I? It’s afternoon, the light exacerbates the pile driver pounding pain in my head. My mouth is dry, with a sour pukey taste. I am on the living room floor, alone, smelling the heavy stench of tobacco smoke and vomit.
I drag myself up off the floor and go to the back room, where I find Delgado sprawled on the couch, dead drunk asleep still. He had barfed all over the room.
Shit.
“Wake up Paul! My folks will be back in a couple hours!”
* * *
Somehow we managed to clean the worst of it, open the doors and windows, but the house still reeked when my folks came home. I mumbled something about Paul throwing up due to something he ate. My folks said little, but clearly they were dubious given the lingering cigar smoke odor. Maybe they could see by my pathetic condition that I had suffered enough to have learned something.
And I did. The next Destructo would be at Austin’s house.
I recall one evening, when perhaps a dozen of us had gathered at my Mom's house. We had pooled our meager resources and sent out the oldest-looking to hope and pray for beer. When they returned, our faces, eager, and theirs, disappointed, were an obvious tell-tale to my mother, who shrieked that laugh of hers, said, "No one would sell you beer?," took our money, popped down the several blocks to the nearest liquor store, and bought all the beer we could afford, which I believe amounted to 1 or 2 cans each. But still, we got to drink it. And that was a rare treat at the time.
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