It May Be True

When I transfered to Ohio University I was already a senior. I could not afford to rent an apartment by myself, and I didn't know anyone in Athens, Ohio. So I requested a dormitory room. But I already spent a year in a dormitory full of freshman, away from home for the first time. I didn't want to do that again. No one should have to live through that experience twice.

So I requested a dormitory that possibly housed older students, if there was such a thing.

Thankfully, there was.

One dormitory was reserved for graduate students from around the world. It was a United Nations of students...and me.

There I met Jorge Benavides, from rural southern Columbia. He was an upstanding gentleman, a hard worker, a Christian, and a family man who missed his wife and daughter terribly. He was at Ohio University in search of a masters degree in English to ultimately become a professor back home, a goal he eventually fulfilled.

At the end of a successful semester, in which we had both worked hard on our studies, we agreed to go out to the pub to celebrate a little.

We had a couple of beers and a shot of rum and suddenly I looked at Jorge and Jorge was not looking back. Well, he was looking back but with a far off gaze, and a little drool dripping out the side of his mouth.

Now it has always been an historical myth that the American Indians could not handle alcohol. Whether it was myth or fact, I really had no idea. But Jorge was about as close to a true descendant of the American Indian that I had ever been around.

And he was gone. Lights out. Two beers and a shot and he had completely left reality.

I was worried. I helped him out of the pub and led him the short two-blocks back to the dormitory. He was leaning on me heavily and swaying back and forth.

Just outside the dormitory I realized that he had left his book bag inside the pub. I sat him on a bench. I tried to look him in the eye and firmly asked him not to move an inch. Then I sprinted back to the pub.

Fortunately his book bag was still on the floor beneath the bar stool he had been sitting on.

I grabbed the bag and sprinted back towards the dorm.

I was aghast to find Jorge laying in the gutter. I picked him up and dusted him off. I just couldn't believe that such a small amount of alcohol had such an effect on him.

I led Jorge to his dorm room. I got him into bed. I even tucked him in.

Whew.

Content that he was safe and sound, I jumped in the car and took off for Arby's for a couple of one dollar roast beef sandwiches.

I had barely returned to my dorm room when there was an urgent knock on my door. Outside my door were several ladies, one from Cyprus, one from Puerto Rico, one from Italy.

"Jim! You have to do something about Jorge!" they said. "He's nuts!"

The dormitory was co-ed, with men on one side and ladies on the other. Jorge had gotten out of bed, left his dorm room and was acting up in some disturbing manner on the ladies' side of the dormitory.

I reluctantly followed the ladies to Jorge, who greeted me, still lost but polite. I tried to convince him to return to his room, to his bed. But he refused.

After a few minutes of fruitless conversation, I noticed that he was standing on one leg, leaning against a wall, and with one little swipe of my foot I could drop him to the floor right on his buttocks. Maybe he would think he fell on his own and decide to return to his room.

I easily swiped his foot out from under him and he dropped harmlessly on is buttocks as planned. He dropped like a feather.

To my surprise Jorge popped right back up too. Then he punched me in the nose.

By this time there was quite a crowd around us, all ladies who Jorge had been disturbing, all ladies who were trying to help me convince him to go sleep it off.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd.

Jorge was my friend. I wasn't looking for a fight. I'm never looking for a fight.

Suddenly he realized that I was trying to help. The punch to the nose was like a love tap, it didn't hurt in the least. And my posture and reaction were still that of a person who was trying to help.

Suddenly Jorge started hugging me and saying things like, "You are my friend! You are just trying to help!"

Jorge let me lead him back to his room and tuck him in once again. This time he stayed in bed.

I had to talk to him about the incident the next day. I had never experienced any reaction to alcohol like that before. I mean I had heard that the American Indians could not handle alcohol, and Jorge was kind of in that lineage. But man...I mean...wow!

Jorge was convinced that this kind of thing happened to everyone sooner or later. I tried to convince him that it never happened to me. He wasn't buying it.

After talking for awhile, he admitted to me that last time he drank he ended up spending the night in the Athens, Ohio police department's lock-up.

I guess I should have been around for that one.

Jorge and I did not drink together ever again. We did remain great friends though, and even moved into an apartment eventually together with a gentleman from Argentina.

I was rewarded for my troubles. The girl from Cyprus that Jorge was apparently disturbing made me stuffed grape leaves the next day. They were really good.