House Nite

When in the course of human events, things begin to turn more... insane, one tends to retreat into memories of better times.

I went into the depths of my mind the other day, thinking of a time when a group of six guys living in a house with four bedrooms and one bathroom not only managed to get along, but actually kept the place relatively clean.

I speak of House Nite.

It started when my housemate, Kevin, and I were sitting at Flanagan's Pub in Dayton, Ohio, the summer before our senior year of college. Kevin and I and four other fellas — John, Bob, Chris (called "Kac") and Steve (called "Zaf") — would be living together at 118 Lawnview in the University of Dayton's student neighborhood, the Ghetto.

I remarked to Kevin how this would be our final year before adulthood (at least for those of us who weren't on the five-year plan or headed to graduate school). We should do what we can to savor our time there, our time together, I said.

Over the previous three years, we six, plus three other guys who fell into our circle — Craig, Joe and Adam (called "Pauko") — had formed a bond like those formed among fraternity brothers. It was the first time in my life that I felt like I belonged somewhere. I valued their friendship and knew I'd miss our camaraderie after I would graduate in May 2001.

That's not to say that things were always smooth. Our junior year was a little turbulent when it came to upkeep of our house in UD's Darkside neighborhood.

Let me put it this way: At the end of the academic year, rather than clean the huge pile of dishes in our kitchen sink, we opted to put them into a box and throw them out because they were so dirty, we felt they were beyond saving. That, and because none of us had a pressure washer.

With all of this in mind, I proposed to Kevin, the unofficial leader and Alpha male of the group, that we reserve one night a week where, after classes and meetings and such, we all agree to gather in our house and clean it, doing chores on a rotating basis.

After the cleaning, we spend the rest of the night hanging out, either at a local watering hole, drinking beer and playing foosball at our house, or doing some other kind of fellowship-building exercise. (By fellowship-building exercise, I mean playing pranks on neighbors and rivals).

I finished my pitch, which admittedly was partly inspired by Milwaukee's Best Light that was cheap on draft at Flanagan's, by naming the weekly gathering.

"We can call it 'House Nite,'" I said, noting the slang spelling was on purpose. Because screw The Man.

"That's a good idea," Kevin said, apparently giving his approval to both my idea and the alternate spelling.

It didn't take much to convince the fellas that House Nite was a worthy endeavor.

The time we spent talking, playing games and enjoying what would be the very last months of our pre-Real World lives are some of the best memories I have.

Zaf, Kevin, Bob and the giant snowball
on the porch of 529 Irving.

From these nights came pranks that include rolling a snowball the size of two fourth-graders onto the porch of our rival house, 529 Irving. Or planning the "wedding wine" tradition and the "death wine pact." Or games of hula-hoop ringtoss. Or countless foosball tournaments — very few of which, if any, I won.

And, through it all, our dishes, bathroom and floors were clean.

We are scattered now. A few guys are still in Ohio. One guy's in North Carolina. Another is in Louisiana. One is up in Massachusetts. Still another is living in Spain. I'm in Pennsylvania.

Over the course of recent human events, I've been thinking about them all, retreating in my mind to a time when we owned the nite.

Because screw The Man.