The Devotion of a Bro: Stu, my Brobama.

I’ve been busy lately, so busy in fact that I’ve rarely had time to get food, much less sleep, or ever writing. 
However, Now  that I’m done with comps as a graduate student, finished my finals, and am beginning my summer research in the field I’ll have slightly more time to write!  Yay!
But…despite a half dozen posts mostly done, their photographs and editing aren’t, which means I don’t actually have them even close to done.

So, to tide you over, here is a strange story that happened in Alaska last week, while I was trying to prepare for my graduate comprehensive exam.

The Devotion of a Bro:  Stu, my Brobama.

Around 3 am, I received a phone call from an unknown number.  Seeing the time of night, I assumed it must be something urgent, and so I answered. 

On the other end of the line, I was immediately blasted by a hellishly loud wave of sound…followed by someone screaming, “BRIAN.  ALLMAN….BRIAN ALLMAN.  DR. ALLMAN.  BRO OF BROS.  KING OF PARTY.  THIS IS YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND.”

I didn’t know who that was, and the area code was 907, so it was someone here in Alaska, likely nearby.

I was hesitant, but responded, “Umm, hello?  Who is this?”

“YOUR FUCKING BEST FRIEND OF EVER.  I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU HAPPY NOW. I’M BRINGING BITCHES TO YOUR PLACE. WHERE IS YOUR PLACE, THAT I MIGHT COME, BRINGING MY BITCHES?”

I still had no idea who this was, and I had my comprehensive exam in only a few hours, so I responded exactly how I felt: angrily.

“It’s 3 in the morning during finals week, I have shit to do, goodnight whoever this is.” Then, I hung up, imagining it was just some foolish graduate student trying to set me up on another date.  The effort might have been appreciated at another time, but at 3 AM, literally nothing brings me joy more than sleep, or possibly hot chocolate with marshmallows.  But, that’s beside the point.

I headed back to bed, found the position that seemed to lay me across where I’d already evenly spread my warmth before getting up, grumpily faced away from the curtains that never quite cover the near constant sunlight of Alaskan summer, and drifted slowly back to sleep. It took several minutes, and I remember seeing the clock show the time at 3:29, before I finally made it back to dreamland.

I awoke to a bang.  A loud and abrupt bang.  It sounded like a gunshot. In my confused post-dream state, it WAS a gunshot.  Likely, from a terrorist, or something.  Who knows?  When you wake up to gunshots, you probably aren’t thinking clearly.

Naturally, I responded by flinging my arms over my head in terror, trying to sit up, slamming my face into my bed’s headboard, and promptly rolling off the side nearest the wall so that I was wedged in place and unable to move.  As far as evolution goes, that’s what we like to call the ‘flight’ response, mixed with the ‘fight’ response, if the fight response ever involved fighting your OWN safety.

Moments passed as I lay wedged between the wall and the bed. I heard the bang again. This time, I realized it was someone at my front door.  I slid my hand around me and tried to use leverage to pull myself out of the crack I was in, and succeeded in at least freeing my head. 

The clock showed 3:53, and the light from the window was much brighter. It was around thirty minutes to sunrise as I pulled myself from the wedged position, groaning like a much older man, and falling somewhat exhausted on my bed when I heard the third bang.  This time, it was accompanied by the single loudest whisper that has ever been.  It was a whisper that sounded more like a scream than anything else.  It hissed through my apartment, and I understood about half of the words.   “something something BITCHES BE HERE something BROSEPH.” The missing words sounded like garbled nonsense, slurred together in a drunken attempt at screaming quietly.

I rolled over my bed, threw on the nearest jacket and pair of shorts and walked to the door.  I was wearing a massive plush winter coat and light green basketball shorts when I opened the door to find one of the students I had TA’d for earlier in the semester standing at my door with at least 4 incredibly young looking women, obviously intoxicated.

“BRIAN,” came the loud whisper from Stu, (whose real name I cannot release due to FERPA restrictions, stupid legal rights of students) “I BROUGHT DEM BITCHES.  MY WHOLE FRESHMAN FLOOR IS PARTYING. ALSO, NICE COAT.” He didn’t seem aware of the need to lower his volume, even though he was trying to whisper quite loudly, so I briefly held my finger up as if to quiet him down.

 This is my "Shut up and let me sleep" face

I stared at him, my face a confused mix of tired and angry, and then I put on hand on his shoulder and told him the only thing I could: “You have fulfilled your Bro duties, but I must decline.  I’m going to take a big test tomorrow, and I need to sleep.  Ok bud?” My fraternity experiences had taught me that handling a drunken guy usually just involves patience and never arguing.  I decided to try this route with Stu.

He stared at me, his intoxicated eyes sliding from my eyes around my face, clearly uncertain which of what must have been several different Brians to look at. He responded in the third person, as all the young freshmen college women stared at him with adoration.  “Stu did good?  Stu’s a good bro?”

I patted him on the shoulder, and told him, “You can be my bro any time that I don’t need to work in the morning.  You’re my buddy.”

“I’m Barack Bro-bama, bitches. The President of Party.  Bro-bama. Party pres.  Yeah.”  Stu didn’t appear to be addressing anyone in particular. 

 

I wouldn't vote for that Obama, but I would party with him.

(No known origin for the picture)

Stu smiled, and stayed still.  I waited for him to move, or any of the women.  None did.

I didn’t ask how he got into the building, since people regularly leave the door propped open if they take night-time smoke breaks.  I didn’t ask him how he knew which apartment I was in (though I later found out he recognized my car and the sign that told him my room number).  I knew he had my number from class, when he’d asked for it to insure he could contact me about a late paper.  The only thing I asked, as he stood staring at me was, “How did you get here?” 

Stu raised his arm in a formal salute and gave me a crisp nod. “Bros before hoes, sir, Bros before hoes.”  Without answering my question, Stu turned around and began walking the wrong way down the hall.  I closed my door, and went back to bed, and only realized that the night’s events had been more than a dream when, as I walked out of my room, I saw a post-it note on the door. 

“Dear resident,” it stated, “please recall that the building is not meant to host parties.  Even if the real Obama shows up, bitches and all, please keep the halls quite after 11:00 pm.  –Tired neighbor.”

I passed my comps, and finished my finals, and have yet to hear back from Stu.  I do know, however, that he proved himself as a bro.  It was unwanted, unnecessary, meddlesome and obnoxious, but what can you do?  If the president of partying calls, even at 3 AM, you answer.