When I was in my twenties, the night before Thanksgiving was the Dia de Los Muertos of High School social groups. The one night out of the year when long-abandoned social circles from high school reappeared, powered by a strange sense of nostalgia and greeted with great merriment.

A more accurate term would’ve been La Noche de Los Binge Drinkers.

One night is as long as anything dead should have to re-lived. Especially tenuous social connections as badly decomposed as zombies with rotting strips of flesh dangling from their faces by a single thread of muscle sinew.

Other friendships, however, stay remarkably well preserved, like mummies that are tightly bound and forever trapped in time. Both are frightening in their own way.

The night before Thanksgiving was a surreal experience that faded a little during each year of my twenties and entirely disappeared by the time I turned thirty and moved to Texas.

It was strongest in the years before social media when none of us knew for sure who was in town outside of our closest friends and family. It must be completely different nowadays with youngsters swiping each other up, down, and sideways with turkey emojis.

In my twenties, the night before Thanksgiving was very special. It was a time before everyone’s parents had moved or died. Before half of my friends were spending that year with their in-laws while the other half showed up with a sister’s boyfriend (usually named Gene) who, “just wants to get out of the house for a bit,” but can’t hold his liquor and asks us to explain every inside joke or reference then compares it to some story of his own.

On those nights everyone was so excited to see each other, and then just as excited to leave two hours later. It was an evening full of spontaneous handshakes and hugs – not always at opportune moments – like when I shamed the high school quarterback for trying to shake my hand after waiting behind me at the urinal.

I’ve had the unique distinction of being the returning visitor in my early twenties, then in my later twenties, of being the rooted local watching former classmates quack their way through town like a bunch of flocking ducks. It seems a lot different when you’re no longer a tourist in your own hometown.

One year, I served as the ID checker at my local bar, which was great because my drinks were on the house, but also sucked because it anchored me in one spot where the party never really came. Sure, we got the usual cirrhosis-in-training crowd, but the flock had moved on to fresher waters and I was stuck with an incredibly boring job.

The night before Thanksgiving really served as an opportunity for people with an outdated sense of ownership to vent frustrations against the town that nurtured them. Something always made them angry.

The same guy who was disgusted last year that nothing ever changes is this year appalled that the old elementary school was torn down.

People in their twenties are full of complaints like this but still lack the self-awareness to see that they really do care and are just upset that their opinion doesn’t matter.

It’s hard to go from king of the kid’s circle to pawn of the adult world. That’s why society dangles alcohol in front of adults for the first three years – to serve as a reward for sticking it out.

I don’t know if people in their twenties still go out in my hometown. They may just sit at home waiting for their Uber requests to match (sorry Kayla, nobody’s coming out there). Or they may stay home reassuring themselves that it’s healthy at age twenty-three to count their parents as among their best and closest friends.

I’d like to think that it’s still going on. That La Noche de Los Binge Drinkers lives on. To everyone fortunate enough to experience such a night this week – and to everyone else too distant or too old like me – Happy Thanksgiving, hangover and all.

La Noche de Los Binge Drinkers: A Poem

‘Twas the night before Thanksgiving
when all through the town,
grain alcohol was stirring next to
beers meant to pound.

The po-lice were out making their rounds,
so our friend who had mono drove us around.

The parents were nestled all snug in their beds
while us twenty-somethings partied thinking “we’ll never be dead.”

So down to the tavern to see what’s on tap
after pre-gaming two shots and a warm can of Pabst.

Inside the bar are all our old friends.
We pull up a stool thinking youth never ends.

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