"C'mon girls, out. Who wants pizza? Let's sober up for a bit and I'll drive you back myself."
My friends, especially the one who had a boyfriend, were hesitant. Yet we were young, dumb and drunk, and the momentary promise of pizza and a clean bathroom lured us inside. Speaking only for myself, I can say that what also took me inside, and what also had been fueling my recent string of devil-may-care debauchery, was an adolescent-like determination to act out against the boyfriend I had just left. He had been so controlling in our relationship—what I should wear, what I should eat—that I was now taking every opportunity to spite him.
So we went inside. It was a large, multi-bedroom house in a wealthy neighborhood home to high-ranking bureaucrats, lawyers and lobbyists, and we wondered aloud how he could afford such a place.
"Well," he said. "I have a decent job that requires me to be close to the city. Do you want to know what that is? I'm a Secret Service agent." He poured us something non-descript to drink.
"You said there would be pizza," my friend-with-a-boyfriend chimed in. "And if I drink any more alcohol I'm going to puke all over your floor."
As natives, we were hard to impress. We had long since grown used to the whir of Marine One helicopters down the Potomac, and politicians were a dime a dozen in this town anyway. He sensed that and continued on. "And I don't live alone. I have roommates. We're all agents. They'll be home soon. They'd love to meet you."
It's not that we didn't believe him. We didn't doubt him for a minute. Everything about him and his existence in the spartanly furnished house seemed to come from a primer on how to live like a Secret Service guy in the D.C. suburbs. It's just that we didn't care. Especially at that point, when the room began spinning.
I remember one friend passed out on the couch in his living room. Another friend ending up in a spare bedroom asleep. The other nervously paced in the kitchen, watching the pizza cook as she texted her boyfriend.