The Night We Were the Plain White T’s

How we spent our Thursday evenings in college.

Atlantic City on a Thursday night in February is a strange place. And we were strange dudes, so we had been looking forward to it all week. But first, we had night class.

Business Statistics with Professor Bagnoli to be exact. He was quite the character. Clocking in at about 4-foot-10 and 250 pounds, he had a long white ponytail, a huge beard, and a monotone voice heavily accented by a lifetime in South Philly. He regularly told stories with an incredible hook and no punchline. In that sense, he was probably this website’s earliest inspiration.

“My friend Greg had no luck with women,” he began his lecture. “Yesterday he was pulled over by the police for speeding. Now please turn your textbooks to page 104.”

“What the fuck is this guy talking about?” Kirk whispered, his subtlety severely undermined by the Snapple bottle full of whiskey he’d been sipping at on the walk across campus.

“We are supposed to have a book for this class?” Tom asked no one in particular. Tom was wearing an ill-fitting suit and a fedora. This was our outfit of choice for our Thursday night jaunts to Caesars, although the rest of us had enough shreds of dignity left to leave our hats off until after class.

As the lesson unfolded, I worked hard to decipher Professor Bagnoli's non-sequiturs while Kirk and Tom worked equally hard on polishing off the Snapple bottle. Somehow I was in charge of taking notes, explaining the concepts to my shitty friends, and then driving their drunk asses 45 minutes across the Atlantic City expressway.

This, as described, was our Thursday night routine.

“Hopefully we don’t end up like Greg,” I said after class had mercifully been dismissed.

“Who’s Greg?” asked Kirk, ducking deeply to fit his lanky frame into my tiny Saturn.

We began the drive, cycling through a playlist of Jimmy Eat World singles and Passion Pit bangers. The trunk was packed with three cases of Keystone Light and a handle of Evan Williams. Nobody had a change of clothes or even a toothbrush. Our wallets were filled with wrinkled twenties, however much we could afford to siphon from our parents’ grocery allowance that month.

Stopping at the luxurious Frank S. Farley Service Plaza, we stocked up on various essentials: Diet Coke for chasers, Marlboro 27’s for the tables, Chex Mix for dinner, and Gatorade for the morning after. Phil, in his transcendent wisdom, insisted on getting TastyKakes, claiming they were the good luck charm he needed to hit it big. And so, with my trunk now completely filled with the caloric trappings of the hopeless degenerate, we embarked on the final 20-mile cruise to the boardwalk.

Arriving at Caesars, our spirits were high. And by that, I mean that Kirk’s Snapple bottle was now completely empty and its contents had spread a familiar warmth across our collective conscience. Our luck began right there at the check-in counter. “Mr. Talmage, you’ve been upgraded to a suite,” said the receptionist, clearly scowling at the unruly behavior of my companions in the lobby. I had used my ingenuity (and my dad’s rewards points) to book the reservation and the ruse had worked perfectly. As she summoned a bellhop to escort us to the top of the Centurion Tower, the group of strangers behind us had clearly noticed the VIP treatment we had received. And our cool fucking suits.

“Are you guys in a band or something?” one of them asked.

Tom, never one to miss an opportunity for mischief, shot me a knowing glance before proclaiming, "Actually yeah. Have you ever heard of the Plain White T's?" It was an excellent lie, as they were getting a fair amount of radio play at the time, but still were obscure enough so that no one would have any idea what they actually looked like.

Before anybody had a chance for further questioning, the bellhop summoned us to the elevator bank. He had loaded our possessions onto a luggage cart, which was now overflowing with enough booze to stock a small liquor store. I hooked a beer funnel around the garment hanger as we all piled into the elevator.

The second the doors closed, Phil ripped a fart so disgusting it turned the bellhop’s face purple as he stifled a gag. “Too many TastyKakes,” he stated nonchalantly as the noxious fumes made all of our eyes water.

Minutes later, we stumbled into our newfound luxurious haven, a suite that seemed to stretch even further than Professor Bagnoli's boundless facial hair. The plush couches and extravagant view of the neon-lit boardwalk were a surreal contrast to our destitute West Philadelphia apartments.

Unleashing the handle of Evan Williams from its paper bag prison, we inaugurated our posh abode with hearty swigs. Kirk, by this point, was reciting Professor Bagnoli's lectures in his own inebriated, South Philly-accented rendition, leaving us rolling on the couch in a state of delirious amusement.

We finished the pre-game with one of our favorite drinking games, the rules of which time has blurred, but which definitely involved watching the Chinese-language news channel on the suite’s 75-inch flatscreen.

As the hands of the clock aligned with our intoxication levels, we staggered down to the casino floor, determined to conquer the blackjack tables. In those days, ten bucks a hand seemed like a daring plunge into the risky world of the high-rollers. Tom, however, had different concerns. Frustrated by the slow drink service, he snuck a 30-pack of Keystone Light onto the casino floor and ninja-stashed it under his seat. He claimed it was a strategic move, ensuring hydration in the face of our high-stakes wagering.

Hours merged into a blur of betting, bourbon, and bewilderingly bad decisions that, to the amazement of everyone else at the table, would often pay off. With each dealt hand, we oscillated between an aura of unwarranted self-confidence and outright bewilderment at the concept of basic math. The dealer, with a wearied smile, watched us flip-flop between bouts of inebriated glee and furrowed-brow concentration as we attempted to add up the value of our cards.

At one point, Phil fell asleep in the middle of a hand. He awoke confronted with a hard 13 against a dealer 10. Utterly confused, he doubled down. The other players groaned with frustration, and we laughed with glee as an 8 came out.

We were reprimanded several dozen times by the pit boss for handing out beers to other guests, humping the table after a big win, spilling our drinks on the chips, touching our cards, and threatening the dealers with gratuitous violence after a bad beat. Thankfully, the death threats were limited by our continued good fortune.

After a few hours of erratic betting, short naps, aggressive double downs, and several inexplicably successful split tens, we were up over $2,000 as a collective. A fortune by our standards, it was truly a heater for the ages, one that we have not been able to replicate in our later years despite a higher bankroll and a markedly lower blood alcohol level.

Our triumphant success called for a celebration, which we did by completely pigging out at the 24/7 casino cafe. Like pioneers on a quest, we sought sustenance, stumbling loudly to our table and making a big show of ordering the most outlandish items on the menu.

"Three orders of chicken and waffles," Tom ordered all for himself. "Hold the waffles."

The complete cacophony of our arrival, along with the matching suits and fedoras, now reeking of cigarette smoke and stale Keystone, immediately drew attention.

From across the restaurant we heard someone shout, “Hey, look! It’s the Plain White T’s!” Our friends from the check-in line had also found themselves in search of a late night bite.

We scribbled a few autographs for the other patrons and even posed for a few pictures. “Sing something!” one of our lobby mates demanded.

“Oh fuck,” I whispered.

And so, there in the harsh fluorescent light of the cafe, we performed an impromptu acapella rendition of "Hey There Delilah," off-key and entirely terrible. The other patrons stared in a mixture of confusion and amusement. The waitress, visibly unimpressed, scolded us for disturbing the peace. By the time we ventured back to the elevator, exactly no one was buying our rockstar act anymore. But we were pretty high on our own supply by that point, so we continued to serenade every person we passed on our way to the room.

As dawn tiptoed over the horizon, our collective noise levels had escalated to a point that summoned the ire of hotel security. An unexpected knock on the door brought an abrupt end to our melodic aspirations.

“My weekly royalty checks are bigger than your whole salary!” I screamed at the indignant security guard.

“We’ll never perform here again!” swore Kirk loudly.

It became apparent that the security guard was both not a fan of the Plain White T’s and had a canister of pepper spray on his belt. Upon coming to this realization, we decided it would be in our best interest to tone it down, both for the sake of our fellow guests and our burgeoning hangovers.

With the sun rising, we finally passed out amongst the empty cups and discarded TastyKake wrappers that now littered the suite. With several beds and couches available, Tom opted for the living room floor — fedora still intact. Our reprieve was brief, a mere couple hours or so, before it was time to embark on the journey back to reality. In my exhausted stupor, I executed a misguided attempt at a three-point turn to exit the parking garage that ended in a gentle kiss with a parked car's bumper.

And so, as a night of epic debauchery gave way to an early afternoon of crippling nausea, we retraced our haphazard steps back home. Our wallets were heavier, our heads were even more so, and our memories were a patchwork of smiling face cards and frowning service workers. As the cityscape faded in the rearview mirror, we knew that this audacious escapade would forever be known in our collective history of foolish exploits as “The Night We Were the Plain White T’s”.

It’s certainly a better story than Professor Bagnoli ever told.