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Walker’s getting is an interview !

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    F ootball house is a warzone . There must be more testosterone flowing on this half-acre lot than there was on a Viking invasion ship. I half expect a frat boy in a horned helmet to come out of the bushes and kidnap me. Suddenly I feel like a young maiden being paraded through a medieval town for all the men to ogle over.
    As I step off the sidewalk onto the lawn I there’s two – two keg stands going on either side of me, and some girl holding her friend’s hair back while she pukes in the bushes. This is one classy place.
    Lovely , I think as I carefully navigate the cracked brick walkway to the front porch. I can already smell the party and I’m not even inside yet. Unfamiliar pop music blasts from within, mostly bass, but I don’t recognize the song, which isn’t surprising.
    Is this the college life I’m missing out on? The party culture on campus is as foreign to me as life on the other side of the globe. I instantly feel like a black sheep as I take the steps to the front door.
    I knock, but the door swings easily open and the roar of the festivities threatens to overwhelm me. The scent of beer and smoke rushes my nostrils like a hard-hitting offense. It is seriously loud in here. The music is blasting from a pair of speakers laid out in the living room, which has been converted to a beer pong…arena. Someone takes this stuff very seriously.
    A guy who looks like he was born to charge people on the thirty-yard line lands a shot to win the game and his friends go wild, slamming their chests together and slapping each other hard on the shoulders. Male bonding at its finest. I search the hordes for Walker, but he doesn’t seem to be here. I turn back and thread my way to another room that’s been converted to a very primitive dance room.
    Those cheesy lights you can buy at the mall are setup everywhere, bathing the room in a disorienting combination of little colored globes spinning across the ceiling, and blinking neon bouncing off the walls. I have no idea how anyone can even see each other in this environment, but I guess when you’re drunk and grinding against each other it doesn’t really matter.
    “Walker!” I manage to shout. “Walker Johnson!”
    A blonde girl, hanging dangerously off a guy I think I recognize as a running back from the Colts, turns her head to me and frowns. “You lost?” She asks me with a drunken cackle.
    What the Hell am I doing here? I think, letting out a huge sigh. I’m getting angry. I can feel the flush growing in my face and I’m starting to sweat. It doesn’t help that this place is so hot you could charge people for a sauna visit. But that’s not my problem. I don’t belong in a place like this. I can’t believe I agreed to take this story.
    Feeling the anger swelling up inside me, I turn around and grab the nearest body I can find and spin them around. I don’t know who he is, but he’s definitely not on the football team. One of the college’s many superfans most likely. He’s holding a red cup of beer and when he sees me, a cartoonish smile crosses his lips.
    “Hey, baby,” he says slyly. “What are you doing—“
    “Walker Johnson,” I snap, cutting him off. “Where do I find Walker Johnson!?”
    His eyes open wide and he laughs, then bellows, “In the dictionary under baddest-motherfucker-alive!”
    Apparently this is the funniest joke ever uttered by a human being, as the guy tosses his head back and laughs, stumbles, and spills his drink all over my shirt and bag. Wonderful .
    “Oh!” I shout, repulsed by the lukewarm beer now soaking into my bra.
    “Boooo!” A group of partygoers jeer as the guy topples to the ground, which draws even more laughter than his well-thought-out joke.
    Quickly, I drop my bag and start pulling everything out before it’s soaked too. But it’s already too late; my pens are coated in beer and my notebook…is completely drenched and ruined.
    That’s it, I think,