Popov

Popov is the death wish incarnate. The label is a sinister red, dim shadow of the Kremlin gazing demonically behind the all-caps brand name. Stare into its distilled contents and you will see emptiness. The scent is a warning, the flavor a confirmation. Drink it and you tempt oblivion. Bottle, label, and cap are plain to the point of disrespect. There is not the slightest nod toward luxury or dignity. This is not a liquor to be seen with. This is the kind of liquor you take home in the dark, drink in private, and bury the empty bottle under a layer of trash.

Back in college, Popov was the alcohol of choice for getting extremely messed up. This choice was entirely pragmatic. Popov was and still is the cheapest option that fits in your stomach. Along every other axis of consideration, Popov is objectively the worst possible choice. The flavor, the impurities, the hangover, the texture, none of it is remotely pleasant. Popov pulls no punches.

I still remember sitting around a makeshift table with my dorm mates, veteran drinkers even at age 19, recounting how they'd worked out the cheapest possible cost per unit of grain alcohol ($0.42) and pouring out shots to kick off the night. Popov, purchased by the handle, was their liquor of choice.

I don't remember what I first got drunk on. It might as well have been Popov. I was meeting up with a stranger to see if he was any good at guitar. He asked if I wanted to shoot some vodka and watch the OC. I had never done either of those things, and I said yes. I still don't remember doing either of those things. I do remember my frustration at trying and failing to touch my fingertips together, my fine motor skills not responding no matter how intensely I focused. The rest of the night was lost.

Many of those nights were lost to Popov.

I remember the boy who had celiac but drank beer anyway. Every weekend was millimeters off his colon that would never heal. I remember the boy that had a muscle relaxer habit, frequently getting caught immobile on the floor, unable to get back into his bed. I remember the boy who didn't want to get taken to the hospital to get his stomach pumped because he was afraid he'd get fined and lose his license. He might have been right.

I remember the boy that got high on all kinds of stuff, freaked out in the stairwell, ran out of the building screaming, got psychiatric help, and came back changed. That same night, I heard an eight-point-buck crashed through the glass door of the dorm, thrashing in confusion, stopped and stared at the night watch, then ran off into the night. In actuality, a boy had tried to lure a raccoon into the dorm and damaged the door.

And I remember the night I joined hundreds of people at the Cedar Village Apartments, wondering if a riot would start, hearing the sound of a balcony collapsing, looking up to see someone had fallen off that balcony and landed on the level below, and hearing a boy's voice in the crowd say, "No fat chicks."

All these boys were Popov.

I remember seeing a boy, eyes unable to focus, pants stained, getting dragged into an ambulance by two EMTs. I did nothing. I remember walking past a house where two boys on the porch yelled, "Kick the box! Kick the box!" and, seeing the empty case of beer on the sidewalk in front of me, I did. It had a rock in it. I stubbed my toe. They cheered. I remember staring down an angry mechanic, both of us hungover, neither of us sure where our shirts were, and commanding him to finish his drink from the night before. I don't know why I told him to, but he did.

In that moment, I was Popov.

I remember the night the riots actually did happen, when cops on horses flung tear gas all over north campus and south campus, driving everyone to the center of campus where of course the colliding crowds needed to be managed via additional tear gas, the gas seeping through the century-old window seals of my basement-level dorm and causing my girlfriend and I to cough and weep.

That gas was Popov.

I remember the night I walked home from a party across the stadium parking lot. It was so cold and quiet. All the moisture had frozen out of the air, and ice hung like floating sparks in the lamplight of the lot. There was only one car parked in the whole lot. A boy came up behind me on a bicycle, slightly wobbly, wheeling to and fro. You could tell the sole thought occupying whatever was left of his conscious mind was, "Don't hit the car." He hit the car. He fell off his bike and skidded to the side, sliding across the glossy iced concrete. He got back on his bike, started pedaling, steered in a large circle to get his balance, and crashed into the car. Again.

That night, he—and the car—were both Popov.

The taste never mattered. Popov was never about the drinking. Popov was about whatever else ended up happening because of that first ill-advised decision of the night, the decision to pour multiple shots of something that tastes awful and makes you feel worse, something that people say will rob you of your overthinking and excuse your wildest impulses, something that will let you finally dance the way your body intends to, clumsy and fearless.

For me, there was no magic quantity of alcohol that would silence my obsessive mind without shutting down the rest of me too. Either I would feel just as vigilant but get tired early, or—much more rarely—I'd go too far and get sick or forget. There was never a night where I forgot to worry, lived to experience it, and remembered what it felt like.

The first time I had that experience was not on Popov. It was not on anything. It was while I hung out with a couple of recent engineering grads who'd come back to have a beer with their underclassmen. They had jobs. They seemed so happy and confident. They were kind, clear, and stable. For years, they were my sole reference point that on the other side of all this nonsense, all this debt and drunkenness, at least a few people made it out. Made a life. Slept at night knowing that each day, they earned more than they spent.

I will never drink Popov again. Not, at least, while knowing it. I'm sure it makes its way into well drinks, but other than the occasional over-the-top Bloody Mary, I stay the hell away from vodka in general. I don't even see the beers we Midwesterners used to douse our innards with, cases of Natural Lite ("Natty Lite"), Natty Ice ("Nice"), Milwaukee's Best ("The Beast"), Busch Lite ("Bite"), or that most desperate of brewed options, Busch Heavy ("Diesel"). I don't need to see any of these drinks again. I've left them and college behind me.

And so have my old dormmates. Those same business majors now run an IT company. I wonder if they get together on the weekends now and then, play a little golf, hang out on someone's boat. I wonder what they drink.

Whatever it is, it's not fucking Popov.

0/10, no stars.