Yes, a howling match. It seemed fair.

During the last semester of my college career, I traveled from Washington, DC, to New York City to celebrate my 22nd birthday with some friends.

It was 2 a.m., and I had drunk too much. One friend and I left the group in search of another bar we thought was close by. Three laps around the West Village and 45 minutes later, we realized we were lost.

When two homeless men introduced themselves on a dark, deserted street, they seemed harmless. They were friendly – I might even say charming – and surprisingly well dressed from what I can remember.

We talked for some time before they got around to asking for money. I (literally) threw a couple of bucks at them – the last I had. My friend opened his wallet to show them his last 20, explaining, “No, sorry, see, this is all I have. I need it to get home and...” The money was gone.

We tried to laugh it off, asking politely for the money back, at which point one of the bums challenged my friend and me to a howling match against his friend.

Yes, a howling match. It seemed fair.

So we did what any irrational drunks would do. We howled. As loud as we could. I honestly don’t think I’d ever howled before, but there I was on a deserted street in downtown Manhattan, howling. Unfortunately, the bum’s buddy won the match (the bum was the judge, of course) and was promptly awarded the money.

At this point, and I don’t think before, I began to suspect something shifty about our new friends. And as they took off down the road, we followed them, I’m sure yelling something as convincing and effective as, “Hey man! You took my money! That howling match was unfair.”

We chased them for two blocks but were finally intimidated when they met up with about five other guys. We ran. They retreated in the shadows to divvy up the score.

My friend and I made it to the main intersection of Christopher and Bleaker, where our story goes from absurd to obscene.

Feeling betrayed and lamenting our first mugging, as we were then calling it, we decided to take action.

Approximately 15 seconds after our 911 call, four New York Police Department cars came screaming to our rescue, lights spinning and sirens crying. We spent the next half-hour riding around in the back of a cop car looking for the “muggers.”

At some point during our fruitless tour of Manhattan’s west side, I rose up out of the haze of my inebriation and achieved a few lucid thoughts.

Maybe it was while the cop explained that I could have been killed. That crack junkies stab kids for less than $20 every week. No matter. In the glowing New York night, I realized the absolute absurdity of the situation.

Shocked, scared, and awe-struck, I laughed.

We asked to be let out, and we took a train back to Long Island to sleep in the guest bedroom of a friend’s house.

For four years, I enjoyed a trip through the American college experience. Looking back on that carefree era, I remember the reckless youthful nights that I had to get out of my system.

Now I’ve lost the network of close friends that doubled as housemates and chaperones. But of all I have had to leave behind, I miss the comfort of irresponsibility – the ability to be a clumsy, irreverent asshole every once in a while and still land on my feet.