He taps me on the shoulder and in the most sincere way looks me in the eyes and tells me, "Nice pour."

I was in Panama City at a Spring Break party waiting in line for the keg and swirling my red Solo cup around to keep from passing out or throwing up or both.

I've always thought the degree of a minute could be defined by what side of the bathroom door you're on, and I guess the same goes in line for the Busch Light.

So after the guy in front of me asks for "six quick pumps," it was my turn and after three years of college, I guess the whole 45-degree angle thing becomes second nature or something.

That's when it happened though. I finished up and the guy behind me, he taps me on the shoulder and in the most sincere way looks me in the eyes and tells me, "Nice pour."

"Nice pour. That was a really nice pour."

And as I'm walking away I can hear him behind me "that was a really great pour."

I'm sure it had a lot to do with what had been in those cups all night, but as I stepped off the porch I realized that I had just ran into, just came face to face with "that guy."

For about eight really odd seconds I had seen, actually been spoken to, by what everyone in my last four years of college had talked about at parties, joked about in bars and secretly prayed every night would never end up acting like (no matter how strong the drinks were that night).

I wanted to turn around and shake his hand. I had already forgotten what he looked like and wanted one more look at this guy. This character.

The guy who wrote all those twisted things on the bathroom walls. The guy whose gum is always under the desk in lecture. The guy who comes up with the horrible jokes that we all know by heart.

The guy who always yells for "Freebird."

The guy who leaves the snot on the elevator door. Who knows all the lyrics to every crappy old rock song in every after-hours club.

The guy who will wear sunglasses inside or at night and the guy who would tap you on the shoulder while you're getting a beer and tell you "nice pour."

I was stepping all over myself trying to get back on the deck, searching over a sea of red and blue cups.

I needed one more look at this character. One better glance into the face of the previous owner of all my old textbooks with the important pages ripped out.

The face on that first fake ID I ever had taken away.

Either the keg got kicked or the cops came, but when I finally stumbled back to where I'd last had my "terrific pour," my "fantastic pour, man," that guy had left.

As in classic tradition, I had shown up a minute late. Like when the gum's still wet under the desk when it touches your fingers. Like when the stall door's still swinging when you walk in.

If you're out there though buddy, off in some new Spring Break paradise, I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to say thanks. It really was a good pour.