No names have been changed. No one is innocent.

Since I graduated from college, I've lived in five states. And until this weekend, I'd never returned to a place I'd left. Well, Kansas City doesn't count. My parents live there. But Battle Creek, Mich., St. Petersburg, Fla. and York, Pa., have been but spots in my rearview, destined to be only memories.

But the old drinking gang in York, already half-scattered (mostly to North Carolina, but that's another story), was being dealt another blow, Mindy is relocating to the Philadelphia suburbs to write about something other than teenagers with competition issues. And as is expected at moments like this, elements of the old gang gathered to ruminate and drink.

Excessively, I'm happy to report.

I finished off my first beer about 10 minutes after arriving at Mark and Tina's place. I downed a couple more while catching up with various friends, none of whom I'd seen since leaving last November. And actually, my wife Barbara and Scott, a former editor who now works in the southern part of the Pine State, were the surprise special guests. Well, I was in the "surprise" group too, but more for my drinking acumen than anything else.

Mindy, the guest of honor, arrived at the party long before we did and had been consuming copiously for quite a while. At about nine, she decided to take one of those disposable cameras, shove it up her shirt and snap a shot.

I don't think I'm talking out of school when I mention that Mindy is on the high side of attractive, and that such a photo might hold some sentimental, if not monetary, value for certain people. Unfortunately for her, the camera belonged to Dave. Dave is a baseball reporter, and a damned good one. He and Mindy have carried on battles of stubborn intimidation for as long as I've known them. It's a strangely macho way of showing affection. I use "strangely" because even though both are sports reporters, neither is heavily testosterone-driven in their approach.

In any case, a couple hours later, Mindy realized what might be on the film and set about locating the camera. Dave, having heard what might be on the film, had already hid the camera. Mindy pretended to be drunker than she was and rummaged through Dave's pockets, pretending to search for his camera (I'm not being euphemistic here, so chill out). She gave up and disappeared.

A couple minutes later, Dave realized Mindy had taken his keys. And he knew what that meant: One final death match. No way to run out the clock, as this one would go all the way.

Dave spent a small amount of the rest of the evening asking "Where's my keys?", to which Mindy would reply "Where's the camera?" Merely opening salvos, testing of the waters, that sort of thing.

Most of the evening was spent swapping stories, old and new, combined with egregious drinking (at least six cases of beer were consumed--the number may be higher--by about 15 people) and the inventive use of an apple as purveyor of a controlled substance. The general intoxication was not just chemical, though. We were happy to see each other, to share the same space as these people, if for only an evening.

That evening is what I missed when I moved away, and it was the prospect of such an event that brought Barbara, Scott and me up to slightly north of the Mason-Dixon line. Our own version of spiritual renewal. Phone calls and e-mails are nice, but hugs and spilled beer are better.

Oh yeah, the death match. At about 3 a.m., some of us made bets. Scott ponied up my quarter (bills were not allowed) and Mindy was given 1-3 odds to regain the camera. A sucker bet, even at that price. By 4 a.m., Dave's girlfriend was telling him to just give up the camera so that he could drive home. While she understood that the battle itself had nothing to do with a possible photo of another woman's bra, I'm guessing she wasn't entirely happy with the silliness of the matter. In any case, it was obvious that she just didn't understand.

So Dave and his girlfriend sat in her car and discussed. And discussed. The rest of us dozed off (passed out would not be correct). I left the smoky living room at about 4:45 and went upstairs to sleep a sweaty sleep (Mark and Tina are still "contemplating" the purchase of an air conditioning unit), so I have only this endgame account from Mindy (who was certainly not an objective observer) and Scott (who was, mostly).

Dave came in at about 5 a.m., demanding his keys in obscene and no uncertain terms. Mindy, woken up by Dave's tirade, was somewhat shaken and went upstairs to get them and end the charade. On her way back down, however, she realized that Dave was only bluffing. So when she got back to the living room, she hurled the keys at Dave, tossing back a few obscenities of her own. Then she stalked off to the bathroom, cussing and moaning.

Tom, a gentle soul who had the foresight to bring a bottle of JD to the party, woke up only as Mindy was tromping away, apparently distraught. "Don't let it end this way," he cried to Dave. "You can't let it end this way."

Lest you think that Tom was merely trying to influence the bet, he was the only person who bet on Dave keeping the camera. He was merely sotted and somewhat confused. And there's nothing wrong with that.

Tom's imploring did the trick. Dave meekly waddled to the bathroom, knocked on the door and offered Mindy the camera, asking if that would make things right. She nodded with a sob, and then threw her head back with a cackle. Dave knew he had been had. By one of the best.

I didn't sleep much, drenched as I was in sweat, cigar smoke and spilt beer. The morning shower did wonders, as did escaping into the car AC for the drive home. The two-hour on-again, off-again nap I took between the north side of D.C. and Richmond didn't hurt, either. By the time we got back to Durham, I was all ready to go out and have a brew with some friends. And we did. Our friends were nice enough not to mention the rather gamy scent which had accumulated around us.

Definition of a friend: A person who is willing to share beer with you, no matter your appearance, cleanliness or general operating condition. We had a lot of those in not-quite Amish country, and believe me, their value cannot be calculated.

Jon Worley would like to emphasize that not one of the overindulgent guests puked or in any other way acted outside of proper party etiquette. Hangovers, though, are another story.