APRIL 9, 2025 – (Cont.) When the cheering stopped, the serious job of governing began. I say that with tongue far in cheek, of course. As I explained in Part I, there wasn’t a whole lot to the lofty position of senior class president, and the main responsibility, if one could call it that, was to organize campus-wide parties. Although I’d attended lots of such affairs, I’d never participated in planning, organizing or producing one. As was the case with 99% of the student body, in attending lots of campus parties, I’d drunk lots of beer and made lots of noise without ever considering what work arrangements entailed—let alone what was involved in cleaning up afterwards.
On the other hand, based on the previous three years of campus life, I hadn’t experienced any party that was unusually imaginative. Each was a duplicate of the one that preceded it and the one that followed: lots of “kegs,” loud music, and dancing. I never stuck around late enough for dried spilt beer to tug at the soles of my shoes.
Now, starting with the fall semester and the start of our senior year, I would have to lead the charge for such events and take full responsibility for them. I knew that if I fell down on the job, I would become unpopular overnight and perhaps retain that status irredeemably. Given the operative word “small” in our school’s description as a “small liberal arts college,” it would be next to impossible to hide.
As a campus party veteran, however, I wasn’t starting from scratch. I knew that the top three considerations for a successful “party” were, 1. The beer, 2. The music, 3. The venue. These were straight forward, at least for your standard issue event. Beer was beer; music consisted of (a) a sound system managed by someone who knew what they were doing, (b) a stack of LPs or a decent and popular student band, such as “Plateful of Food,” that loved to perform on campus, and (c) total ignorance of and disregard for copyright law. These components, especially “(c)” took care of themselves. The venue piece was likewise easy. Apart from the fraternity houses, which sponsored their own parties and were outside my purview, there was only one viable party space on campus: the main dining room of the Senior Center.[1] (then called simply, the “Senior Center,”). This fact eliminated any need to ponder alternatives.
But having made such a big deal of my campaign for class president—and thus, class social chairperson—I figured I needed to bump up the standard party format. Today, of course, the bar would be much higher, given the state of “sound and light” technology, the quality of music groups, et cetera—all of which drive expectations. In 1975 – 76, however, commercially available CDs were six years away, the first Macintosh computer was more than a decade into the future, and smart phones were several decades beyond the horizon (as viewed from the top of the Senior Center). In short, I had to rely on easily executable “imagination” to compensate for the absence of technological razzle-dazzle and the non-feasibility of hiring some name brand band, which, even if one could be booked for our campus in Brunswick, Maine, would’ve been cost prohibitive. (I had to cover all party costs by admission revenue, and to stay popular, I had to keep entrance fees to an absolute minimum.)
Given the limited financial resources, I relied on gimmickry—overt and covert—to keep the masses happy.
Early on in my “administration” a friend with frat house booze procurement experience offered to introduce me to “Tess,” the jolly owner of Tess’ Market, a local pizza place/sandwich shop and liquor store. The proprietor’s name was short for Monsieur Tessiere, who was rumored to be a transplanted Québécois—among the Canadian francophones that we’d occasionally hear in the shops along Maine (of course!) Street in Brunswick. In fact, he was a pure “Mainiac,” born and bred in Livermore Falls. For many years he’d enjoyed a lucrative business relationship with the college fraternities. I was told that he would be both fun and fair to deal with.
Over the course of my “time in office,” Tess lived up to his reputation. He treated me with the utmost kindness and consideration. Ahead of each big party, I’d hike down to Tess’ Market to discuss my needs and make arrangements. Invariably when I appeared, Tess would be behind the counter ringing up a sale or hard at work stocking shelves. In either place, he’d be in quick-witted banter with a customer or two, telling jokes, sharing his connoisseurial knowledge of wine and beer and otherwise displaying his irrepressible good cheer. He had a large round head, bald in the polar region, with gray-flecked hair starting just below the arctic circle but providing better coverage on what I pretended was the Russian side of his head-globe. Stout with his shirtsleeves rolled up to expose his powerful forearms, he exuded confidence. Outgoing, genuine and intelligent, Tess endeared himself to everyone. You couldn’t help but like the man[2].
He explained that he appreciated all the business he had from the college, and that though I was the new kid on the block, I could be assured of “most favored nation” status. When he quoted me his prices for beer by the keg, I thought they were more than reasonable.
But then I asked him for a favor, swearing him to secrecy before posing the question: Could he supply me with good-sized Heineken and Löwenbrau stickers? He could. “But why?” he asked.
“Between you and me, Tess, here’s what I’m thinking. Based on what you’ve told me, five kegs should cover me for next weekend’s party, right?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“So, what I’d like to do is order up the cheapest draft beer you’ve got but slap stickers for high end beer on the outside of the kegs. People can reach their own conclusions, but on the surface, at least, they’ll be impressed by the upscale labels.”
Tess let out an impish laugh and motioned for me to follow him into his back receiving and storage area. On a shelf full of miscellaneous junk were various marketing tchotchkes that he’d collected over time. Among the stuff were exactly the kinds of labels I had in mind.
At delivery time a couple of days later, he off loaded the five kegs of cheap draft beer but well labeled as Heineken and Löwenbrau. My crew was impressed—as were the party crowd. As I’d guessed, no one noticed that what was poured into the cup didn’t match the labeling. Or least no one complained. But I was pleased when word spread that under the “Nilsson Administration,” kegger parties had gone upscale—but without a corresponding hike in the price of admission. (Cont.)
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[1] A generic name reflecting the building’s main role on campus: a modern dormitory, where members of the senior class had first dibs; the first level of the adjoining structure housed sizable meeting rooms and a central dining hall. Long after our class graduated, the building was renamed, the “Cole Tower.” I remember hearing that at 17 floors, it was the tallest building between Portland, Maine and Montreal.
[2] He died in 2006, but the store is still run by his family. From Tess’s obituary I learned that he’d been in the Marines during WW II and fought (as a machine gun setter) in the Battle of Guadalcanal. In all my visits and extended conversations with Tess, his war experience was never mentioned. My impression of this great guy was affirmed by a statement in the detailed obituary: “[Tess] was always concerned about his customers’ well-being and [he] always treated [them] fairly with an honest price. In his earlier days, during Christmas, he made food baskets for people in his store.”
