Sunday, 2:38pm
We almost lost them around the first big turn. Three bags of garbage and the only one I actually tied to the top of the wagon had slid off the rack and was hanging down the side, the dangling threat of exploding litter. With the poise and courage that has marked Goose's character from the beginning, he climbed out the window, stood pseudo-surfing on the roof, shot the curl and pulled the errant bag back from the brink -- all so we could properly dispose of one night's trash.
At the Putnam County dump, our band of nine unwashed rebel rousers weren't the only people bidding farewell to a Saturday full of adventure and intrigue. There were other mourners -- sleeveless shirts and dinted trucks in place of the more formal funeral black -- casting off empty bottles, cans and boxes, the once proud containers of beer and wine clanging their death song among the various household waste lingering before the crushing would begin.
And I realized this is how it should be. I should be at a garbage dump thinking philosophically about the final curtain falling on a new memory. And it should be among those who routinely file these weekends away. And my friends should be there, too.
Monday, 11:22pm
On the Phillip-Morris emblem -- not logo, it looks like a family crest and is featured on every pack of Pall Mall cigarettes -- there is an unfurled banner that reads: "in hoc signo vinces". That's Latin for (loosely), "on this sign we will conquer". The same phrase appeared in a dream had by old Roman emperor, Constantine. The sign in question was a flaming cross. He went into battle with a Romanized Christian symbol (labarum) and after victory removed the final barriers for Christianity in a pagan land (though he never made it "THE" official religion).
This, I'm thinking about. First that Phillip-Morris -- who owns more than a million cigarettes a minute -- would make no bones about their ambition. Secondly, the adaptation of icons to galvanize a group or movement in the early stages leading to conquest.
What I've learned over the past six months is that there is a symbol for the angry, metal, slumming movement. It's PBR. Pabst's Blue Ribbon. And maybe, Johnny Cash.
In private, with friends, I've made my desultory remarks about this thing and am now, partly, ready to renounce my disdain. I can see value in the way that Pabst's has taken youth by storm -- just four years after I had what I thought to be my last PBR since the company owning it had declared bankruptcy and publicly announced that they would no longer make it.
Inexpensive, a six-pack of tallboys will run you $3.29 at Kroger. Gritty, the beer of outlaws and renegades -- who can forget Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet? Intoxicating, well... it might not be the strongest shit out there but quantity makes up for quality. And those three combined make for a good outing. On top of that, this generation has propelled PBR the same way that Rome propelled Christianity. Eerie.
And that brings me back to this weekend.
Saturday, 10-ish pm
There were eight of us walking through the front door with 18 bottles of fancypants beer (Grolsch, Newcastle and Sweetwater Vanilla Crème) and 12 bottles of Miller Lite... and then the other being 48 cans of Pabst's Blue Ribbon (36 short cans and 12 tallboys). More than half of the 78 containers were PBR. And I think half of that was consumed by Matt Drummaster Mobster.
Eight -- not nine until much later -- sober and generally quiet people. There was a rush to refrigerate (and in one case freeze) the beer and my suspicions -- those I held since we all met at the so-called J-Cup -- looked validated. It would be a long evening with plenty of awkward silence. To prepare for such disappointment, I poured a cup that was equal parts whiskey and Cherry Coke. Needless to say, though I say it anyway, I wasn't interested in waiting to be drunk.
Then eventually and magically, we all melted together. All the bits and pieces fell in line. A'Okay was my outcast friend and Drummaster Mobster was Tangle's, though he was in a better spot having been childhood chums with J'Doh and well-acquainted with Dre', Katie and Goose. The final oddball was Lady Godiva who eventually rode in on her black Chevy stallion. She knew Big Hands and the Mobster. Before long, we all knew each other and I do mean it Biblically.
What is it, I ask, about me, friends and alcohol that always results in orgies?
Well after Goosey took a nap, the ladies in attendance decided they had all the manly firepower they'd need for a good time. In accordance with their wishes, Drummaster and myself stripped naked and unrolled the 3-foot curled bundles of thick penis tucked uncomfortably in our pants.
Someone had baby oil. Hands were everywhere. A duck walked in an open door downstairs. The microwave would beep every sixteen seconds. Every manner of sexually transmitted disease was proportionally transmitted. Our neighbors on each side and across the Lake called the cops. Benny Hinn forgave us on TV. My prized collection of Confederate money went missing.
Like that, it was done. Fully clothed and peaceably discussing world affairs, we returned almost in whole back to the porch -- each secretly celebrating the activities with multiple post-coitus cigarettes.
Goose never fully recovered from his nap and Katie became the Succubus Shanker. Tangle demythologized the enchanted elephant by hosting a tour to view it. Big Hands lamented the demise of her Vanilla Crème beer, somehow drained from beyond the bedroom by Goose. Dre actually talked and then she laughed and she cracked jokes and she wore one of my grandma's hats. A'Okay reminded everyone that she was ten years the senior of Moses. Godiva unveiled her hair. I sang a sweet tribute to her beauty and my intentions. Drummaster cried at the mention of the sharks that rule the high seas of Lake Sinclair, but was rewarded with the distinction of being voted most likely to sound like Rocky's brother-in-law, Paulie.
The gang of us wrestled with the dark, heading down in unofficial pairs to the dock until all who could be present were present. I got bored with A'Okay and J'Doh talking. The waiting for the others was boring too. What was absolutely thrilling was the prospect of jumping in the lake whereas my honored guests were only dipping their timid feet.
In my ebon closet behind a tree behind their backs, I removed all but my boxers and eased into the murky water. It was damn cold. I swam and splashed. It was still damn cold. I swam in a different direction and nothing changed except my level of clear-headedness. Trying to watch the stars while I floated proved hard to do between short, swallow breaths. Just as chilling as the lake came the realization that I was freezing and sober. Getting out only made matters worse and being wet, I couldn't seek shelter in my clothes.
I wandered back to the house with Big Hands in search of a towel. As I dried off and swapped wet boxers for dry denim, J'Doh went to bed. Shoeless, shirtless and certainly unfit to frequent any respectable gas station this side of the Mississippi, I went for a long walk down country roads under the faint blue pale of a clear night sky.
By the time I returned, the house party had died. The morning brought life to churchgoers and woodland animals. I couldn't find my shirt and didn't need anything on my feet as they were numb. I was surrounded by the limp and dreaming masses. Upstairs, Dre claimed the couch and Godiva stretched out in a Lay-Z-Boy while a couple snuggled in one room. A’Okay slept unhappy in grandma’s bed and J’Doh rattled the windows with her snoring in another. In the finished basement, ungodly carnal knowledge had given way to a peaceful easy feeling -- all behind the closed doors of the only bedroom in which I'll enter at night. The other is haunted as is the laundry room. Therefore, I accepted my options as being the hard antique sofa or one of the lovely spider-filled bathtubs.
Sunday, noon
Big Hands or someone very much like her came to disrupt the little sleep I was enjoying. A'Okay offered me a midget bottle of Jack Daniels. Ignoring their pleas for my continued presence would be futile. I gave in to my fans... I mean, friends.
At first, I thought there was no coffeemaker in the house. I screamed. A refreshed and well-rested Goose fed Barfly to the VCR. The achy, unwashed people of the night had grown up, enlightened by the day to meet their faults: chief among them, halitosis and bad hair.
It was a pleasurable two hour build-up to the mad capped fifteen minutes before we'd leave. Destination: Pizza Hut. And I already explained the county dump.
Sunday, 3:30 pm.
While I smoked a cigarette (having read the sign that said, "No smoking") and studied the shed skins of local mayflies, my compatriots pooled tables and a booth in an effort to stimulate memories of the year-end baseball trophy parties of my childhood.
The Succubus Shanker was gone, getting ready to work at another pizza parlor. Roger Riddle rode his "bicycle" to join us for what he mistakenly believed to be a spiritual experience.
Somewhere in there, a Camel Light was requested of me and I noticed Tangle smoking. The waitress was set to find us an ashtray -- all this in direct conflict with the warning I heeded outside. All lit up and dragging hard on cancer sticks, we had the pleasure of overhearing the waitress ask her manager for an ashtray.
He exclaimed with increasingly excited confusion, "An ashtray? An ASHTRAY?!"
We had to go outside, walking through the thick of his apologies along the way.
Sunday, 8ish
I returned Tangle's sister's TV and went home only to have my mother say, "Some boy called for you," she paused and looked at the phone, "Hold on, maybe he's still there."
It was Goose who was having an in-depth conversation with my little brother about the complex social implications of Kate Chopin's literary contributions. He'd left his book bag and kilo of cocaine in my car and could I meet him at Waffle House to deliver it?
Yeah, I did but late as usual. He was still a small man wearing even smaller pants, his girlfriend's. Speaking of, Katie was playfully adorned in pink pajama bottoms and looking like she'd had a full day of succubus shanking. Despite both of them being disgraced by fate's cruel loogie, they agreed to stay for a cup of coffee.
We talked for a while stumbling upon Chuck Palaniuck who they both had read but really hadn't read. And thus the headline, which I borrowed.
The split-second following the glass doors smacking their asses on the way out, a strange man in a strange hat asked me where I got my shirt and I explained it'd been stolen from an ex. He continued for several minutes about how hanging out with REM lead him to become a professional dart-thrower. I was wearing an REM shirt and he was happy to add to my list of unsolicited chit-chats with random weirdoes. Thing is, I loved it and do every time.
All the while my cousin, Reformed Gothic Mary, was cooling off after a long day of idle hours. She'd sat down with the rather large, well-spoken gent in the booth next to mine and then without warning spun around to ask how I've been. When I mentioned the company I'd just had, this fellow responded, "Goose Goose?" And to Mary, "My Goose?" I gave him the Succubus Shanker's number in hopes neither he nor any of his other friends would be Succubii.
Turns out this was a dude named "Big Ben" who'd been referenced in story form earlier that weekend. He's back for all who care to know and he seems to hope for good. He spoke of an outing at Smiley's with Big Round, Goose, Ashley and Zach. And now as then, all I can say is, "Small world."
Especially for all the "Big" people I know.
Monday, 6:42pm
I asked Juliet what organs would be where I placed my hand. She said, "Kidneys." And I spoke with resignation that it was what I figured.
"Do you think you have another kidney stone?"
"Yeah, starting to feel like it."
At the Waffle House Sunday on the backend of more stories from Big Ben, I felt that familiar pain and told Mary what I thought it was. It went away and I went on my way.
Then at Juliet’s, it kicked up again and worse so I swallowed a couple of Aleve. We watched a movie and I hoped it wouldn't get bad again, but expected eventually it'd throw me on the floor. This I know from experience and also, that there's nothing much that'd come from an ER visit except waiting and excessive bills. I have leftover narcotics for this so not having insurance wouldn't kill me. All the same, I grimace at the thought of reliving the torment that awaits me.
And it still does. Nothing severe has happened yet, but I'm anticipating it will. Loratab in hand, I'm waiting.
That's how I roll. That's what Tiggers do. It's okay because I'm American.
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