Sunday, May 07, 2006

Memphis Trip Part I: A Beer Soaked Van

This is Part I in a multi-part story that will detail our recent road trip to Memphis. To follow along with the pictures that accompany this blog, click here

We were supposed to have a bus. And the existence of a bus in the memories of the frat boys who made up the bulk of our Memphis road trip meant that they were unwilling to release the idea that they should be hammered by the time they arrived on Beale Street. The bus would have allowed kegs and cans and plastic bottles, so the idea of unfettered access to the frat fuel had hatched and refused to be abandoned for something so trivial as open container laws. So, rather than removing the keg as we downgraded to a rental van, sober drivers were selected and we simply hoped we didn’t get pulled over.

The keg was cleverly concealed under our luggage in the van. Just an innocent pile of suitcases and duffle bags with a pump and a hose peaking over the top. However, within 20 minutes of our departure, such deception was rendered meaningless. You see, one of Jet’s friends named Faddler had sat in the bartender seat. This was perhaps a bad decision. Faddler was honest enough to admit early on that he has a bad habit of spilling beer at parties. And that’s without the benefit of a moving, swerving, braking van to compound the issue. So, by the time we escaped the St Louis area, the floor was covered in beer. Every person in the van had at least two or three huge wet spots from spilled beer. Conversations routinely came to a screeching halt as cold beer was accidentally dumped down someone’s back. And poor Faddler would have been hard pressed to find more than two inches of dry space on his whole body. No matter how well the keg was buried, piles of luggage could not hide the overpowering stench of beer soaked clothing and upholstery.

In addition to the difficulty the van added to drinking, its distinct lack of a bathroom was equally problematic. The bus was to have a bathroom on board to accommodate the continuously full bladders of heavy drinkers. The van, on the other had, was forced to make multiple stops. We quickly abandoned the idea of waiting for gas stations, opting instead for the instant gratification of country roads. A few of us less exhibitionist types would run for the tree line while the majority of the frat boys seemed to find great joy in facing the road. Many a poor farmer out for a country drive was shocked that day to see a line of 8 guys urinating in his general direction.

It was on the last of these wilderness stops that I found my access to the tree line was blocked by a gully of stagnant mud. As the frat boys assumed their normal routine, your modest narrator stood and looked for a suitable place to cross. Suddenly, Jet rushed past me in a full sprint. He was heading straight for the tree line and was clearly unaware of the gully. He hit the water in full stride before anyone could react. His sandal sank into the mud which stopped his foot mid-stride. Suddenly, all his forward momentum was propelling my poor drunken brother straight down toward a face flop into the muddy bank on the far side. I watched for a stunned moment as my brother flailed drunkenly in the grime, attempting to find his footing. Once it was clear that he was neither able to manage on his own nor receiving any help from his fraternity brothers, I started looking for a safe spot to cross. As I made my way across, he came close to standing on two occasions only to fall again. His sandal was buried beneath the mud and he couldn’t decide whether to go after it or continue on toward the trees for Plan A. His indecision led to more falls which were greeted by howling laughter from the dry side of the gully. I helped him to his feet and sent him on toward the trees. As I dug his sandal out with a stick, he stumbled around mumbling, “I don’t know what happened. I just don’t know what happened. What happened?”

I will admit that at this point my thoughts were, “This is NOT how this weekend is going to go.” You see, I have a fairly low tolerance for overly drunken behavior. One of the many reasons I quit drinking was my refusal to participate in behavior that led to this sort of recklessness. I’m not going to tell people they can’t behave this way, but as the “responsible one” I resent being the one that so often has to clean up the mess. On the other hand, I’m not going to leave my brother wallowing in the mud while the group that chanted “drink, drink, drink” laughs it up and offers no help. So, as I help Jet clean up a bit, I decide that I’m going to work hard over the course of the weekend to keep from being in positions that require me to play babysitter to the drunk. Everyone on the trip was an adult…I endeavored to respect their decision to drink like that by staying away from the aftermath. For the time being, however, I was stuck in the van with them, so I played nursemaid. I figured at this point, the worst was behind me, but Jet had a few more surprises up his mud caked sleeve.

Once we got him back in the van, Jet passed out. We sat him next to the door so that any puke that might make an appearance could be directed to the rubber entrance step so as to maximize the ease of cleanup. I should admit that despite my aversion to drunkenness, I was actually enjoying the ride. The mood was light and most of Jet’s fraternity brothers are really great guys. My spirits were therefore on the rise, having recovered from Jet’s loss in his one-man mud-wrestling contest. We crossed the Mississippi River on Hwy 40 and had just entered downtown Memphis when Jet suddenly bolted upright. “I’m gonna puke!” We had just pulled to a stoplight as he reached for the door. I was not overly alarmed, my expectation of the event was that he planned to puke out the open door onto the street. Hell, I appreciated the fact that I’d have less to clean up. However, Jet had other ideas. He rolled out of the van and into the intersection’s turning lane. By blind luck alone, there was no traffic in that lane. Panic washed over me as I leaped out of the open door and dragged him to the grassy embankment where he proceeded to vomit on his shirt and arms and hair. I waved the van on and told them to circle back.

Duke informs me that complete pandemonium broke out in the van as they pulled away from the intersection since only a few of them were coherent enough to understand that the plan involved coming back for Jet. Screams of “We can’t leave Jet!”, “Why the F*ck are you driving away?!” and other such verbal abuse were hurled at the driver and no amount of explaining could calm them until the van completed its circle.

Back at my intersection, traffic had slowed to watch as Jet made horrible animalistic noises and spewed bile down the hill. For my part, I tried to stand as nonchalantly as possible so as to indicate to anyone looking that there was no major emergency here. I didn’t want anyone to think that he was seriously injured or even worse that I had done something to him. My acting must have been pretty convincing since a police cruiser turned its spotlight on us at one point and upon being persuaded by my relaxed manner into believing there was nothing worth his notice here, continued driving. I will admit that I was particularly glad to have the cops drive away. My worst fear at that moment was that the van would circle back while I tried to explain the situation to the cop. Drunken, puking man on the side of the street I can explain. Drunken shouting men hanging out of a van…I’d be hard pressed to smooth that one over.

Duke arrived at my side at about this time and together we helped Jet to a nearby park bench. Having discarded much of the beer he had so diligently consumed, Jet suddenly perked up and announced, “I feel good. Really, I feel good. I don’t know what happened, but I feel good,” as he wiped off his face and hair with his shirt. We loaded him back in the van and cruised on toward them hotel.

This presented a new dilemma. Checking into the hotel with this many drunkards, one of whom was coated in beer and vomit was…well…embarrassing. Jet kept trying to have the clerk explain the mystery of the Peabody ducks to him, waving his hands in the air to indicate that it didn’t make any sense to him. I completed the paperwork as quickly as possible. My one consolation was that being two blocks off Beale…they probably get this a lot.

Duke and I quickly unpacked. We were the only people on the trip to have only two people in a room. Jet and Goldstein, the frat’s unofficial “responsible guy” and co-planner of the trip, were kind enough to realize how annoyed we’d be if we had to live with their shenanigans all night. We had a beautifully secluded little room down the hall and around the corner from everyone else. A lucky break. We took the few moments of silence to call our wives to let them know we were safe. I then called Jet to let him know that Duke and I would be dining by ourselves. Duke and I then literally snuck down the back stairs which were blessedly right next to our room and sought refuge in the Route 61 Bar and Grill around the corner.

We walked around Beale and had a pretty good evening. We even ran into the guys again briefly. Refreshed by our dinner away from the inebriation, I was again able to enjoy their company.

I would like to show you some pictures of this evening’s roamings…but I can’t. And there’s a mildly interesting story behind the noticeable absence of pictures. (Yes, Duke…I’m gonna tell it one more time).

Flashback to the hotel: Duke and I are getting ready to make our secret dash down the back stairs. I reach for the camera and Duke exclaims, “You’re not taking that camera down to Beale Street are you?”

“Well,” says I, “yeah. Why not?”

Duke looks at me as if I’m insane. “You just look like such a tourist.”

“I am a tourist.”

“But tourists aren’t down there right now,” he explains. “And if they are, they’re not acting like tourists at night. Bring the camera tomorrow.”

I concede the point. While I am quite comfortable with my geek-like nature, I figured he might have a point.

After dinner at Route 61, we headed down to Beale Street. The first place we go, the very first place…is a touristy gift shop. Now, I figured we’d just browse and maybe buy some things for our housebound loved ones tomorrow. But no, Duke begins buying. So now, we’re carrying gift shop bags down Beale Street. I think they knew we were tourists. So, in the end I can’t even give you a good reason for having no pictures of that evening. I guess it was just not a good day for disguises. The beer spillage wrecked the well-concealed keg and the gift shop bags wrecked the well-concealed camera. Alas.

CONTINUED in PART II

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