A Summer Story
It’s really bright and sunny in New York today. So bright and sunny that I can’t help but be distracted by rememberences of glorious and not-so-glorious happenings of summers past. Today’s little fable will be one of those not so glorious stories co-starring yours truly and the late, great, Captain Kaos. Consider yourself warned: there is severe alcohol abuse coupled with some graphic digestive distress described in the below paragraphs. If you’re eating, squeamish or a Prohibitionist, I suggest you go look at this now instead.
Back in our college days we didn’t get to hang out much since Pete had gone away to school and I stayed in NYC. So when he came home for break or for the summer some fairly serious partying would somtimes ensue.
Back then you could still drink peacefully at the beaches at night provided you didn’t make too much noise or disturb nearby residences. One fateful evening we packed up a cooler with Bud tall boys (it was what we could afford) and a thermos full of Pete’s patented kamikazes. Since Pete was driving I took the ride to the hangout as my chance to drink the better part of the thermos on an empty stomach. Once we got there, Pete struck up a conversation with a young lady which left me to chat with other people hanging out before settling in to drink a whole lot o’ beer and contemplate existence while looking out over the luminous waters of lower New York bay.
As surely as day leads to night, one beer led to another and suddenly someone kept shaking the ground under my feet. I asked Pete for the car keys so I could lay down and nap through the earthquakes.
You can see where this is going, right? It’s not going anywhere good for yours truly so once again: if you’re eating stop reading and go away right now. I’m serious. OK, are all the eaters and the squeamish types gone? Good, now on with the story.
I didn’t sleep long and when I awoke the earthquakes were joined, as earthquakes often are by volcanic eruptions. Everything I had eaten for the last seventeen years of my life seemed to be coming out all over the back seat of Pete’s car. You know the old joke about "no matter what you've eaten, there always seems to be peas and carrots coming out when you vomit?" It's true. Oh God, it's true.
A back seat in such a state is not a gift to give your buddy when he’s having a fine moonlit conversation with a young lady, is it?
I have hazy recollections of what happened next, but I do know that Pete got me upright, cleaned up and deposited in my driveway to contemplate getting my smashed, smelly self into bed without disturbing my parents. I tried to thank him numerous times but it seemed like every time I opened my mouth something more than words would come out. After he drove off I stared at the house wondering how I got there and when the party ended. Alcohol is not the friend of short-term memory. After a while I wandered unsteadily down the driveway, used the old tree next to the trailer as a rest room and painfully dragged myself into the house and up to bed.
I never did find out if Pete ever consummated anything that night and I was too embarrassed to ask. I do have to say he was so smooth he got the girl to ride to my place in the front seat while I was in the back which I think scored him “What a great buddy!” points with the lady in question. At least I hope it did.
Some time later Pete had an accident with that very car, slipping into a rock wall on a tight curve during a rainstorm. After inspecting the minor damage to the front of the car, Pete got in and started the motor. Immediately flames shot out from under the hood. Pete lept out of the car. The fire department was called. The Staten Island Advance showed up and took a picture. That picture was kept on the refrigerator by Pete’s dad for years like a good report card or a toddler’s finger painting. Of course, I couldn’t bust Pete’s chops about the car too much. Every time I’d mention him “blowing up the car” he’d just look at me and say “I had to do something. I never could quite get the stink out after you puked all over it”.
Happy springtime, my friends. Remember not to overindulge. Or if you do, don’t go to sleep in your buddy’s car. It might get blown up someday.
Back in our college days we didn’t get to hang out much since Pete had gone away to school and I stayed in NYC. So when he came home for break or for the summer some fairly serious partying would somtimes ensue.
Back then you could still drink peacefully at the beaches at night provided you didn’t make too much noise or disturb nearby residences. One fateful evening we packed up a cooler with Bud tall boys (it was what we could afford) and a thermos full of Pete’s patented kamikazes. Since Pete was driving I took the ride to the hangout as my chance to drink the better part of the thermos on an empty stomach. Once we got there, Pete struck up a conversation with a young lady which left me to chat with other people hanging out before settling in to drink a whole lot o’ beer and contemplate existence while looking out over the luminous waters of lower New York bay.
As surely as day leads to night, one beer led to another and suddenly someone kept shaking the ground under my feet. I asked Pete for the car keys so I could lay down and nap through the earthquakes.
You can see where this is going, right? It’s not going anywhere good for yours truly so once again: if you’re eating stop reading and go away right now. I’m serious. OK, are all the eaters and the squeamish types gone? Good, now on with the story.
I didn’t sleep long and when I awoke the earthquakes were joined, as earthquakes often are by volcanic eruptions. Everything I had eaten for the last seventeen years of my life seemed to be coming out all over the back seat of Pete’s car. You know the old joke about "no matter what you've eaten, there always seems to be peas and carrots coming out when you vomit?" It's true. Oh God, it's true.
A back seat in such a state is not a gift to give your buddy when he’s having a fine moonlit conversation with a young lady, is it?
I have hazy recollections of what happened next, but I do know that Pete got me upright, cleaned up and deposited in my driveway to contemplate getting my smashed, smelly self into bed without disturbing my parents. I tried to thank him numerous times but it seemed like every time I opened my mouth something more than words would come out. After he drove off I stared at the house wondering how I got there and when the party ended. Alcohol is not the friend of short-term memory. After a while I wandered unsteadily down the driveway, used the old tree next to the trailer as a rest room and painfully dragged myself into the house and up to bed.
I never did find out if Pete ever consummated anything that night and I was too embarrassed to ask. I do have to say he was so smooth he got the girl to ride to my place in the front seat while I was in the back which I think scored him “What a great buddy!” points with the lady in question. At least I hope it did.
Some time later Pete had an accident with that very car, slipping into a rock wall on a tight curve during a rainstorm. After inspecting the minor damage to the front of the car, Pete got in and started the motor. Immediately flames shot out from under the hood. Pete lept out of the car. The fire department was called. The Staten Island Advance showed up and took a picture. That picture was kept on the refrigerator by Pete’s dad for years like a good report card or a toddler’s finger painting. Of course, I couldn’t bust Pete’s chops about the car too much. Every time I’d mention him “blowing up the car” he’d just look at me and say “I had to do something. I never could quite get the stink out after you puked all over it”.
Happy springtime, my friends. Remember not to overindulge. Or if you do, don’t go to sleep in your buddy’s car. It might get blown up someday.
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