Posted by Anonymous on June 25, 2001 at 17:48:39:
In Reply to: RatFest 2001 Win a trip to RatFest SOB Story... posted by Skotrat on June 24, 2001 at 08:49:43:
The meadows of New Hampshire called out to me and Nick. We packed our car and headed out. The promise of fresh goat milk and meeting with other drunks was too strong to resist.
As we passed the charred remnants of RFII in Deadwood, we raised our glasses. In one hand was a cup full of pitch black, put-hair-on-your-chest coffee. In the other was a cuban cigar. Nick's cup was full of Scotch.
"May long she live, the memory of the debauchery enjoyed here. May we debauch the countryside of New Hampshire in an equal measure. May we make it safely to Ratfest 2001 and enjoy the company of other similarly drunken ones."
I regained control just as the car was going off the road.
Further east, we decided to stop in the town of my birth. The scene of the original RatFest had faded into something almost normal. It was a pity to see. Nick turned his head away. He didn't have the stomach for that kind of thing. That and the fact that he dropped his Scotch on the floor under his chair.
The smell of great food wafted to us and we investigated.
"Jake, what is that wonderful smell?"
"It's Stan and his wife making something to eat. I guess."
"Let's check it out."
"That sounds like a good idea, Nick."
We hadn't showered for a couple days, and Nick smelled like he poured 4 quarts of pickle juice on himself and poured half of his scotch down his shirt front. Stan opened the door just wide enough to see that it was us and told us to meet him around back.
When we got to the back door of his house, he asked us to use the hose and clean ourselves up.
"I'll bring you guys something to eat, but then you'll have to go."
"Alright."
After spraying Nick down for twenty minutes, he still smelled like pickles, but only if you stood really close. The scotch stains didn't come out.
Stan brought out some sandwiches. They were pimento loaf and velveeta sandwiches. After smelling nothing but pickles for two days, the Pimento and velveeta was good.
We said thanks to Stan and piled back in our car. It was going to be a long trip to East Kingston.
Nick wanted to drive, but I knew that he would only drive for twenty minutes and then tell me how tired he was. He wouldn't leave me alone.
"Jake, I can drive."
"You only drive for tweny minutes at a time, and then complain about how tired you are."
"Why can't you let me drive?"
"I don't want to stop in another twenty minutes to take over for you."
Nick took a couple of drags on his cigarette and a few slow pulls on his scotch.
"Fuck you, Jake."
We rode in silence until we hit the Indiana border. Nick fell asleep and snored like a chainsaw. I ran over some bumps in the road to wake him up, conking his head on the passenger window by turning hard to the left.
He was groggy, like a prizefighter who had taken too many shots before getting into the ring, dragging his feet, leaving himself open for thunderous jabs from an up-and-comer with something to prove, getting his face beat to a pulp and his ribs busted for good measure.
"Do you want to drive, Nick? I'm getting tired."
"Fuck you, Jake."
I laughed at him. I could tell he was sore, but I didn't care. We were just entering Ohio. I lit a cigarette to stay awake and blew the smoke out the window. Nick pulled out his scotch bottle and took a few drinks.
I turned on the radio, but all I could get on this damned AM radio was NPR. God, those guys are lily-livered jerks. Especially that Carl Kastle with his deep voice and his perfect diction. What ever happened to rock and roll on AM?
The next thing I knew, I was getting pulled over by a motorcycle cop just over the Pennsylvania state line. The cop was built like a brick shithouse, chiseled jaw giving way to his 20 inch neck. The guy was probably six and a half feet tall. At least 300 pounds. Too bad about his voice. He spoke like an eight year old girl.
I cracked wise about the pitch of his voice and the next thing I know, he's using his vise grips to choke the life out of me. Lucky Nick was drunk and mostly passed out, or he would have helped this cop finish me off. Just as things were going black, the cop's radio blared something about a multiple car pile-up about twenty miles ahead. He dropped me like a rag-doll by the side of the road, straddled his motorcycle and screeched "Let that be a warning to you fella." He roared off like someone set his ass on fire with a flamethrower.
Once I was completely recovered, I got back in the car. I looked at the gas gauge and saw that it was on E. We had just passed a town a few minutes ago, so I figured I'd go on ahead and see if I can't make it to the next one.
About 30 miles later, we ran out of gas. NIck came too at about 7:30 the next morning, realized that we had been out of gas for most of the night and got out, heading back to where we came from.
I always hated that asshole.
"Fuck you, Nick."
"Fuck you, Jake."
He always had a quick response to everything I said.
So, I've been sitting on the side of the road here in the middle of Pennsylvania somewhere for most of a week. There is NO traffic through here. It is almost as if I have fallen into a black hole. I haven't slept for six days, and haven't had to. But, now I'm running low on cigarettes. And I ran the battery dead listening to NPR, I think I am in love with Terri Gross. She sounds like a hell of a broad.
Just then a nice looking woman pulled up and wondered what happened.
"I ran out of gas."
"That was pretty dumb."
"Do you have any money to get more?"
"Yes. I have quite a lot of money."
"How about a cell phone?"
"No."
"Hmmm. That is tough luck. If you had a cell phone, you could call a wrecker to come bring you some gas, or tow you to a gas station to get some more."
"I guess you are right."
"Well, take care, you idiot."
She peeled out, leaving me sit there by the side of the road, wishing I hadn't told Nick to fuck off. Together we could have pushed the car to the next town, or shared his scotch. But now I'm getting sentimental.
Anyhow, I tried, and cruel fate struck me down. That and the fact that there are no gas stations along I-80 in Pennsylvania. If nothing else, I learned that much.