The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Day 2 – 9:00am

You know that friend who wakes up early as fuck and always seems to be energetic and without a hangover?  Well ladies and gentlemen, I am said friend.  I wake up feeling oddly refreshed and ready to rage.  The greatest thing about a vacation is the ability to drink at any time of the day without judgment and condemnation.  Also, there is no greater feeling in the world than waking up with more money than what you went out with; today I had this feeling.  It was only an extra 40 bucks, but not being 10 grand in the hole after a night of black out gambling is always a plus.  Despite this good fortune, this morning I do in fact have a problem.  I cannot find my jacket that I wore to the casino last night.  I search high and low and it’s nowhere to be found.  Besides being the “morning person” friend, I’m also the type that gets hung up on particular problems until they are solved.  I won’t be able to rest until I find my jacket; allow me to digress for just a moment.

The jacket I’m talking about is not the typical “trash bag turned makeshift poncho” which I’m accustom to wearing.  It is a very nice (expensive) jacket that was a hand-me-down from my pops, not to mention that it keeps me warm while residing on this intolerable iceberg that is Memphis.  My dad, who is a great man for reasons not limited to putting up with my consistently high levels of retardation and funding all of my legal expenses over the years, does in fact have 1 major flaw.  My pops is the only Florida resident that I know who has a coat fetish.  The man really does have a strange obsession with heavy winter jackets.  A Floridian with a closet full of jackets is like a Hollywood blvd street hooker with a moral compass: a complete waste.  Anyway, back to the situation at hand.

I call the casino and ask to speak with a representative from the poker room.  They must have misunderstood me and though I asked to speak with a GED recipient with Down Syndrome.  The conversation we had is as follows:

Me  “Yes, I was there last night and think I left my jacket behind.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Oh, ok.  Well I haven’t seen anything.”
Me  “Um ok, well can you check the poker room?”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “There’s nothing in the lost and found sir.”
Me  “I understand, but can you check the room, I think I left it on the back of a chair.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “I’m sorry sir, we have nothing.”
Me  “Ok, well I know it’s there because I wore it out and when I got home it was gone.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Maybe you are mistaken sir?”
Me  “Maybe you’re adopted.”
GED Recipient With Down Syndrome  “Excuse me sir?”
Me  “I’m the reason your parents got divorced.”

This conversation goes on several minutes longer until I become completely frustrated with the tard and just hang up.  The only person in the room who’s awake is Cola, so after a few minutes of pleading I get him to drive with me back to Tunica so I can search the casino and find my missing apparel.

Day 2 – 10:00am

I recognize the long entranceway as my drunken recall begins to set in.  I walk my haggard ass through the card room trying to relive last night like some sort of forensic investigator, Cola follows.  I speak with the card room manager (different person than GED Recipient With Down Syndrome).

Me  “Have you seen a jacket?”
Card Room Manager  “Nope.”
Me  “It’s dark green, I left it here last night?”
Card Room Manager  “Sorry, nothing.”
Me  “Are you related to GED Recipient With Down Syndrome?”
Card Room Manager  “Excuse me?”

Cola calms me down, and we abandon this conversation as we continue our search.  Just as hope begins to completely fizzle away, something catches my eye.  A lone chair sits at the far side of the poker room, folded up resting on top of it, my jacket.  You have got to be fucking shittin’ me.  I spoke with multiple retards and asked them just to check and here, in plain view of everyone, I’ve found it.  I have some words on the way out, but I won’t scare you with the details.  The entire point of this tangent?  Don’t ever listen to fucking idiots.  If you lose a phone, wallet, girlfriend, car keys, whatever it may be, don’t settle for some lazy redneck telling you that you are wrong.  Now that I am whole again, I can begin to enjoy myself (drink).

Day 2 – 11:00am

Cola and I head back towards West Memphis as the others are still sleeping.  We have several groups of friends coming up to meet us for the bowl game, so I’ll lay it out real quick.  We are the first group to make it to Memphis, and apparently the first people from Florida to ever visit this city.  Our neighbor Lora and her friends are coming today, and our other neighbor Amanda and her friends are coming up on Friday.  These two groups will also be enjoying the fine lodging of Days Inn.  Our last group of amigos, my buddies AJ, Baines and some other friends, are driving up Friday and lodging elsewhere, most plausibly in a gutter.  So, while we wait for the rest of the troops to arrive, we’ll spend most of today exploring actual Memphis and finding local hot spots at which to eat and drink.  We make it back to the hotel and Wild Bill is enraged.

Wild Bill  “Yeah, one of you is real fucking comedian.”
Me (to Rizzo) “What’s he barking about?”
Rizzo  “He woke up and found his cell phone in the bathroom sink with a steady stream of water running over it.”
Me  “Oh my God, that’s awesome.  Why is he mad?”
Rizzo  “He thinks one of us did it as a prank.”
Me  “Has he ever considered that his own drunk ass may have done this?”
Rizzo  “No, he’s dumb.”
Me  “Wild Bill, calm down, no one ruined your phone but you, dumb dumb.”
Wild Bill  “Yeah right, this isn’t a funny joke.”
Me  “10 to 1 odds it was you, fuck-o.”
Wild Bill  “Whatever, fuckin Sketch-mo!”
Sketch-mo  “What did I do?”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up.”

As you can see, our conversations tend to go on longer than needed and never result in anything that comes close to making sense.  After some ranting and raving, everyone gets dressed, and then we pile in the van and head on down to Beale Street.

Day 2 – 12:00pm

Once on Beale Street, we all discover that we are way underdressed.  Once again, it is cold as fuck!  Also like the previous night, it is a ghost town; nothing but tumbleweeds and homeless people.  We do however manage to take the customary picture of Cola standing under a cola sign.  We also walk passed a closed bar called Silky O’Sullivans (I will be embarrassing myself here later in the night).  Besides Three 6 Mafia and some guy named Elvis, Memphis is also known for its amazing BBQ joints.  First, we stumble passed the Pig, whose slogan is “Pork with Attitude.”  Wild Bill and Rizzo flex alongside the mascot, but ultimately we feel we can do better and carry on down the street.  Not knowing which one to attack first, we devise a plan:  Let’s find a homeless guy and turn him into our tour guide.  This didn’t take long as we spot one about 10 yards in front of us.  We approach…

Me  “Excuse me sir, you look like you might be familiar with the area.”
Homeless Guy  “Yesa sir, this herea mya streets.”
Wild Bill  “That’s a lovely accent you’ve got, New Jersey?”
Homeless Guy  “Say what?”
Me  “Ignore him, we are in search of the best BBQ in Memphis.”
Homeless Guy  “I know da place!”
Wild Bill  “So you are indeed homeless, right?”
Homeless Guy  “Ah Hell na!  I’m a pimp.”
Rizzo  “Really?”
Homeless Pimp  “Ya’ll knows it!”
Wild Bill  “I bet you are.”
Me  “Ok, where’s this BBQ joint, we’re starving.”
Homeless Pimp  “Follow me.”

It’s generally frowned upon to follow a Homeless Pimp down a back alley in an unknown area, but we as a group are relying heavily on the “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  After snapping a picture with Homeless Pimp, he leads us to the secret spot.  Apparently it’s customary to tip your Homeless Pimp Tour Guide, so Rizzo pulls a wad of Costa Rican money from his pocket and hands Homeless Pimp a “colón” (a currency far more stable than most other third world currencies; some people are just downright ungrateful.).  He is less than thrilled, so I, fearing that he may in fact bite us, I throw him 2 unstable American dollars and an air high-five.  He departs, leaving us bumvenon-free as we enter Charles Vergo’s Rendezvous.

Day 2 – 12:45pm

I can’t tell if the food here is really good or if I’m just overjoyed because I’m on vacation, but regardless the service is a bit on the fritz.  All of the waiters have massive amounts of street cred and dress like they’re working at Steak n’ Shake sans the doofy little hat.  When it comes to ordering, there’s really only one choice:  the full rack of charcoal-broiled pork ribs.  A full rack of ribs combined with several pitchers of Miller Lite, now if that’s not a great lunch I don’t know what is.  After catching a buzz and scarfing down a meal which probably took several years off my life, it’s time to take back to the streets.

Once back outside, the phrase “FUCK IT’S COLD” runs through my head again.  I’m not really sure how this came about, but for some reason we find it to be a good idea to go bowling.  I’m fairly certain we were just looking for an indoor activity that served booze.  Nothing beats a good bowling alley bar; allow me to digress for just a moment.

The summer after my freshman year of college was a snoozefest.  Like most stupid 19-year-olds, I thought it’d be great to spend the whole summer with all of my old high school friends again, so I went back home to Clearwater.  Well, the first 2 days were cool, and then everyone went their separate ways, leaving me alone with my parents for 3 months (nothing against my parents, but living with real adults again after having already been living on your own for a year really fucking sucks).  So after re-securing my old high school job as a restaurant cashier, I needed to find a place to drink at night.  Since the city was filled with Hometown Heroes (people who never left), I had to hunt out a secluded bar where I could drink alone and avoid them at all costs.  Looking back at it now, it kind of seems like I was a Hometown Hero at this venture in my life, ironic.  I found a distant bowling alley in Clearwater called AMF Lanes and spent way too much time there (this was actually the 2^nd bowling alley I scoped out, the first one was already littered with Hometown Heroes).  I was like The Dude, except instead of White Russians, I was drinking overpriced pitchers.  One day I decided to actually bowl, and within a month, I had my own ball and shoes, and had joined a league.  The point here?  Bowling is more addictive than meth; back to the story.

We end up walking into an area known as Peabody Place.  Much like Southland Park which we had visited last night, this place also seems to be HIV positive.  It is an extremely dumpy makeshift outdoor mall with a bowling alley underneath.  Somehow this place has the balls to enforce a dress code; I’m guessing it’s just a weak attempt to keep all gang activity to a minimum.  Somehow my sandals and beanie make the cut, and we grab a lane and argue over who’s getting the first pitcher.  Wild Bill, a notorious cheap-ass, also refuses to pay for bowling shoes, so he attempts to bowl via socks; I go barefoot, mainly because I was scared to wear the “loner socks” I was offered.  It’s not long before we cause trouble.  We are drinking in the “undesignated area” and have been spotted by a worried employee.

Worried Employee  “Excuse me, you fellas can’t drink here.”
Wild Bill  “Why, cause we’re not black?  You a racist?”
Worried Employee  “No, there’s no food or drink in this area.”

The area he’s referring to is right by the lane, where the ball return and computer are.  Every bowling alley I’ve been to gets pissy about this; I guess they just don’t want stupid drunk kids spilling booze on the expensive shit, oh well.  Another thing I’ve noticed, all bowling alley employees tend to take themselves and their jobs way too seriously.  So instead of apologizing like a nice, considerate, normal person, Wild Bill decides fight fire with fire.

Wild Bill  “Spilling beer on the floor might up the resale value of this dump.”
Worried Employee  “Sir, please do not drink in this area.”
Wild Bill  “I’ll drink in your sister’s area!”
Worried Employee  “I don’t have a sister, sir.”

After empty threats of kicking us out come our way, I calm Wild Bill and we resume our barefoot bowling as Worried Employee walks away.

Sketch-mo  “That guy was a douche.”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

We bet a pitcher per round, and after 3 rounds I haven’t spent a dollar.  Unfortunately, my bowling score has an inverse correlation with my BAC.  On the 4^th and final game, I am unable to break 100, but Wild Bill does even worse and has to buy the round.  It’s about time to leave the recreational activities behind, and get down to some serious drinking.

Day 2 – 3:30pm

After a very short and very cold walk back to Beale Street, we pop into our first watering hole, Tap Room.  To me, this place is heaven on earth.  I’ve never really been much of a club guy, dive bars are definitely more my thing, and Tap Room is definitely the dive bar of Beale Street.  If a barstool, good conversation, and a selection of about 30 beers on tap sounds good to you, then we are on the same page.  The only thing wrong with this place is that they do not tolerate the use or sales of illegal drugs.  Our bartender is Rob, and he is the man.  He recommends Rogue Dead Guy Ale, so we order a round.  Before I know it, rounds 4 and 5 go down the hatch.  Feeling loopy, Rizzo, Wild Bill, and I continue to chat it up with Rob.

Me  “Yeah, we’re here for the bowl game.  This town seems fucking dead though?”
Rob  “Don’t worry about that, things will be crazy tomorrow night.”
Me  “Right on, well what’s going down tonight?”
Rob  “Oh man, you gotta come back tonight and check out this place.”
Rizzo  “Oh yeah?  Why’s that.”
Rob  “There’s a kick ass band playing.”
Wild Bill  (skeptical as always) “Yeah I bet, what kinda music?”
Rob  “Blues Rock.  They sound like a cross between Ray Charles and Slayer.”

Take a moment to laugh condescendingly.

Rizzo  “Well that’s something I gotta see.”
Rob  “Rock n’ roll brotha!”

Just then, 3 familiar faces stroll into Tap Room; it’s Lora, Elsie, and their friend Casey.  I am thrilled that the UCF population has just about doubled.  Now that we finally have female companionship and no longer look like a bi-curious boy band, it’s time to go from loopy to sloppy.  We decide to break out a mid-day game of quarters to help kick things into high gear.  Spirits are high and smiles are big; after about a 3 hour afternoon stint at Tap Room, we part ways with Rob the bartender and head back outside.

Day 2 – 7:00pm

After 6 hours of competitive drinking, the fun has only just begun.  After stumbling around in the streets, we decide to head back to the hotel so we can put on some warmer gear.  Even after the unsafe levels of liquor consumption, it’s still noticeably cold outside.  I swap out my windbreaker for a hoody, and my sandals for shoes.  In all honesty, there’s really no logical reason for me to go back out in public, but the last time I listened to logical reasoning, I woke up cold and alone in a parking garage in Colorado during a blizzard without a jacket (don’t ask).  We grab a van-style cab and shove 8 bodies into it.  With Memphis presenting no other option, we roll right back to Beale Street.  On a side note, I have not eaten anything since lunch; this will soon lead to my demise.

Day 2 – 9:00pm

After walking up and down Beale, I end up right back at Tap Room (big surprise).  By this point, things are beginning to look a bit fuzzy.  Right as I enter the bar, someone sneaks up behind me and welcomes me back with a giant bear-hug.  Gadzooks, it’s Rob the bartender!

Rob  “Florida!  What’s up brotha!”
Me  “Drunk local!  Livin’ the dream!”

Rob is no longer working, so now he is a patron.  I feel like we have only been separated for about an hour or so, but it appears that somehow he has managed to drink a handle of whiskey during our hiatus.  Rob orders me and the crew a round of shots on the house, he is the man.  After a few more shots, I’m in trouble; allow me to digress for just a moment.

When it comes to drinking, I have something of a tolerance (if you can’t tell).  One time in high school, a buddy and I finished a double power hour (approx 14 beers in a 1 hour time span) and then 2 hours later I passed a field sobriety test (don’t worry I wasn’t driving, the asshole cop was just trying to get me for underage drinking and public intoxication).  That was when I was 16.  However, I do know my vices; beer I can drink for hours upon hours and still remain coherent, but once I start to hit the hard liquor aggressively, lights out.  My freshman year of college I earned the nickname of “The Russian” at a random house party.  I got this name because I got so shit-housed that I was speaking a language which people called Russian because apparently not even I could understand what I was saying.  Because of this, I no longer drink vodka (true story).  So what’s the point?  Well let’s just say thanks to Rob’s hospitality, I won’t be making any friends tonight.

As the night grows later, the group begins to separate.  Wild Bill disappears, and Sketch-mo follows Casey as he continues to try and slip her the sleazy.  Lora and Elsie went to go check out other bars on the street, so it’s Cola, Rizzo, and myself holding strong at Tap Room.  Rob is still partying with us and has some people he would like me to meet.

Rob  “Hey man, come with me, I want you to meet some folks.”

Rizzo and Cola stay behind as I follow Rob to the other side of the bar.  I’ve definitely met some solid groups of characters in my day, but Rob’s “folks” were a whole new breed.  He introduces me to 5 guys sitting at a round table; I felt like I was meeting the cast from True Life I’m a Recreational Killer.  By this point, I’m way too charming (drunk) to fully comprehend what is going on, but the best I can piece together is that this was a biker gang and they were interested in recruiting new members.  Fearing that they would mistake my kindness for weakness, I excuse myself and link back up with Rizzo and Cola in an attempt to stick to our “Safety in Numbers” theorem.  Moments later, I have to go to the bathroom.

Me  “I have to go to the bathroom.”
Cola  “Why are you telling me this?”
Me  “Whatever.”

I stumble off in an unknown direction; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Another one of my character traits (flaws) is my instinctual ability to become a drunken wanderer.  Most people have this friend, the one that just walks to nowhere once they have a high enough BAC.  This doesn’t happen to me as often as it used to, but I have had my fair share of alone adventures.  One time around the beginning of my collegiate career, I was drinking at a local UCF watering hole called Devaney’s.  For some reason, I felt it was the appropriate time for me to leave, and I also decided that I need not tell anyone else of my impromptu departure.  I guess my original plan was to just walk home (which happened to be about 3 miles away), but somewhere in the mix I went the wrong way.  I later had to put in a desperation call to a sleeping Rizzo to come find me.  Unable to put together coherent sentences, I had the clerk at 7 11 clue him in on my whereabouts.  There was another time when I left a tailgate my freshman year and somehow ended up at a random gas station far away from the stadium.  Again I needed the clerk’s assistance to relay my whereabouts to my safe ride, this time it was Cola.  When he finally found me, I was standing in the middle of OBT (an Orlando street with massive amounts of street cred) giving random bystanders the middle finger.  These 2 instances also happened to take place before I stopped drinking vodka.  So what’s the point?  Well, I said I was going to the bathroom, but I failed to mention that it would be at a different bar.

Day 3 – 1:00am (estimate)

I somehow meander my way over to a bar called Silky O’Sullivans.  As I prance around the bar friendless, I decide it’s time for me to impress the bartendress.  First, I impress her by being rich and buying us both shots, next I show her that I am a master linguist by saying “thanks toots” after she rings me up.  From this point forward, I have no memory; the rest is just from pictorial evidence and hearsay.

Rizzo, who appears with a yardstick jagerbomb, and Cola make their way over to Silky’s and I casually throw them a head nod as if my disappearance act had never happened.  Cola listens in as I continue to impress the bartendress.

Me  “So you should come back to my hotel.”

Actual Statement:

Me  “Soo you finde tohopa ridecok wthsche achoehdns tafev!”

Actual Thought:

Me  “I am so smooth.”

I’m not sure why the bartendress isn’t wooed by my courting of her, but now I must reach deep into my bag of tricks.

Me  “You should make out with that other bartendress, and then I’ll kiss both of you.”

Actual Statement:

Me  “Asonsgsv hosnvsoe asbudfgm voosao!”

Actual Thought:

Me  “I hope you’re not focusing on the stream of urine that’s running down my leg.”

Just because I stopped drinking vodka doesn’t mean that other hard liquor can’t do the trick.  This charade goes on for way too long, and instead of stopping me from looking so good, Cola and Rizzo just decide to sit back and enjoy the show.  Cola told me the gist of the conversation was me propositioning 2 bartendresses for a threesome.  He also mentioned that they were not attractive and appeared to be a mother/daughter combo.

Day 3 – 3:30am

One of the best (worst) things about Beale Street is that the bars are open until 5am, although tonight that will not be necessary.  It is clearly time to go home as we attempt to reconvene with the rest of the group.  Wild Bill and the girls appear as if from nowhere, and they are accompanied by Sanford, another UCF champion who has just made it to Memphis.  Once Sketch-mo comes waltzing out of the darkness,  we leave Silky’s and wait for a cab.  While waiting, I find it an appropriate time to enter a questionable diner and demand a slice of pie.  We are no longer on the tourist-friendly Beale Street, but instead we wait on a side street that isn’t exactly in the safest of areas.  Cola drags me out of the diner before I incite some sort of reverse Rodney King riot.  Once we make it back to the hotel, I hit the bed like a sack of bricks.  Once again I wake up missing more than just my dignity.  If I had a nickel for every time I’ve woken up missing something, I’d have like 2 bucks, and that’s about the price of a Tilt; it’s a vicious cycle.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 3