The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Day 3 – 6:30pm

I always find it amazing that the “3 S’s” can instantly sober up even the wildest of idiots.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term “3 S’s,” it stands for Shit, Shower, Shave.  I’m not sure if this is an acronym that girls use, but for us boys, well I guess we’re just that simple.  Complete with my UCF shirt and rejuvenated appearance, I take a solo walk to the Mexican restaurant, Margaritas, to meet back up with Wild Bill.

Once inside, I grab a seat at the end of the ghetto-rigged 2 table arrangement that seats about 8; it’s Wild Bill, Sketch-mo, Sanford, and Lora and her friends.  At this point, I have still not seen Amanda and the rest of that crew.  I sit into a very awkward conversation; for some reason, Wild Bill and Lora have told the waitress that they are married and have a kid.  They are getting a To Go order for one of Lora’s friends, but are pretending it’s for their fictional child.  Yes, at times my friends are even dumber than me.  As the waitress takes the order, I waste no time interrupting in a humorous attempt to steal the table’s thunder.

Waitress  “And what will your son be eating?”
Me  “Cock, if he’s anything like his father.”

My attempt is successful; people laugh as Wild Bill is shamed.  He gives me the stink-eye to show his disapproval of my remarks.  I smile and cheers him with someone else’s Margarita; we are friends again.  After we have slammed a few margaritas and the To Go order is intact, it’s time to get back to the room and start the heavy pregaming.  Real quickly on the margaritas, allow me to digress for just a moment.

Tequila does not taste good.  The idea that anybody would want to mix it with sugar juice and drink it even slower is just asinine.  If you are reading this and thinking “Hey, I like Tequila,” you are dumb.  Nobody drinks Tequila for the taste; we drink it because it makes us feel not dead inside.

As the girls go back to the room to change and Wild Bill follows them to watch, I call Amanda and head to her upstairs room.  She told me that she had just finished eating at the Mexican place right before Wild Bill got there.  Once inside, I see she is with Alexa, Kristin, Jess, and a new face, Dan.  Dan sits in a chair in the corner drinking alone while randomly insulting all of the girls in the room.  I like Dan immediately; he is the man.  Dan The Man informs me that he drove the entire way, and that girls are very useful during long drives.  After I chug a couple beers with Dan The Man, I make fun of Amanda and then exit the room.

Back in Lora’s room (which if you remember shares a wall with ours), the party has grown to about 10 or so.  I see that Wild Bill has put on his party face as he leans over to whisper something to me.

Wild Bill  “I just saw Holly’s butt.  Woo Wee!”
Me  “What are you, 7?”
Sketch-mo  “Yeah I know right?!”
Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

As the party continues to grow, we feel it’s best to move it to the lobby.  The group fires up a couple card games as I polish off a mixed drink and a Tilt.  We are starting to run low on refreshments, so Lora drives Rizzo and me to a sketchy gas station to pick up some beer and a few more Tilts.  Upon our return, all UCFers that are staying at Days Inn are now in the lobby.  Cola, our future accountant, takes a head count and realizes that we cannot fit 15 people into a single cab.  We turn back towards the booze as we wait for our transportation to arrive.

Day 3 – 9:45pm

I jump into the back of one of the van-style taxis with Amanda and her friends; Dan The Man snags shotgun and brings his Days Inn beverage along for the ride.  Once we reach Beale Street, it looks like a completely different place.  The street is packed beyond belief; this is what we had originally envisioned, apparently we just had to wait until night 3 to experience it.  There are beer vendors in the streets, drunk kids already throwing up, beautiful UCF people everywhere, and even a few obnoxiously ugly people from Mississippi State; life is now amazing.

Once all taxis are unloaded, it’s time to split the heard; with groups this large, you generally never stick together for more than 10 minutes.  Our room and Amanda’s room stick together and hop into the first bar we see, B.B. King’s.  As we get IDed, both Dan and Rizzo are using passports because they don’t have IDs; they fist bump and become instant friends.  We manage to find a large enough available table in the middle of the crowded bar.  Once we sit down, Wild Bill leans in for another whisper.

Wild Bill  “Have you ever hooked up with Amanda?”
Me  “You are an idiot.”
Wild Bill  “Just checking.”
Me  “Does this mean you’re gonna try?”
Wild Bill  “I can’t predict the future.”
Sketch-mo  “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”
Wild Bill  “Eyes down Sketch-mo.”

Have I ever hooked up with Amanda?  This is a question I have been asked so many times; allow me to digress for a very disturbing moment.

No, I have never and will never hook up with Amanda.  For those of you who don’t know our situation, my nickname for Amanda is “Mom.”  This is not because she is caring and helpful; this is because she physically resembles my mother.  I would have referred to her as “Mom” throughout this entire story, but I did not want to confuse anybody.  So with that in mind, let’s rephrase Wild Bill’s question.

Wild Bill  “[Have you ever hooked up with someone who looks like your mother]?”

No Wild Bill, I have not.  Furthermore, you know that I call her “Mom” so why would you ask me this (multiple times)?  That would be weird, uncomfortable, and in some way probably incestuous.  This reminds me of another disturbing conversation that I’ve been trying to erase from my mind for years; readers beware.  One time while I was at the Wife Factory (Strip Club), I asked one of the Future Wives what the weirdest thing a guy has ever said to her was.

Me  “What’s the weirdest thing a guy has ever said to you?”
Future Wife  “This one time a guy asked me for a lap dance because he said I reminded him of his granddaughter.”

Take a moment to wipe your projectile vomit off the screen.  Some people are just fucking weird.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve never gone to a family reunion with a wad of singles in my pocket.  If you are normal, Wife Factories can be a good time.  I mean besides, guys like Wife Factories because “they are funny and not a turn-on.”  Girls, if we (men) tell you that we like going to a Strip Clubs because it’s “funny and not a turn-on,” we are lying to you; we like going because strippers are hot and obedient, and yes, we want to have sex with all of them.  I’m not sure where this is going, but the bottom line is Amanda = No Sex, Strippers = Cool; back to the story.

Once at B.B. King’s, Dan The Man is working some magic at the bar because he actually works at the B.B. King’s in Orlando, so he is scoring some sort of discount.  He returns with several shots; I rip a couple and then take to the streets alone.  As I’ve mentioned before, I’m somewhat of a wanderer.  I think it must be my ADD or something, but whatever the case, I can’t sit still for too long.  I walk into another bar called Club 152 and find Lora and Elsie drinking at the bar.  I brag about my poker winnings and suggest that we spend it; we begin ordering all sorts of random shots.  Some girl next to me shouts my way.

Some Girl Next To Me  “Hey, do you work at the UCF Gym?”
Me  “Yes, I do.  Would you like a shot?”
Some Girl Next To Me  “Obviously.”

It’s easy to make friends when you are handing out money in the form of alcohol.  I look back to the girls and notice that Lora has wandered off somewhere.  Elsie and I exit and head towards, where else, Tap Room.  As we cross the street, we run into Wild Bill and Casey.  I tell them that we are going to visit Rob the bartender; they agree to meet us after they find [some member of the crew, I can’t remember who].  After giving Rob an overzealous hug, Elsie and I sit alone at the bar and continue to pound drinks; nothing good can come from this, especially for Elsie.  She is drinking as fast as I am, the only problem is that she weights maybe 90 lbs, soaking wet.  All of a sudden Lora appears as if from nowhere and since Elsie is once again safely a part of “the buddy system,” I hop back to the streets.  Oh in case I haven’t mentioned this yet tonight, FUCK IT’S COLD.

Day 3 – 11:30pm

Every time I blink, the population of Beale Street seems to double.  I see a large group of UCF fans jumping wildly in a circle in the middle of the street; I join the madness and start hopping up and down like a diehard fan (crazed idiot).  Out of nowhere, I’m bear-hugged from behind and lifted off the ground.  Holy Smokes!  It’s AJ (from The Key West Chronicles) and Baines (from The Cross Country Chronicles coming eventually).

AJ  “Where have you been?!”
Me  “All over the place, when’d you get here?”
AJ  “Today.”
Me  “So why did you ask me where I’ve been?”
AJ  “Huh?”
Me  “Never mind.  Where’s everyone else?”

AJ and Baines point to the rest of the drunkards who are in the middle of the jumping circle; apparently I had been jumping with people I actually knew.  AJ high-fives me a skittle and I accept it.

Baines  “Who are you here with?”
Me  “A bunch of people.”
Baines  “Where are they?”
Me  “No idea.”

As if they could smell the insanity, Wild Bill, Rizzo, and Cola appear from out of the shadows; Dan The Man, Amanda, and others follow close behind.  Our original group is now reuniting in the middle of the freezing street.  Just when all is well, trouble comes a brewin’.  A Mississippi State circle has formed and they are challenging us in a very West Side Story fashion; although, instead of the Sharks vs. the Jets, it’s really more like Team Good Looking vs. Team Inbred.  These Cow Humpers have also gone with these very annoying cowbells as their weapon of choice.  Wild Bill accuses Team Inbred of being a bunch of “Sister Kissers.”  We agreed.  The kids gather around Mom and take a picture.  After street security unnecessarily intervenes, I invite Team Good Looking back to Tap Room as if it were my own bar.  Once inside, more trouble is a brewin’.

Day 4 – 12:45am

Inside Tap Room, Lora informs me that Elsie is a bit on the fritz.  And by “a bit on the fritz,” she means face down at the bar.  There’s nothing more complicated than being drunk and having to take care of another drunk person, but we’ve all been there.  The original plan is to toss her in the back of a cab and let the Gods protect her; but fearing that she might get gang-raped by a gaggle of locals, I’m elected as the designated guardian.  Once we make it to the hotel, I toss her over my shoulder and carry her to her room.  I tell the cabbie to stay put and that I’ll be right back because this is a round-trip.  With Elsie out cold, I fruitlessly search through her purse for her room key.  Ultimately, I can either toss her in our room or leave her on the staircase; I believe in Karma so I throw her in our room.  I also believe in vomit, so I place her on Sketch-mo’s cot “just in case.”  I run to the cab and catch my ride back to the madness.

Day 4 – 2:00am

Having just completed my good deed for the year, I reward myself with a Fat Ass sized Rogue Dead Guy back at Tap Room.  The massive crowd has dispersed, but Cola and Rizzo still grace the bar.  There is a walk-up window connected to the bar so people can order drinks from the street; it’s also useful for harassing Cow Humpers.

Rizzo  “Hey you!  Who’s better in bed, your mom or your sister?”
Me  “Do you know what the internet is?”
Cola  “Yeah, what they said.”

The funny thing is that most of the Cow Humpers are real adults and not college kids; although, at 2 in the morning there is no such thing as respect for authority.  I ask Rizzo as to the whereabouts of Wild Bill.

Rizzo  “Oh, you mean Baby Voice Bill?  He’s trying to score with your mom.”
Me  “Oh, that should be funny.  And please call her Amanda because I don’t like sound of ‘Wild Bill scoring with my mom’.”

Alright, the time has come for you to learn all about this man, Wild Bill; allow me to digress for more than just a moment.

I first met Wild Bill (formerly Big Bill) my sophomore year of college; he was a fraternity brother of mine.  Yes I was in a fraternity, and no I do not have a tribal band tattoo.  We became good friends my junior year when we ended up living in the same neighborhood.  Big Bill lived with his brother and Sanford, and I lived down the street with Rizzo and Sketch-mo.  Our place basically became the community rec center; we had a Jager machine, a Kegerator, and a full liquor bar, so I guess we brought this upon ourselves.  Big Bill would come over, we would get all liquored up, and then go out to a local watering hole (sometimes we would just cruise around in my borrowed golf cart, but that’s a whole nother story).  I started noticing the crass and hilarious things that Big Bill would say to strangers; not that I didn’t do the exact same thing, but I guess it just seemed funnier when somebody who was 6’4” 240lb said it.

On the way out to Vegas for my 21^st birthday, Big Bill asked the stewardess (flight attendant) if the in-flight movie was United 93; right then the nickname Wild Bill was spawned.  Wild Bill reared his brash, shameless head all over the place; like the time a sweet innocent girl asked Wild Bill if she could use his stool because he was only sitting on it half the time.  His response:  Sorry, chivalry is dead sugar tits.  Another time, we were leaving The Library (the one with booze, not that weird place that’s like Blockbuster except with books) after a Friday afternoon happy hour; about 3 doors down is an Italian ice place at which several of my friends (female) worked.  I was talking to one of them, Jessica, and she noticed that Wild Bill’s knuckles were all fucked up (we had a punching bag), so she asked what happened.  His response:  I just got done teaching my girlfriend a valuable lesson (relax, he was kidding, I think).  These are just a few instances of Wild Bill, but like most people, this man has many different personas.

Personally, I only have 2 versions; regular ol’ jolly me, and The Russian.  The Russian is who I become after I drink too much vodka, start speaking a made up language, and then urinate on myself; this version is not a fan favorite.  Another friend of mine, Dez, has a couple.  There is Full Price Dez; this version works at a bar and offers his pals no discount whatsoever.  And then there’s my personal favorite, Too Full Dez; this version eats so much that he goes into a food-coma on the couch and repeats the phrase “I feel like I’m gonna throw up” like a broken record.

So far in this story, Wild Bill has been brutal, witty, and hilarious; I think now it’s time you learn about the rest of the Bills.  Let’s begin with Office Bill (aka Whistleblower Bill, a term coined by my friend Griff Dawg).  Whistleblower Bill holds a position at a bank for which he is more than under qualified.  Furthermore, if he’s not texting on the job, he is somehow miraculously using up another vacation day.  The kid has more vacation days than me; I’m currently unemployed.  Whistleblower Bill?  Not for me.

Next up, we have Gummy Spine Bill.  Gummy Spine Bill gets walked all over by anyone and everyone; this is still a mystery to me because Gummy Spine Bill has the same physical dimensions as Wild Bill.  Gummy Spine Bill is also stupidly sketchy.  Often, he will call me and say he’s on his way over to hang out; then, when I call him back hours later because he is a no-show, he says “Oh sorry man, I can’t make it.”  Read that sentence again, it makes sense, I promise.  Gummy Spine Bill also gets pushed around and overruled by all of his roommates, even though he is the eldest and the largest.  Gummy Spine Bill?  Not for me.

Next on the menu, Baby Voice Bill.  You know when your buddy picks up his phone and changes his voice to “little bitch mode” because he is talking to his girlfriend?  Welcome to Baby Voice Bill.  Baby Voice Bill loves to come out when he’s “running game” on a girl or talking to a waitress; again it’s always funnier with him because of his larger-than-life size.  Baby Voice Bill speaks to women, and sometimes authority figures, in a tone which implies that he’d like to pet them softly.  Baby Voice Bill?  Not for me.

With most people, you can tell which version you’re going to get according to their level of alcohol consumption; in Big Bill’s case, it’s always a complete guess.  Big Bill has several other versions, but the aforementioned are the dominant ones.  In any case, unless you’re a stranger, you are always praying for Wild Bill to show up at the party.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh right, basically even though Amanda has understandably low standards, she knows Wild Bill far to well to fall for Baby Voice Bill; back to the story.

Day 4 – 3:00am (estimate)

By this point, the booze has once again started to take a toll on my memory; if not for the skittle, I would have blacked out hours ago.  After a few incoherent phone calls, I somehow manage to meet back up with AJ and Baines.  They, along with the rest of their buddies, are at a place called Rum Boogie Café; it is located at the end of Beale Street and across from Silky O’Sullivans (the place at which I had made friends the previous night).  This place seems a little too busy for my liking, and after unsuccessfully attempting to order chicken wings, I take back to the streets.

The time has come for me to find my original group; if not I fear I will wind up being just another pillaged victim of a local meth-head.  Things are very hazy and the streets are still packed, so I turn on my drunken recall and head to our original place, B.B. King’s.  Once again, God favors the drunks, because Eureka, I have part of the crew!  It’s Dan The Man’s crew (formerly Amanda’s crew) along with Rizzo, Cola, and Sanford.  Wild Bill is nowhere to be found, but unfortunately Baby Voice Bill is residing with the rest of the group.  I’m also glad Alexa is here, because I had entrusted her with my camera earlier since I tend to lose things when I drink.  She did however take about 15 pictures of herself; she’s hot enough so I’ll show one here.  Rizzo leans over…

Rizzo  “Hey, you want a skittle?”
Me  “Where’d you get that?”
Rizzo  “AJ.”

I take the gift; Rizzo and I are nothing but smiles.

Day 4 – 4:00am (estimate)

After another round of shots and a Miller Lite, It’s about time to head back to the hotel.  Once outside, I no longer notice the cold.  Finally, I have reached a BAC high enough to keep me safe from below freezing temperatures.  The streets are beginning to thin out, and the cops are kicking everyone off Beale Street.  They are literally telling us that we cannot stand on a particular corner, but the “other” corner (5 feet away) is not a problem.

Rizzo  “Oh ok, so you want us to loiter on the other side of the street?”
Dumb Cop #1  “Yes.”

We flag down a cab; this time it happens to be a 15 person passenger van.  I don’t think we needed that much space this time around because I’m fairly certain that other parts of the group had already gone back (I’m not positive though).  As we all pile in, we notice Sketch-mo talking to a presumably underage sex solicitor behind a tree in the distance; we break up the probable jail time situation and throw his ass in the van.

As I completely say goodnight to my memory, the rest is once again hearsay.  On the way back, Baby Voice Bill sat shotgun and kept fucking with the cab radio volume in a poor attempt to befriend the driver.  I sat in the back row doing my patented Fake Pass Out at least 10 times; as usual, I fooled no one.  Once we got back to the hotel, things got even better.  As we entered our room, Elsie had decided to throw up; good thing I had placed her on Sketch-mo’s cot “just in case.”  He gets angry with me, but I reraise him with more anger until he settles down.

Me  “What was I gonna fuckin’ do?  Leave her outside?!”
Sketch-mo  “You could have put her on the floor or something?”

Wild Bill (formerly Baby Voice Bill) walks by…

Wild Bill  “Just shut up Sketch-mo.”

I cozy up to Cola in our shared bed as Rizzo finds himself sleeping solo.  Why you ask?  Well Wild/Baby Voice Bill has big plans for this evening.  He decided to rent his own room so that he and Sanford could conjure up some sort of sex party with Amanda and her friend.  Even with my eyes closed and brain turned off, my mouth still runs on its own.

Wild/Baby Voice Bill (to Amanda) “Yeah, so I think I need to get a new room cause Elsie threw up in mine.”
Me (laughing) “Never gonna happen.”

Cola can’t help but to laugh; this only fuels my autopilot wittiness.

Wild/Baby Voice Bill (to Amanda) “Me and Sanford are gonna split it, you guys should stay with us.”
Me (eyes closed) “Everyone in this room can smell your desperation.”

I will give Wild/Baby Voice Bill his due credit; his ploy worked.  The 4some ended up sharing a much overpriced and very sexless room.  Our room has emptied out; Elsie was carried back to her place, Sketch-mo is sleeping in vomit, Rizzo is sleeping like a king, and I’m the big spoon as I clutch Cola tightly.  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough; it is GAMEDAY!

Me (talking in my sleep) “Ha, Wild Bill, ha…”

CONTINUE ON TO PART 5 (FINALE)

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 pictures 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; the higher the BAC, the lower the score.  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

The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

(click the LINKS within the story for pictures)

There are a few things every man (dumbass) must do in his life:  Punch a wall, wet the bed after being old enough to vote, wake up in a field on the wrong side of town alone and cold at 2 in the morning only to have a homeless man help you find your cell phone the next day, are just a few things that should be on the list.  However, the #1 thing that must be done is the quintessential college road trip.  If you have yet to do this, I’m sure you’ve heard one of your idiot buddies drone on and on about how awesome his road trip was, and if not, well here’s mine.

Day 1 – 7:00am

Generally, the day after Christmas is not an auspicious one.  There are no more presents to open, it’s no longer socially acceptable to drink in the morning, and you’re stuck trying to piece together a last minute New Year’s Eve plan, which for one reason or another always turns into a huge let down.  Well my friends, not this year.  It’s the morning after Christmas and my vacation is just getting started.  UCF has had a winning football season (whodathunkit) and my friends and I are driving to Memphis to cheer them on in the AutoZone Liberty Bowl against Mississippi State.

For this trip, we start with 5 journeymen.  Cola, Rizzo, Wild Bill (you might remember him from The Denver Chronicles), Sketch-mo, and myself.  We have rented a minivan in Clearwater and will be leaving from there.  Cola, Rizzo, and I are already in Clearwater visiting family, so it’s only Wild Bill and Sketch-mo that have to get up 2 hours earlier than us and make the drive over from Orlando.  We all meet at the Enterprise Rent-A-Car at the corner of Sunset and 19.  Cola, Rizzo, and I get there right as the store is opening up at 7:30am.  One major concern that we can see is that there is not a minivan anywhere on the lot.  The minivan guru working the counter alerts us that the van is “in route”.  As Cola begins the paperwork, I continually ask Minivan Guru what his stance/policy is on drunk/stoned driving.

Minivan Guru  “Whatever, just try not to wreck.”

Minivan Guru clearly deserves a raise.  Right about the time when my comments are turning from playful to menacing, trouble arrives.  Wild Bill has just rolled up and barges into the shop.

Wild Bill  “Ok, so where’s this drunk sex bubble of a van?”
Me  “Wild Bill, what’s happening my man!”
Wild Bill  “Ready to rock n’ roll.”

Sketch-mo walks in, we give him a head nod.  Cola signals over to us that there’s a situation with the paperwork.  Apparently they need the signature of at least 2 drivers, or of anybody that might actually be driving the car.  At this point, I do not have a license due to legal complications, and I believe that Rizzo’s license was also on the fritz.  Wild Bill steps up and forges Sketch-mo’s signature.  Problem solved.  Another bit of paperwork we had to fill out was the name of each state we will be driving through (Florida to Tennessee).  Since we’re a nonfunctioning pack of idiots, this was much harder than expected.  The directions we have MapQuested do not include all the state names.  We randomly guess what we think will be near our vicinity.  Wild Bill continuously shouts Mexico, Minivan Guru is not amused.  After a drawn out stint in the office, we see our baby come screeching into the parking lot.  We were expecting some piece of shit that we could set fire to without any consequences, which is not exactly what we got.  Well, it was a Kia Sedona, but this minivan was brand new!  I mean brand fucking new.  It had all the stickers on the outside and the seats and floors were still covered in plastic.  It also had an odometer which read “3”.

After inspecting the van, we are ready to rock.  Wild Bill and I hop in the van as we follow the other 2 cars back towards Cola’s house.  Cola and Rizzo live in the same neighborhood, so after dumping off Sketch-mo’s car at a nearby shopping plaza, we reconvene there.  With the minivan parked in front of Cola’s house, we begin to load our luggage plus a cooler that we cram in the back next to Sketch-mo.  My mom had handed me a road map earlier in the morning just in case we got lost.

Me  “A paper map?  What are we, fucking Amish or something?”
Mom  “Just in case.”
Me  “But we have printed directions and a GPS?”

I continue to explain how we will never get lost because “men don’t get lost, we just sometimes subconsciously decide to take a more rugged route.”  I have also put too much faith in Cola’s old school GPS, it looks more like a Pop-Tart with a coat hanger sticking out of it.  We are definitely not Amish, but we are dumb and will ultimately have to rely on this paper map to get us back home.

We say goodbye to the Cola family and dive into the van; Cola sits driver, I take shotgun, Rizzo and Wild Bill occupy the captains’ chairs and Sketch-mo is stuffed somewhere in back.

Day 1 – 9:00am

As we leave the neighborhood, the level of excitement begins its steady climb.  It is a 14 hour trip, so we have plenty of time to mentally prep ourselves (get drunk in the van) for the city of Memphis.  We rock out to Beating Heart Baby by Head Automatica.  The drive up to Memphis is long and cold, really fucking cold.  I decide to roll with my window down and let the scrubs in the back get smacked around by the cold breeze.  Like gentlemen, we wait until about 10:30am before we start drinking.  At this point in my life, I, as well as Wild Bill and Rizzo, have a mild Tilt addiction (the green one, not the orange one, which has a weaker alcohol percentage and tastes like berry flavored piss).  If you haven’t had a Tilt before, pick one up.  It’s like Sparks but it doesn’t taste like cancer.

Once we make it to Georgia, we immediately pull over and find a gas station.  For us Florida boys, picking up a 40oz is mandatory the second it becomes available.  Yes, we do have quarts, but that extra 8 ounces can turn things from “ugly” to “good enough” real quick.  By this point, we are already starting to feel a bit loopy, oh well it’s vacation.  It isn’t long before we decide to take it from loopy to sloppy.

Day 1 – 1:30pm

Again in a gentlemanly fashion, we wait until after noon to begin our hard liquor consumption.  Wild Bill pulls out a flask of Jack and passes it around.  Rizzo and I swig hard, Cola is driving so he declines, and Sketch-mo is skipped because Wild Bill tells him that Jack is “not for babies”.  It’s about this time when we also light up our first California Cigar.  We exhale in Cola’s face in weak attempts to get him to “join the party”.  As Rizzo and I become more lovable (intoxicated), we constantly hound Cola for the opportunity to drive.

Rizzo  “Cola, let me drive.  I’m ready.”
Cola  “No.”
Me  “How bout me?  I’m so good I don’t even need a license.”
Cola  “No.”

Allow me to digress for just a moment to explain to you this man, Cola.  I have been good friends with Cola since I was about 8 years old.  Had I not grown up with him, it would be safe to assume that I would have never spoken with him in High School.  Well good thing we did grow up together, because Cola is the most stable person I know.  Cola rarely drinks so, being the great friends that we are, we always harass him and offer him large quantities of free booze.  Unlike most sober people, Cola is very fun to be around.  He blends in with us booze bags so well that you would never know he’s not an idiot.  Since he’s known me since childhood, he is also one of few people who can decipher all (most) of my drunken babble with little difficulty.  Furthermore, he is a great man to whom I owe my life (on several accounts).  Cola, I love you sir.  Moving on.

Day 1 – 4:00pm

As we near the outskirts of Atlanta, the amount of “pee breaks” has become absurd.  And of course none of us have to pee at the same time, so we are literally pulling over every 20 minutes.  The solution?  Well, it’s time to be men.  We decide to refill the 40oz bottles ourselves.  Pissing into a beer bottle in an over-packed minivan is a lot more of a challenge than one might think.  Also, the beer bottle opening is too small to jam a penis into (maybe not Wild Bill’s), so you have to somehow make a secure connection between the tip of your dick and the bottle.  We make no such connection.  As I try to fill up my 40, urine goes everywhere.  All over my hands, my jeans, and the floor, I don’t think I got any into the actual bottle.  Rizzo and Wild Bill have the same results.

By the time we have all finished draining our respective lizards, the minivan just wreaks of urine and alcohol. Oh well, so much for that “new car” smell.  Wild Bill does not like the stench of urine and decides to be smart.  He rolls down his window and starts to empty the bottle.  It is extremely windy, so not only does urine get splashed all over the side of the van, but it actually comes back in the window and soaks a sleeping Sketch-mo who sits behind Wild Bill.  This mixture of urine and cold wind wakes Sketch-mo.  He is not happy.

Sketch-mo  “What the fuck.  What is this shit?”
Wild Bill  “Go back to sleep, just a little fresh mountain rain.”
Sketch-mo  “It’s fucking urine.  You’re a fucking moron.”
Wild Bill  “It’s sterile, why don’t you stop being a baby, Geez.”
Sketch-mo  “You just got piss all over me.”
Wild Bill  “Man, do you ever stop complaining?  It’s always something with you.”

By this point of the drive, it has become pitch black outside and extremely cold.  I would also like to add that everyone, with the exception of Cola, is incredibly charming (old man drunk).  Somewhere in the middle of Alabama, we hit a Flying J to fill up on gas and pee once again (we have learned our lesson from the previous urine debacle).  Once we enter the store, I notice that we are surrounded by a crowd of people whom I can only assume will not be voting for Obama.  Rizzo and I wander around the store, and eventually find ourselves mystified by an unheard of product.  Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce you to the Pickle Sickle.  It is exactly how it sounds, frozen pickle juice on a stick.  And that is exactly how that sounds, fucking terrible.  If you just threw up in your mouth a little bit, then we’re on the same page.  We pass on the Pickle Sickle and decide to grab another 40.  Rizzo and I are stoked because we are very close to our destination (so we think).

Heartbreaker Clerk  “Hey boys, is that all for ya?”
Me  “Yes mam, we’re on vacation, living the dream.”
Heartbreaker Clerk  “Oh yeah, where to?”
Rizzo  “Memphis.”
Heartbreaker Clerk  “Well you’re getting close, it’s only about another 3 hours.”
Me  “Awesom… wait, what the fuck?  Did you say 3 hours?”
Heartbreaker Clerk  “Yup.”

I look at Rizzo and without having to say a word, he reads my eyes.  He immediately races back to the cooler and grabs a 2^nd pair of 40s.

Me  “Well played.”

As we stumble back to the car, we see Cola filling her (it’s a minivan) up, as Wild Bill and Sketch-mo continue to bicker about the urine incident.

Me  “Good news, we’re almost there.”
Cola  “How far?”
Me  “3 hours.”
Sketch-mo  “What the fuck?”
Wild Bill  “Shut up baby boy.”
Cola  “I thought you said we were like 30 minutes away?”
Me  “Yeah well what do I know?  I’m a hammered dumbass from Florida.”
Rizzo  “Well said.”
Me  “Thank you sir.”

The circus piles back into the van and just like that we’re back on the road.  Moments (hours) later, we arrive in Memphis, kinda.

Day 1 – 10:00pm

We arrive at our hotel, Days Inn – West Memphis.  One of the funny things about our hotel is that it isn’t actually in Tennessee, it’s in Arkansas.  Another hilarious feature is the Mexican restaurant attached to it called Margaritas (we’ll be patroning this place in the nights to come).  We fall out of the van like a group of drunken buffoons, and then make our way to the lobby.  We let Cola (the only sober one) take care of the room situation at the front desk.  We divvy out the room keys and find it appropriate to assign Wild Bill and Rizzo to the same bed.  They are the only journeymen who are currently members of the 200+ club so this seems to be the funniest option.  Cola and I bunk up, and Sketch-mo shells out another 50 bucks to rent a sad little cot for himself.

After we toss our belongings into the room, we waste no time searching for food.  During the ride up, our diet consisted solely of Beef Jerky, Combos, and liquor.  Oh, and Wild Bill had also eaten half a bag of Cheetos, the other half he proceeded to throw at the back of Cola’s head throughout the duration of the ride.  After a very short drive, we spot an Applebees and decide that it’s a “good enough” option.

Day 1 – 10:30pm

Reality starts to rear its ugly head just as we sit down to eat.  For some reason, we were all expecting the streets to be painted red with blood, and the bright lights of Vegas to be shining all around us.  I’m not really sure why we thought this, since the reality of the situation was that it’s the Wednesday night after Christmas and we are tucked into an Applebees in West Memphis, Arkansas 30 minutes from closing time.  This is just a detailed way for me to explain that it was a ghost town.  There wasn’t anyone under the age of 30 and/or with a full set of teeth within 100 miles.  Instead of griping about the situation, we just order Long Islands and chicken wings.  After a solid 12 hours of drinking, I have absolutely no idea how in the hell this picture came out so flawlessly. I mean seriously, we all have our eyes open, we’re all smiling, we all appear coherent, and somehow we all manage to do these things simultaneously.  On a side note, I can’t really smile, and definitely not on cue, so generally I stick my tongue out or make some sort of stupid face.  I had a teacher in High School who told me it was because I had an “oddly shaped upper lip”, he is no longer with us because I killed him.

Shortly after mauling through our food, it’s time to go because they are closing.  I spot a local crack whore outside the front door and ask her what’s happenin’ in Memphis.

Me  “What’s happenin’ in Memphis?”
Local Crack Whore  “The tracks.”
Me  “Are you asking me to do heroin with you?”
Local Crack Whore  “No, the tracks.”

She points in the distance to place back towards our hotel.

Me  “Oh, like a dog track.  Got ya.  Dibs.”
Cola  “Need you really call dibs on her?”
Me  “Yes, dibs.”

We drive back to our hotel and park the van.  The “race track/casino” that Local Crack Whore had pointed to is well within walking distance.  Allow me to introduce you to a little West Memphis hidden gem known as Southland Park.  If you ever get the chance to go here, don’t.  This place is as grimy as any place named Southland Park could possibly be, or as Wild Bill so eloquently puts it…

Wild Bill  “Wow, nothing but garbage men and homeless people.”

Wild Bill is correct.  Not only is this place a complete dump, but it also boasts a crowd comprised of the cast from the unaired “Survivor: Landfill” season.  I rarely get the chance to feel like the classiest person in a room, but this was one of those moments and it’s oddly unfulfilling.  We sit down at a $3 blackjack table located next to the food-stamp slots.  The felt smelled like our van (urine-soaked) and I’m almost certain the dealer had a mousetrap hanging from his beard.  After only a few hands, we have to get out of here.  Usually I’m the kind of person who seeks out sketchy/grimy hangouts, but not this place.  Southland Park was seriously identical to a homeless shelter, except with maybe a more entertaining carpet pattern.

Before we stumble out, we figure we might as well grab at least one cocktail.  As always Cola, looking like he’s 11, gets IDed and holds everything up; then we have another problem.

Bartender (to Cola) “You’re going to need to take off your hat sir.”
Cola  “Excuse me?”
Bartender  “You can’t wear your hat in here.”
Cola  “Are you kidding me?”

This is about to get out of hand.  Cola has had one cocktail, and like usually, he always gets a bit “punchy” (although in this scenario, I don’t blame him).  Here come his Cola Muscles.

Cola  “That [homeless person] has one on.”
Bartender  “He is not at the bar.”
Cola  “At the bar?  This is like a fucking lemonade stand without wheels.”
Me  “Cola, calm down, don’t get all Italian on us, we’re leaving.”
Cola  “This fucking guy, this shit really pisses me off.”

Cola curses a lot after one cocktail.  I pull him away as Wild Bill and I finish the insults.

Me  “Let’s get out of here before someone steals my shoes.”
Wild Bill  “This fucking dump, we can’t wear hats but that [homeless person] can shit on the floor?”
Lemonade Stand Employee  “It’s about time you fellas take off.”
Wild Bill  “That’s what you sister said when I put the condom on.”
Lemonade Stand Employee  “What did you say?”
Wild Bill  “I meant to say that I fucked your sister, you’ve probably been there.”
Lemonade Stand Employee  “I’m calling security.”
Me  “This place has security?”
Wild Bill  “Yeah who is it?  Hangover Hank?  Boxcar Willy?”
Me  “This place is like Vegas with AIDS.”

Wild Bill and I look back and realize the rest of the crew has already left.  We fumble our way outside, angry and goofy eyed.

Day 2 – 12:15am

As we reconvene in the streets near the hotel, we realize it’s getting late.  It’s been a long day, so now we have two options.  We can either go to sleep, or we can get in the van, drive to Tunica, Mississippi (40 minutes away), find a casino, and carry on with the debauchery.  Welcome to Mississippi.

Remember my previous explanation of Cola being a stable guy?  Well, every man has their vice.  While he has no problem being reasonable and responsible when it comes to substance abuse, there is little he can do when it comes to passing up a card table.  I once met Cola in Vegas; my flight had arrived several hours after his.  When I first see him in the hotel, we shake hands and then he tells me he’s already down a G and needs to borrow some money.  What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help support his habit?  Back to point, Cola pours out his drink and is more than happy to pilot us to the Grand Casino.  On the way out of town, we roll passed the FedExForum.

Day 2 – 1:00am

By this point, all of my senses are starting to fade (even I have my limits).  The only clear memory I have of this casino is that it had a super long driveway from the highway exit to its front door.  Once inside, we split up between the poker room and the blackjack tables.  Rizzo, Wild Bill, and Sketch-mo are downstairs playing blackjack and Cola is with me in the poker room but at a different table on the opposite side.  I am in no condition to be out in public, much less gambling, and by no means should I be left alone at a poker table.

I’m really not much of a gambler, although I’ve had my intoxicated moments.  Back when I was a freshman in college, I got into the online poker craze.  One night, Rizzo and I had a case race (a game where you see who can finish a case of beer first) and then ate a bowl of Jell-O shots.  Needless to say, we did not play wisely.  Lucky for us, we were able to make up our losses playing craps on the SunCruz Casino boat the following night.  There was another incident a year later where I woke up $1500 in the hole, but we really don’t need to pull at that thread.

Now when I gamble, I still stick with poker, but I only play so I can get free drinks.  I usually fold every hand and just get hammered.  Sometimes I’ll play a hand or two, and that’s when things get dicey.  I publicly call out my cards and harass everyone at the table.  If you are someone who acts serious and wears reflective sunglasses at the poker table, then I am your nemesis.

About 1 hour and 4 Crown n Gingers later, I black out much too violently to recall any exact dialogue (don’t worry, we gamble again with a more hilarious outcome).  I had started falling asleep at the poker table, which apparently is frowned upon, so I was asked to leave.  I wait downstairs by the blackjack table and watch Wild Bill lose his ass and become progressively angrier, thus his slurs become exponentially racier and more prejudice.  Once Cola is done losing about a hundo or so, he corrals us back into the van.  I wake up in the morning missing more than just my dignity.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 2