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