The Memphis Chronicles

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Day 3 – 10:00am

It’s another gloriously cold morning as I awake still feeling silly (drunk) from the previous night.  I’d say on average I wake up 7 days a week with the taste of stale beer in my mouth, today is no exception.  Oh, I had mentioned I woke up missing something, well at this point I haven’t noticed yet, so we’ll get back to that.  Like clockwork, Cola is already awake, Sketch-mo is curled up in the fetal position on his baby cot, and Rizzo and Wild Bill snore away like lumberjacks on 500mgs of Ambien.  After I shower and brush the ethanol crystals off my teeth, I do a bed cannonball right in between the members of the 200+ club awaking them both.

Me  “Rise and shine pumpkin.”
Wild Bill  “What’s the big idea!?  Real fucking cool!”
Me  “We’re burning daylight, let’s go big guy.”
Rizzo  “Go away.”
Me  “Come on, who’s hungry?”
Rizzo  “Go away, nobody likes you.”
Me  “You want to gamble?”
Rizzo  “Alright I’m up.”

Cola sits in the corner practicing his poker skills against no one as the others ready themselves.  The Days Inn offers a free “continental breakfast,” so we decide to save some cash and check it out.  Of course, Wild Bill keeps it classy as he engages in conversation with the concierge.

Wild Bill (sarcastic) “How’s your breakfast?  I hear it’s topnotch!”
Concierge  “Well, it ain’t no Ramada Inn.”

Apparently Ramada Inn is the breadwinner when it comes to the sub par hospitality industry.  Take another moment to laugh condescendingly.

Me  “So where’s the continental breakfast?”
Wild Bill  “Yeah, so is it crab legs or lobster?”
Concierge  “Ha, you boys are funny.”

Ultimately she points us in the direction of a coffee maker and a microwave.  Next to the microwave sits several generically packaged old Danishes, a few hot chocolate packets, and a single orange.  I pick up a Danish and throw it directly in the trash without opening it just so I feel like I get my money’s worth.  Wild Bill takes a bite out of the orange with the peel still on and then baseball hucks it across the parking lot.

Day 3 – 11:30am

It’s time to devise something of a plan.  Cola and Rizzo are heading to Tunica to play cards; Wild Bill and Sketch-mo are hanging around Memphis with Sanford, Lora and some others to do touristy shit like visit Graceland or something.  I decide to jump into shotgun with the gamblers.  We 3 amigos peel out of the parking lot as I shout obscenities at Wild Bill while simultaneously giving him the finger.

As we head towards Tunica, we must once again drive through sketchy downtown Memphis.  We had done this a couple nights ago, but it was too dark to see just how rundown this area actually is.  Again I wonder why I have had this image in my head of Memphis being some sort of magical place; truth be told it’s probably one of the most desolated and depressing places I have been to in my life.  I mean, despite 1 street of drunken chaos, Memphis really brings nothing to the table.  Just when we think we’re out of the ghetto, I see someone who, according to their license plate, is a hustler.  Once we’re no longer in the smell proximity of any Memphis scavengers, Rizzo and I find it an appropriate time to fire up another California cigar.  Minutes later, I pass out; when I wake back up, we’ve made it to Tunica.

Day 3 – 12:15pm

If Southland Park was like Vegas with AIDS, Tunica is like Vegas with Down syndrome.  On our first venture, we had stopped at Grand Casino because it’s the first one you see; today we have gone a bit farther and will try our luck at Gold Strike.  Once Cola wakes me upon arrival, I hop out of the van like a giddy kid arriving at Chuck E. Cheese’s.  Rizzo and I have coat hanger sized smiles on our faces while Cola looks stern as he visualizes winning millions and never having to work again (start working).  Upon entry, this place isn’t half bad; the casino is very open and seems to only house half of the amount of degenerates that I was expecting.  As I walk pass the female security guard with street cred, she throws a complementing smile back at my involuntary one.  Next, she gives Rizzo a friendly wave and welcomes him to Gold Strike.  Once she spots Cola, she stops all 3 of us and immediately demands identification; allow me to digress for just a moment.

Like I’ve stated several times, Rizzo and Cola are childhood friends of mine; I met them when I was 8 years old, they lived in the same neighborhood as my cousin.  Rizzo always hated when I was in the neighborhood and never wanted to “play” while I was around.  My contention is that he was threatened by my awesomeness; he was the neighborhood stud when it came to sports, and when I was around he finally had some decent competition.  Although, truth be told he was always a little better than me (wow, I guess I can be humble).  As for Cola, well let’s just say he was the kid who always showed up wearing sandals so he would get grandfathered into the “All-time QB” position and not have to run while we played football in the streets.  Ok, I’m getting off topic; Cola has always been the eldest of our group, yet apparently he looks like he’s 7 years old.  Anywhere and everywhere we go, he gets IDed; whether it be to a bar, the dog tracks, a dirty movie theater, Celebration Station, or even a regular movie theater, it does not matter.  The kid might as well just strut around in Overalls while slinging a fucking Yo-Yo; back to the story.

Me  “You weren’t going to ID us until you saw this fucker (Cola) right?”
Female Security Guard With Street Cred  “Uh huh.”
Me  “Isn’t it funny that he’s older than [Rizzo and I]?”
Female Security Guard With Street Cred  “I’d say it’s more ironic than funny.”
Me  “Oh a wise ass huh?”
Female Security Guard With Sense Of Humor  “You boys have fun.”

Once inside, we take an escalator upstairs to the poker room.  They only have a couple tables open, so all 3 of us sit down together.  Generally when you go to play cards with friends, you don’t sit at the same table because you want to take other people’s money; today we are left with no choice but I don’t really care.  Not only are we seated at the same table, but we are also sitting right next to each other; Rizzo in the middle, Cola to his right, myself to his left.  This table has no idea what has just hit them.  The 3 of us are actually decent poker players, I mean all it takes is a little bit of smarts (to be decent, we aren’t professionals or anything), but judging by the Fu Manchu which extends beyond the reasonable chin level and down the neck of the man who sits across from me, he is lacking said smarts.

The waitress comes by to take our order, by doing so she is adding all sorts of fuel to this fire.  My morning (1pm) drink of choice, as well as Rizzo’s, is a Mimosa.  I’ve never been much a fan of Bloody Marys, any drink that requires Tabasco sauce is not for me; unless of course I lose a bet and bitterly order someone else a Prairie Fire (warm Tequila with a dab of Tabasco sauce).  Cola starts pounding Red Bulls to heighten his senses thus optimizing his level of play.  Our waitress returns with the drinks before we even have a chance to buy-in, she is now my new best friend.  Like most college kids, I never have any cash on me, except when I’m on vacation.  I have 200 bucks in my pocket, so I have yet to notice my missing credit card (yeah, that’s what I woke up without).  We each buy-in with 100 bones, and this is when the fun begins.

Day 3 – 1:00pm

Remember how I previously stated that if you are a serious poker player, I am your nemesis?  Well today, much like most days, I will not be making many friends.  Let’s also keep in mind that I was a tad loopy when I walked into this casino, so now it’s just a matter of moments before the Hair Gel Effect takes over.  If you are not familiar with this term, allow me to digress for just a moment.

The Hair Gel Effect mainly refers to losers with Faux-Hawks, but for all intents and purposes, it’s a simple concept which anyone can understand.  If you have had gel in your hair the previous night, then all you have to do is wet your hair in the morning to reactivate the old gel so you can look just as stupid today as you did yesterday.  The same holds true with drinking; if you were fall down stupid drunk last night, all it takes is a few drops of alcohol to reactivate last night’s level of awesomeness.  So what may just be 1 or 2 morning cocktails quickly spirals into a repeat shit-show, hence the Hair Gel Effect; back to the story.

I have already sucked down my 2^nd Mimosa before having played a single hand.  Like I mentioned early, the best way to get sauced-up for cheap at a casino is to play poker.  Cola has already taken a few big pots and is up about 100 bucks, Rizzo sits about even, and I’ve just lost a few blinds so I have about 90 bucks in front of me (we are playing at a 1-2 No Limit table).  As the 3^rd round of Mimosas arrives, I start with the table talk.

Me  “So Tunica huh?  You guys got like a Walmart here or something?”

The gentleman seated to my left wearing a cowboy costume did not understand my sarcastic and condescending tone, so he proceeds to give me directions to the local Walmart.  I respect his integrity and we become friends.  Just then, Rizzo takes a big pot off some chump across the table.

Me  “Woo Wee, looks like the next round’s on you!  Or actually, that guy!”

I point at That Guy, he is not amused.

That Guy  “[Rizzo] got lucky.”
Rizzo  “How do you figure.”
That Guy  “Ran me down.”
Rizzo  “Sir, I flopped the nut straight.”

That Guy mumbles and trails off as he tries fruitlessly to verbally retaliate; just then our waitress arrives.

Me  “Hey new best friend, another round please.”
New Best Friend  “Sure boys.”
Rizzo  “This time, just a splash of OJ, you know, for color.”
New Best Friend  “Oh I’ll take care of you guys!”

Rizzo tips her with That Guy’s money and I tell him thanks; again he is not amused.  Cola and Rizzo have been tipping huge on all the rounds, so New Best Friend loves us.  We appear extra suave because I’m sure the kind of tip she’s used to getting is some drunken snaggletooth telling her to wear a baggy shirt to help cloak her muffin top.  Right after she returns with round 4, I am ready to play my first hand.  The people at the table should take notice of this and assume my hand is really good, but they don’t.  I have pocket Kings or KK if you will; I raise to $10 before the flop.  2 people call me, That Guy and some dude with a facial tattoo that just screams “hire me.”

Me  “Oh no, not you sir!”

That Guy grunts.

Me  “Ok, so honestly guys, what do you have?”
Hire Me  “Aces.”
That Guy  “Me too.”

I do not believe either of these lying degenerates.

Me  “Oh man, I only have Kings.  Looks like I’m fucked.”

That Guy and Hire Me let out a little laughter as the flop comes; it’s 2, Q, K rainbow (all different suits).  I have 3 Kings, and right now the best possible hand.  I’m first to act, so like a sneaky son of a bitch, I check.

Me  “Well I flopped trip Kings, might as well check.”

Rizzo and Cola know that I actually have trip Kings because they have seen me do this time and time again.  That Guy bets $10 and Hire Me folds; the turn card is a meaningless 4.  I check again.

Me  “Might as well keep slow playing because I think you’re gonna bet.”

I am right, That Guy bets because he is stupid.  I just call; the river is a useless 7.  There is no chance of a flush, so I have the nuts (best hand).  Now any poker player will tell you that I should make a value bet here (a bet that is substantial, but just small enough where it’s almost worth it for That Guy to call), but I believe That Guy to be incredibly stupid so I check again.  I am right; he is incredibly stupid and bets $20.  I reraise to $60 and he calls with little hesitation.  The table is shocked when I flip over KK; they are baffled by my honesty.

Me  “I told you.”

That Guy has just been cleaned out and leaves the table unsatisfied (he didn’t show his hand and I didn’t ask to see it).  Hire Me laughs and praises himself for getting out of the hand early.  The Walmart directions guy in the cowboy costume congratulates me.

Walmart Cowboy  “Wow, great hand!”
Me  “You dress silly but I like you.”

I have just won about $150 dollars, so between tipping the dealer, the blinds, and throwing Rizzo and Cola a few coins for the previous rounds, I’m up about $100.  I invite Walmart Cowboy to join Rizzo and me in our next round of Mimosas (now basically just champagne with an orange hue).  He agrees so I hug him and then flag down New Best Friend and put in our drink request.  We have only been playing for about an hour, but each one of us is up big; Cola is actually up about $400.  I make a general announcement to the table.

Me  “Don’t you people have jobs?  Christ it’s 2pm on a Friday.”

The majority of players shoot me dirty looks then stare back at their cards; Walmart Cowboy laughs like a hyena and then cheers’ me.  Some chubby Asian guy does not like me insulting his day job and decides to fight fire with fire.

Chubby Asian  “Why aren’t you at work?”
Me  “Because I work at my college gym and it’s closed.”
Chubby Asian  “College huh?”
Rizzo  “Yeah, ever heard of it?”

Chubby Asian cannot compete with our tag team wit so he gives up.  I had forgotten I was playing poker until the dealer asked me to fold or call; I call without looking at my cards to show how ballsy (drunk) I am.  There are a lot of people in this hand, so I decide to look at my cards.  I have pocket 5s.  When the flop comes 5, 5, 4, I am again first to act so I bet $10 and then announced that I have pocket 5s and everyone should fold immediately.

Me  “I have pocket 5s, I suggest you all fold immediately.

Walmart Cowboy is practically passed out on the table; apparently he too is currently experiencing the Hair Gel Effect.  Rizzo and Cola are also in the hand, so heeding my warning, they both fold immediately.  Hire Me looks me up and down then folds.  The action is to Chubby Asian.  Chubby Asian apparently received his GED from the same high school as That Guy because he calls my bet.

Me  “You saw my pocket Kings like 10 minutes ago, I’m not lying.”
Chubby Asian  “We’ll see about that.”

Yeah, we will.  I don’t even look at the turn card, instead I just eye-fuck Chubby Asian and announce a $20 bet.  Like a pussy, he looks at the table and then calls.

Me  “How are you going to explain to your children why daddy can’t afford braces?”

The river comes, again I don’t look.

Me  “$40.”

Chubby Asian is eyeing me up big time.  He looks very serious; I look like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.  Chubby Asian exhales and then says…

Chubby Asian  “I’m all in.”

I call instantly and flip over pocket 5s.  Everyone at the table is laughing except for Chubby Asian.  I explain to him how he has only himself to blame.

Me  “You have only yourself to blame.”

He buys back in and stays at the table as I order another round.  I have just won a $300 dollar pot.  We continue to play for a little bit longer, but by this point we are all growing tiresome of this crowd and we are getting pretty hungry.  The dealer tells us that it’s our lucky day because they have a Steak and Lobster Buffet on Friday and Saturday.  I ask him if he considers a surefire case of Salmonella lucky?  Confident that the booze will shield our stomachs from any form of bacterial infection, Rizzo and I decide to give it a whirl; a sober Cola also agrees, apparently he’s just a natural daredevil.

Day 3 – 2:48pm

Once back downstairs, we stumble into New Best Friend at her server station during our search for the buffet.  She points us in the right direction as well as fills up 2 full glasses of straight champagne.  We get to the buffet but there’s a slight problem, the Steak and Lobster Buffet doesn’t kick-off until 3pm.  Since we have absolutely nothing to do, we just wait it out.  While waiting, we count up our winnings very publicly.  Between the 3 of us, we sat down at that table with $300 in play, now, combined we have over $1000.  With $700 extra dollars, you can be sure tonight’s festivities will be extra sloppy.  Cola has the most profit, he’s up $350.  I’m up $250 and Rizzo is up a little over $100; not bad for a couple hours of drinking.  Unlike Cola who intends to save his winnings, I do not.  I plan to invest mine, well I guess if you consider booze and possible hookers an investment.  As we wait for 3pm to roll around, Rizzo uses his Adam Sandler-style good looks to befriend the cashier.

At the stroke of 3, we pay our $15.99 each and attack the buffet.  I’ll be honest here; the food was actually pretty good.  The lobster tails/steak cuts were small and it took forever to get seconds, but for 16 bucks who’s gonna bitch?  After we get our money’s worth, we decide to pack up shop and part ways with Gold Strike.  I contemplate lining my pockets and sneaking some food to Walmart Cowboy, but by this point he’s probably out cold.  Once outside, Cola starts to get that junkie itch.  Gold Strike shares a parking lot with the Horseshoe Casino, so Cola uses his “I mean, we’re already here” argument to get us to go in with him.

Cola finds the poker room, and Rizzo and I decide to try our hands at Blackjack.  Rizzo can’t seem to catch a break, but I’m still on a hot streak.  We get a round of Crown n’ Gingers to keep our hands company.  Rizzo loses about 50 bucks, but since I go up $100, I toss him $50 (that’s how we roll).  Cola comes huffing and puffing into the Blackjack area.

Cola  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Me  “How much you lose?”
Cola  “Quickest $150 of my life.”
Me  “Whatever, you’re still up, let’s ride.”
Cola  “Fucking guy ran me down.”
Me  “Blah blah, we’ve heard it before Cola, shake it off.”

Cola plays 1 hand of Blackjack in a desperate attempt to regain his lost winnings; he loses 25 bucks in 3 seconds.  I throw him 25 bucks for being the designated driver and we all leave smiling.

Day 3 – 5:30pm

Once we pile back in the car and hit the road, I take my wallet out of my back pocket and proceed to jam my winnings into it.  This is when I realize that my credit card is missing.  Losing a credit card is a shitty feeling, losing it while in a foreign area, even shittier.  The best part is that I lost it last night, and since I was still roaming around hours after my brain shut off, it could be anywhere.  Also, cellular phone technology at this time doesn’t exactly make it easy to look up numbers; my particular phone is debatably half a step above a beeper.  After I search my pockets and do some detective work with the found receipts, my best guess is that my card is at Silky O’Sullivans.  I get their number through 411 and proceed to call multiple times while the phone just rings endlessly.  Since Beale Street is on the way to the hotel and I really want my credit card back, we stop by the bar.  I hop out and run inside while Cola circles the block; I see a female bartender.

Me  “Hi, I was here last night, think I left my card.  Do you remember me?”

She does not smile, she remembers me.

Me  “Uh yeah, so about that card?”

She goes to the other side of the bar and returns with my card.  Eureka, I’m whole again!  Although, something seems a bit off…

Me  “So was there a tab with this?”
Debbie Downer  “We took care of it.”
Me  “Um what does that mean?”
Debbie Downer  “You are a very generous tipper.”
Me  “What the fuck?”
Debbie Downer  “Please leave sir.”

I contemplate verbal abuse but find it better just to leave quietly.  Later I found out that my bill, including tip, was only 20 bucks.  I once left a card at a bar and was charged an extra $100, for some reason I was actually not drinking (heavily) and kept a copy of my receipt.  I proudly went back there later in the week and told the hot 20 something bartendress to go fuck herself.

Once back at the hotel, our room is empty.  I receive a text from Wild Bill saying that he’s at the adjoining Mexican restaurant.  He also alerts me that Amanda and her friends have arrived and the city is now alive with college kids.  After I throw on some UCF paraphernalia, it’s time to join forces with all the parties at our hotel and really throw things into high gear.

CONTINUE ON TO PART 4

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