Chapter 19: I Miss My Friends When They Are Gone…

“There’s something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone.”

-Johnny Cash

There’s some truth behind Johnny’s words, evident by the somber mood looming in the Benz. Not much was said during the car ride to the Milwaukee Airport. Was it because the whole night before was spent dancing and sweating out half our body weight, thus lacking any extra energy to move our mouths? That was a good possibility. Could it be that there was still a little disdain felt amongst us, having dealt with a pair of sardonic siblings that stayed up too late raising hell? The probability was high—quite high in fact. Or maybe—not likely, but just maybe, the morbid feelings were simply based off sadness? After all, we were only a few minutes from having to say goodbye.

To be honest, I’ve never been that good at goodbyes. I never say anything until the end, and then it’s like I can’t shut up, blabbering on for 15 extra minutes sometimes, a deficiency in my personality that has annoyed the hell out of my friend Austin Moody for decades, going as far as to coin the term “World’s Longest Goodbye.” And judging by Bill and Gretch’s lack of dialogue, they weren’t very good at goodbyes either.

“So you’re going to see the farm girl tonight?” asked Bill, finally breaking the long period of silence.

“Yea, I think I will.”

“…That’s cool,” he replied, shaking his head while perusing the cityscape, followed by another minute of awkward silence. Although I never saw Bill as a liar, I wasn’t quite convinced that he thought me seeing the farm girl was “cool.”

“Oh man, they have a Cheesecake Factory here too! I wish we could’ve gone there,” I said as we passed the restaurant, an appendage of an upscale shopping center. There was no response, which is typical whenever I favorably mention the Cheesecake Factory in front of anybody for some reason. I don’t know why? They have a great selection of cheesecake, and I really do like their fried macaroni and cheese balls. “…So, how long are you going to be in Montana for?”

“I don’t know. A couple of days maybe. Possibly a week?”

“That sounds fun.” Honestly, there wasn’t really anything said that alluded to “fun,” but the reactionary phrase came out anyway. “What is there to do over there?”

“You know, just hang out and stuff. Go to the bar. Drink beer maybe; go to the river…”

“Oh, right on.” I nodded my head and did a little perusing myself, giving up on the whole talking thing altogether. It would be at least five more painful minutes that were scarcely filled with random comments about the weather, scenery, news, Seattle Seahawks, and a myriad of other topics that nobody cared about until we would reach the airport.

I pulled up to the curbside drop off area and immediately began unloading the luggage from the trunk, as if it were part of an important mission. Bill and I stood a body apart facing each other after all of the luggage had been placed along the side of the curb. “Well, I guess this is it,” I said. “For the most part, it’s been a pleasure.” I stuck out my hand and he extended his, initiating a shake.

“Glad I could be a part of it,” he said as our handshake seamlessly turned into a bro hug.

“Have a safe trip, and take care of yourself.” Gretch stood few steps back form him and to the side. “Gretch, look after him for me.” Gretch sent me a nod, assuring me that she would.

It was the stupidest thing. Right after I said goodbye to Gretch, I got this weird feeling, like somebody had punched me in the throat, making it swell up and all. There was this bump, or lump, or something. It’s not like it hurt, but it kind of made me sad, then kind of made me mad. And to be honest, it kind of pissed me off a little bit! “What’s going on? Why did that happen?”

They waved a final time before turning and walking through the sliding glass doors of the Milwaukee International Airport, disappearing into the wonderment of airline infrastructure, becoming one with the thousands of others taking part in public commerce, each with a story and destination of their own. “I guess this is it, just me, a Benz, and 2000 lonely miles. No more Gretch… no more Bill…” I stood at the edge of the curb, staring through the hectic congregation of travelers, jammed into one solid image of moving, human flesh, an image that Bill and Gretch easily became lost in, one that I feared would consume me in time. “Whatever, I got an organic farm to go to.” I slid back into the car, slammed the door shut, and stepped on the gas without saying another word to anybody.

“Let’s see, Maggie gave me Kassie’s number.” I rummaged through my phone, ignoring the dangers of performing such a maneuver while driving. “Voicemail?” I swiped my finger across the screen and let the message play through the speakers of my car.

“Hey Zack, it’s Cousin Brian. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, I just got back from the lake for the 4th. Anyway, me and Cousin Erin are at the house hanging out. Give me a call back if you need a place to stay. We would love to see you.”

“Oh man, Cousin Brian and Cousin Erin, I remember telling them I’d be in town. I haven’t seen those guys in over a year! But I already had made plans… I’m going to the organic farm, and it’d be unorthodox of me to go back on that. I mean, I confirmed it in my head and everything! But then again, they’re family. What kind of cousin would I be if I didn’t go and see them? The more I think about it though, Cousin Brian and Cousin Erin have always been reasonable people for the most part. They’d understand my dilemma. They have to! It was all thrust upon me out of nowhere! Besides, it’s always been my dream to live on a farm—well, not a “dream” dream, but you know, it’d be fun to hang out on the farm and stuff, especially with a farm babe at the end of the night, watching the sunset on the swing over the cornstalks, thinking about life and the universe… And besides, there’s something about farm babes that I kind of dig. And one day at a farm—heck, that wouldn’t be half bad. They probably have a bunch of good food there too, since they grow it there and all, even if it is just vegetables and stuff. I mean, vegetables aren’t my favorite thing in the world, but I’m sure they’d be all right if I gave them the chance. All of those yuppies at Whole Foods seem to be fond of them. Then again, so do the hippies—oh geez, I bet ya there’ll be tons of hippies there… exactly like Whole Foods. That means no Rockstars for a day—whoa, I haven’t done that in, gosh, I don’t know how long… And man, what would Cousin Brian and Cousin Erin think about that, ditching them for a farm babe and a couple of hippies who don’t like Rockstars? Now that I think about it, I might be a little heartbroken if I was in their shoes. And the disappointment in Bill’s face… I don’t know if I could bear it—wait a minute, why do I even care about that guy? He ditched me for Montana! And if he was around, I’d have to deal with all the crap I’d get from Gretch, and… and—“

Then it hit me, a wave of sense smacking me like a 2×4 to the face. “Ah, who am I kiddin’? I don’t even like organic food! Never have, and probably never will! That stuff’s for freakin’ sissies! Not me though. I like my Slim Jim beef jerky, easy cheese straight from the can, Applebee’s 2 for 20 menu, my daily Rockstar Energy Drink, whether it’s the original 280 calorie—56 grams of sugar kind with a bunch of chemicals or the white cans with all the aspartame. I live off that stuff! I haven’t gone without one in almost five years, and I wouldn’t change a single thing about it! I’m half man, half preservative! What can I say? I love my genetically modified foods! I’m not even ashamed to admit it! Always have, and always will…”

“Kassie, you’re the best farm girl I know, and you’ll always have a special place in my heart, but the organic life’s just not for me… Not to go all Bill O’Reilly on everybody, but I just can’t go against my principles—not this time. I sincerely hope that you find it in your heart to forgive me someday…”

I picked up the phone and clicked on the last missed call entry on my phone. “Cousin Brian, it’s Cousin Zack. I’m coming to Wasau. Let’s party!”

***

I walked into Cousin Brian’s house after a grueling three-hour drive from Milwaukee that required a nap at a rest stop, arriving right at the tail end of the US Women’s soccer team’s thrashing of Japan in the World Cup. I mean, I’m not a huge soccer guy, but I love America, and man (or woman in this case) did Japan get womped! Like 5 to 2 or something. Even I know that’s a ridiculous score for soccer! Good moods were flying all around.

“What’s up Cousin Zack?” said both Cousin Brian and Cousin Erin at different intervals. I proceeded forward and delivered a set of hugs before jumping into some customary small talk. “Have you had any dinner? We have a bunch of leftover burgers and brats we need to get rid of from the 4th.”

“Well… uh, what the hey, why not? Let’s have a couple burgers and brats!” My response was a bit hesitant, for it was almost my 3rd dinner in a row that consisted of burgers and brats since my arrival to the motherland, but hey, I’m not going to complain about food that’s offered to me, especially if it’s free! So each of us loaded up a plate with a pile of burgers and brats along with some of the fixin’s on the side and treated ourselves to another good ol’ fashioned Wisconsin feast.

“You should try some of these beers I have. Most of them are brewed locally in Wisconsin!” I grabbed one that said “IPA” on it, opened it with my keychain and took a swig, issuing a nod to show my approval.

“Man, I love how everybody’s getting into microbrews these days. They’re popping up all over the place! People are actually starting to appreciate the taste of good beer now!”

“Really Zack?” butted in Cousin Erin. “After the whole MGD incident?” Of course she had to bring up the time where everybody got mad at me cause I bought “Miller Genuine Draft,” acting as if I had performed a sacrilegious act. One time. I guess it wouldn’t be a Wisconsin trip without its honorary mention.

“That was like 2 years ago!” It didn’t matter, for they still found it necessary (and will for the rest of time) to pummel me with insults for the next few minutes. “But seriously, enough about the MGD talk, you guys should come back out to the Northwest sometime. They’ve got a bunch of great breweries all around. You’d love it!”

“Yea, I’d really like to,” said Cousin Brian. “Actually, the last time I was out there was I think for your Eagle Scout Ceremony, right when I turned 21. I remember hanging out in the hot tub and drinking a beer with your dad. That was pretty rad!”

“Didn’t we go out there when we were younger too?” asked Erin.

“We did!” replied Brian. “I got to ride my bike to another state! It was awesome!” What Brian always forgot to mention whenever he retold the tale (of which he has numerous times throughout his life) is that our house was only a 5-minute drive from another state.

“Yea, you also farted in my face in front of everybody, for no reason!” I had to rudely remind him of the incident. “All I was doing was sitting in the family room playing with Legos, and you came up to me and ripped a huge one!” They all laughed, for it was in fact a pretty silly memory before moving on to more contemporary topics of how I can perfectly push grandma’s buttons, recounting a couple of my more recent successes. Soon after, the sun began its slide beneath the Earth’s horizon, marking my last day spent in Wisconsin. We cleaned up the patio table and moved inside in order to prevent a swarm of mosquitoes from feasting on our flesh. “C’mon in Cousin Zack. You can make us a couple of Old Fashioneds.”

“It would be an honor.”

***

 

Cousin Brian’s liquor table was well equipped: Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon, Jero Old Fashioned Mix, Angostura Aromatic Bitters, Maraschino Cherries, 7-Up, and olives, an extra ingredient that Cousin Brian liked to add to his old fashioneds; his own unique, personal twist that he swore by. I conjured up two cocktails, heavy on the Jim Beam, and handed one to Cousin Brian (Cousin Erin opted out of having one, being that she had to go home soon). He took a sip and nodded his head in approval. “Not bad… not bad at all.” I sat down in relief, taking a sip of mine as well. I too was satisfied with my creation. “So tell me about your trip so far.”

I told of the tales from Idaho, our journey into the Gran Tetons, and the best and worst of what Wyoming had to offer. They got a little (but no too much) insight on the whole Denver escapade (or debacle, depending on whose opinion you receive) and our travels through flyover country. And of course he was briefed on my 30th birthday experience with honorable mentions of the boundary babes. As I began talking about Wisconsin though, something else suddenly interrupted my train of thought. “So tell me. What exactly is a Supper Club?”

“Oh man, we used to go to Supper Clubs all the time back in the day! There was one we’d go to in Appleton on Thursday’s that served this awesome prime rib. We’d get a couple drinks in us and stay for like 4 or 5 hours sometimes!” He went on about Supper Clubs for a while, seemingly forgetting the true nature of the question. Reminding him of its original intent however seemed inappropriate at the time, thus prolonging the mystery of the Supper Club. “They have a couple of good ones in Neenah by Lake Winnebago. If we have time during the family reunion, maybe we can convince everybody to go to one in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh yea, the family reunion, I almost forgot!”

“Yea, I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll bring the Wave Runner out and we’ll have a good old time.”


Me and Cousin Brian SurlyCousin Brian and I with our Surly’s – Family Reunion, Lake Winnebago

“Oh man, I do like Waver Runners! It’s crazy that I’ll be in Wisconsin twice in one month. And of course I’ll have to make myself out here for a Packer game before the end of the year. It’s just too bad we couldn’t have it all at the cabin. I would’ve loved to hang out there one last time.”

“I know, I’m going to miss that place. We had a lot of good memories there. Luckily I got to go and visit a few more times before they sold it.”

“Man, the last time I was there, I think around two years ago, Nick made me do the belly flop off the dock in front of a bunch of people, like 50 total—some of which were babes. That sucked, big time!”

“Haha, I remember that, quite well,” added Erin.

“Remember the first time we all went there?” I asked. “It was right before grandma and grandpa’s wedding, and you and soon-to-be Cousin Hans took an old Champaign bottle and filled it with a bunch of soda and started drinking out of it while Cousin Hannah played the piano?”

“Oh geez… yea I remem—“

“And then you went upstairs where all of the parents were at and started stumbling around acting like you guys were all sloshed! That was hilarious!”

“…Yea, yea, I know… we were all pretty crazy back then.”

“And then Grandma got all mad, and mom and dad—“

“Yes, Cousin Zack, I do remember. I remember it all too well…”

“And what about the time you walked through th—“

“C’mon, who doesn’t remember that story?”

I beleaguered Cousin Brian with a few more embarrassing stories, sending his head into a constant shake from side to side. “Haha, well, I better get going,” said Cousin Erin. “Unfortunately, I have work tomorrow. Not really looking forward to going in.”

“Understandable. It was awesome seeing you,” I told her as I stood up and gave her a hug.

“Tell everyone I say hi. See you all in a couple weeks.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” I settled back onto the couch with my old fashioned in hand and took another swig, readying myself to resume our conversation. “Man, I thought you guys were the coolest kids back then. Why, I remember how you and Cousin Kevin each got paid 5 bucks to walk Grandma down the aisle at the wedding! I only got a dollar for being one of the flower boys!”

“And then Cousin Kimmy started dancing up a storm on the dance floor.”

“Dude, she was losing her mind, and she was only like 8 years old, same age as me! She danced so hard she fell on the floor! I was right next to her when it happened!”

“Haha, she was definitely one of the craziest of the cousins back then.”

“Well, I think we all kind of had our moments growing up… like when we were all at the cabin and you couldn’t stop talking about American Pie and how it was the best movie in the world!”

“That was a good movie for the time! When was that, 1999?”

“Yea, the year we drove out there all the way from Washington. That actually became one of my favorite family vacations of all time!”

“Ok, yea, I think I remember now. Cousin Holly and Cousin Kimmy came over with Cousin Kevin, and they were playing Limp Bizkit and stuff. And Cousin Kimmy had a really big potty mouth.”

“Oh my gosh, I know it! She couldn’t stop swearing! It was awful! Speaking of potty mouths and crazy people, Alicia’s coming to the reunion. You’ll finally meet her husband Derek.”

“Oh yea! Do you like him?”

“Well, he’s a little brash, and kind of funny looking. You know, a little deformed around the edges here and there, like a hunchback. But overall, he’s a good guy. So yea, I think you’ll like him.”

“Well good! I bet grandma and grandpa will be happy about that.”

“I know it! It’ll be good to have the family all here again. I love it whenever we have an excuse to come out to Wisconsin.”

“The only thing after that is to just move out here! By the way, when are you moving out here?” His question was delivered in a facetious tone, however I felt the hint of a serious undertone in its framing.

“Man, wouldn’t that be the dream. I got friends trying to get me to move all over the place! Boise Idaho, Minneapolis Minnesota, Nick and Cousin Holly are even trying to get to come out to Milwaukee. Just so many decisions you know!”

“Well, at least you know you’re wanted. I’m sure you can find something anywhere you go. My company has me flying all over the place, and I’ll actually be going to Austin in a couple of months. I’ll have to get together with Emily while I’m down there.”

“Nice, she’d like that! What are you gonna be doing down there?”

“Well, it’s a new region for our company, so we’re trying to expand our client base. You know, doing the usual sales pitch presentation, going out to dinner and schmoozing with the potential customers, giving them the whole spill, that kind of stuff.”

“Do you like it?”

“You know, they treat me pretty well. Every time I let them know I’m think about finding another job, they seem to give me a raise and more responsibility, so I guess it’s good. What about you?”

“Hey, it pays the bills, and I can’t lie, I do get to work on some pretty cool stuff. But man, working for the government can be a pain in the ass sometimes. You gotta deal with inspectors looking over your shoulder for the most minute of details, all the way to the tiniest squeeze of a turd pebble out of your butt crack. It’s drives me crazy! And when you make a mistake, it’s like you just committed a deadly sin! And trying to get everybody together at the right place and right time to get a job done, it’s like it takes an act of God just to get a job certified or something! And man, don’t get me started on signatures on paperwork and material ordering.”

“Well, you probably get good benefits at least.”

“Yea… can’t complain about that. A decent amount of leave each year, good 401k matching… they even send me on travel every once in a while. Like last month, I was in Alabama doing some Quality Assurance and auditing stuff for a sub-contractor of ours. The work wasn’t all that fun, but I liked the traveling part.”

“Well, I guess that’s why they call it work isn’t it?

“You have a point there. Damn, they way we’re talking, it’s like we’re already ready to retire.”

“I mean, we’re pretty much almost there.

“Ha, yea! 7 years down, only about 20… 20 to go…”

A cold chill shot through my veins, shooting thousands of little bumps all over my skin. Something struck me, a ton of bricks slamming down on my chest, leaving me completely breathless. My God, it happened… I’m… we’re… we’re adults now…

“You all right Cousin Zack?”

I thought it’d never get me, but it was the shock of time, the ultimate killer. It finally snuck up on me, the most deadly of physical dimensions, and perhaps the most unforgiving. It doesn’t wait up. It doesn’t stop. And one day, it gets you and rolls over you, leaving you stunned and wondering how to catch up… catch up to a time that is so far ahead, with no sign of slowing; a time that slays you, leaving you with nothing but thoughts… thoughts of purpose, meaning, and the people that make them up…

“Yea, I’m good… I uh… I think… I just… I miss my friends when they are gone…”

There was silence, except for the sips and ice rattles coming from our old fashioneds. Maybe a similar thought had gone through Brian’s head too. “You’ll be alright,” he finally said to me. Remember, you still have family. And that’s above and beyond the most important thing of all.”

“Yea… God, family, and the Green Bay Packers…”

Both of us stared outward and pondered the phrase made famous by Vince Lombardi for a minute. Cousin Brian looked at his watch. “Man, it’s passed 11 now. Better get to bed. Got a full day of work tomorrow.” He took a final swig of his old fashioned, finishing the rest of it off then popping the leftover olive in his mouth. “By the way, if you’re serious, we really should go to a Packer game this year. We have a hook up for tickets. Front Row, near the 50 yard line.”

“Yea, let’s do it. Maybe for Packers and Shi—sorry, Seahawks.”

“Heheh, sounds good Cousin Zack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yea, see you tomorrow. Thanks for everything Cousin Brian.”

“Anytime. We’re family.”

Green Bay Family

We in fact, made it to a Green Bay game.  Packers and Seahawks (PS, we won)

Me at Green Bay

And here’s an extra one of me, just because I look so freaking awesome!

I stayed up a while longer, finishing the last bits of my old fashioned. I took my time with the drink, time that was diminishing with every passing second, thrusting me back to a world I had escaped from what seemed like so long ago… It was time that I desperately needed, but could barely afford.

***

Having found the will to move again, I placed the old fashioned tumbler glasses in the sink and readied myself for bed, knowing it was wise to take advantage of a good nights sleep after such an eventful weekend. After brushing my teeth and slipping into my gym shorts, I slid into the makeshift bed that Brian had set up for me in the spare bedroom. Hoping to squeak a quick run in the next day if the weather permitted, I grabbed my phone to set an alarm for a decent time. “Wait, a missed text?” It was Bill.

“Hey, I was doing some thinking on the plane ride over. If you’re up for it, and/or if it’s on your way, you should meet us in Montana and hang out in Pony for a couple of days. I think you’re going to like it over here…” 

Pony Montana… Sounds like such a peaceful, wonderful place… I laid in bed, imagining a quaint little mountain town tucked away in the rugged landscapes of Montana. I wonder what it would be like, living in the Wild West? I bet they have a lot of cowboy types, being that it’s most likely a small rancher’s town. It probably hasn’t even changed in years either… like a place where time stands still… yea, I think I’d like that. I’d like that a lot… Pony Montana, maybe I still have time… I kept my eyes closed and thought of such a magical place filled with cowboys, friends and family. I thought, and then thought some more, until my mind joined the state of my tiresome body, sending me into a deep slumber.

Chapter 15: Forget it. It’s the Fourth of July – A Wisco Wedding Part 2

On each bed we sat, staring and basking in the stagnation between us, neither one of us courageous enough to break the silence, a curse looking to be broken in order to restart time. Our eyes swirled, a captivating effect around each pupil, millions of cells around a spiral galaxy. The air conditioner, augmenting the molecular make-up of air particles had turned off, and I rose to my feet and walked to the mini-fridge near the doorway, careful not to trip over suitcases or step on the piles of clothes strewn about the floor. Inside was a Styrofoam box filled with Applebee’s leftovers. Next to it was an ice-cold can of Rockstar, a possession that was logically mine. I snatched it from the fridge and climbed back over to the clothes to my original spot opposite of Bill. A loud crack rang through the room followed by an aroma of citrus, a pungent sting of soda released in through the crackle of fizz. Bill took a breath, neither long nor short, neither heavy nor light, but a most notable breath regardless.

“I don’t have anything against farm girls,” he said after a short pause. There was no sign of emotion in his face or voice. Our eyes remained fixed, and I pressed the can of Rockstar to my lips, allowing the liquid mixture of carbonated water, condensed sucrose, and energy producing chemicals to pour down my throat, each swallow amplified through the cool and dense air, along with every other proceeding sound effect. I cautiously set the Rockstar on the nightstand next to Bill’s iPad, where a small shockwave reverberated through the room after contact. I waited another beat.

“The stairs. We blew it. Missed a golden opportunity,” I replied, affording him the same emotion he showed me a minute before. Bill wetted his lips, pressed them together, and then hesitated.

“Forget it. It’s the Fourth of July.”

We studied each other for another minute. In a synchronous manner, we turned our heads to the corner of Bill’s bed. Gretch laid, sprawled out across it, one side of her face buried deep within the pillow with one closed eyelid and a half-open mouth exposed. She was to remain in a heavily sedated state for at least another hour or two, unless excessive intervention was to be involved. We both turned our heads back to face one another, our straight faces sustained, as though we were competing in a laughing contest of which no jokes were being told.

“Get dressed. We’re going to the mall.”

***

It was a surprisingly efficient outing at the mall, as a sense of purpose propelled our feet back and forth across the tile, dead set on a mission to look good… damn good. We breezed through the crappy jewelry and cell phone case stands at each intersection, ignoring the calls from salesmen hoping to con us in for a quick buck—it wouldn’t work, not with this amount of focus. Bill stopped in his tracks and peered to his right. A bright red sign burned bright in his line of vision, and out of the corner of my eye, plastered what seemed to be four letters in close proximity—HELL. I turned, only discover it was much worse—H&M.

“Don’t do it—Bill!”

“Gretch said I could probably exchange some of the clothes if I found something I liked,” he said as he walked slowly towards the entrance, his eyes fixated as if he was under a hypnotic trance, inching closer into the store.

“Let’s go Bill, you have to look nice for the wedding today,” said Gretch, nudging him closer and closer into the departmental abyss.

“Screw this, I’m going to Macy’s.”

***

10 minutes later, I came out of Macy’s with a flat green shirt to match my yellow tie, truly appropriate colors for the present geography, foregoing another living nightmare with Bill and Gretch, and all for less than 10 bucks! There was still time to kill however, as I knew there would be, and there was no way I was spending it in that God-forsaken store! Across the way was an Old Navy, a great place to score some 4th of July apparel. Although it wasn’t the premium time to buy (the day after the 4th, you can walk out with an awesome American Flag T-shirt for under 4 bucks), it was still worth a glance.

“Hey, what’s this,” I asked myself, my attention quickly diverting towards a rack of shirts with a color scheme consisting of red and blue. “Wisconsin Badgers? Milwaukee Brewers? I didn’t even know Old Navy made sports shirts… Oh man, they even have a couple green shirts in here too. What’s this say, Green Ba—GREEN BAY PACKERS?!?!” I dug through the pile in search of a shirt in my size and ripped it out of the stack—size large, thin cotton, and solid green with the words “Green Bay Packers” spread across in yellow. It was perfect. Perhaps it was too perfect…

I felt a presence behind me, breathing down my neck, a Golem like figure lurking behind the scenes. I moved my head nice and slow as not to make any sudden moves that would startle the mysterious figure behind me. What could they want? My wallet? My life? Or worse… my shirt… Suddenly, a fight or flight instinct rose within me; make my move or become another victim of this sadistic stalker closing in. I spun backwards to confront the culprit, only to see a streak of blond hair fly behind a clothes rack. A loud bang and crash sounded through the store followed by a number of gasps. I darted my head, seeing a flash of a crouched body, zipping through the store with its head down, using its shoulders to hide its face from detection. It was pitiful attempt, for I could recognize that sneak from miles away.

“Gretch! What are you doing? I know that’s you! Get out of here, and quit creeping on my style! You hear me? GRETCH!”

***

I walked out of Old Navy, a bit disturbed, a bit violated, but at least with a new shirt. Across the way was the big bright sign—H&M, a symbol of despair, a time trap, a psychological torture chamber I unwillingly braced myself for. What a fool Bill was for walking in there, and what a fool I was for not stopping him! If it wasn’t for Gretch… Gretch! The source of all my misery! We’ll never make it to the wedding in time, the reason for this whole trip! We’re doomed! We’ve been doom the moment we left Idaho, and it’s all her fault. It’s been her goal this entire trip! Gretch… Gretch! I curse that name! GRETCH—

My eyes settled on the entrance, my thoughts frozen at its sight. In front stood a man holding up a bag in each arm with a growing smirk on his face. I slowly approached him, his appearance coming into full focus while a girl came up from behind and stood beside him sharing the same smirk. “I have my outfit,” said Bill, lifting the bags shoulder length as if he were shrugging. I couldn’t believe it. I looked over at Gretch, her smirk ever growing, waiting for the respect she demanded, and quite possibly deserved.

“Gretch… son of a B. You pulled it off.”

“And we still have time to change,” said Bill, checking the time on his phone.

I placed my designer sunglasses over my eyes, fitting between my ears and the America Flag Bandana over my head. “Well then, let’s do this.”

***

Bill and I sat at opposite sides of each other at the end of the paired beds in our room as to give each other a quick inspection before show time. Our hair was gelled and parted to perfection, our ties straight and our suits fitted. We looked good… damn good, noted by a single nod of approval provided by both of us. The bathroom door rattled. Bill and I turned in observance, and out walked Gretch in her dress for the wedding. I gotta hand it to her… the girl cleans up pretty nicely.

“What?” she blurted, unfamiliar with the inspection routine. “You guys ready or what?”

We both shot her a single nod of approval. “Let’s get this show on the road boys and girls,” I answered, putting a pair of sunglasses over my head for the second time that day.

Many impressive looks were sent our direction during our strut through the lobby of the La Quinta Inn, acting as if we were a couple of secret service agents whose mission was unknown, but understood to be important nonetheless. We couldn’t help but build a harmonious sense of confidence among us as we entered my Black Mercedes-Benz E350, a confidence that would nullify the chilling effects felt during our first dark and dreary drive to the mansion. We knew where this path would lead and what we were about to be a part of. The turning of a V6 engine came to a roar and Third Eye Blind’s “The Red Summer Sun” blasted through the car speakers. Engulfed by the music and the blanket of light spread across the Wisconsin plains, we sped out of the La Quinta Inn parking lot and towards our destination, the wedding of the summer. The climax of our trip was just around the corner. Beth… Blake… We’re comin’ for ya!

Chapter 2: I call it a Brass Monkey…

“Well look what we have here,” said Bill looking into his phone. “A text from Gretch: ‘Did you book a room in Wisconsin?’”

“Well, I booked a room. She can fend for herself as far as I’m concerned!”

“If that’s the case, then, ‘No… I… did… not…’ Send.”

“Sure took her long enough. And of course that’s the first thing she’s worried about!”

“It’s like whenever we buy liquor and then Ben Woodward gets mad because he can’t drink as much as us!”

“Tell me about it. He looks like a fool! Or what about that time I got Ben Woodward all liquored up and then he got poop in his hair? He blamed me for the whole damn thing, trying to fight and stuff!”

“It’s ridiculous!”

“It’s an epidemic!”

“Hold up, I have a response—oh my God.”

“What did she say?”

“‘Classic.’”

“What is her major malfunction?”

“She’s gonna get it. At this pace, she might as well walk from the airport.”

“I’m not picking her up, not in this car!”

“We’re gonna get her… We’re gonna get her…”

Aside from a few obvious interruptions, the majority of our three and a half hour drive to Pocatello went by with relative ease, a nice and easy warm up for the much more exhaustive legs to come. We continued to rip on Ben Woodward, a topic of which anybody can easily get carried away with, while a few breaks were taken here and there to talk business, plotting against Gretch and her insensitive behavior. Her string of sarcastic comments surely did not settle well with us, nor did nixing us of a proper goodbye. Lucky for her however, her shortcomings were about to be overlooked.

It was around 5:00 when we pulled into Ridley’s grocery store in Pocatello. In front of us laid a sign tied around a lamppost—a precursor to our upcoming good fortune—it had to be. “Bill, do you see this? Rockstars on sale, 84 cents a can!”

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“Yea, but you have to buy 12 of them.”

“Who cares? I’ll buy 24!”

“Did you call Shaun?”

“I’ll call right now!” I dialed his number and the ringtone rang through the car speakers, thanks to Bluetooth technology.

“Hello?”

“Shaun!”

“Zack, what’s up?”

“We made it. We’re in Poci! Come to Ridley’s.”

“On my way! See you soon brother!”

 

***

 

Shaun Walters and I had been acquainted through my high-school years, as he was well known around the Lewis-Clark Valley’s skater scene as the guru on pop-punk music, a subject matter of which I would become moderately educated in as time passed. But it wasn’t until Christmas Vacation of 2002 when our friendship truly blossomed. A freak meeting at the Saturday matinee screening of “The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers,” along with a recent procurement of a Sony Digital-8 HandyCam catapulted our newly formed friendship into uncharted territories (the fact that I owned an Xbox with Halo didn’t hurt either). Thus, many of the succeeding nights were spent deeply entrenched in the world of skateboarding, filming, and playing video games into the wee hours of the morning, a ritual that continued well throughout the duration of Christmas Vacation.

“Hey, check this out,” said Shaun on one of those nights. Austin Moody and I heeded to his call, huddling around my parent’s computer, of which Shaun was at the helm. Through a cheap video editing program, he had made a short edit, a joke in the car followed by the opening of a Sum 41 song with a driving beat. “It’s the start to our video.” My eyes brightened with excitement as the electric guitar rift pressed on. Inspiration rose up inside of me. “The Dark Chronicles” was born.

That two-week stretch of unbridled freedom and Sum 41 was just the beginning of our adventures. For several months, we spearheaded our efforts to perform outrageous stunts and self-masochistic acts both on and off our skateboards, just like our hero’s Johnny Knoxville and Bam Margera. And in our pursuit to make our own, homemade version of “Jackass,” we, along with our loyal group of friends, had developed quite an amount of notoriety around the Lewis-Clark Valley. We were unstoppable… or so we thought.

We became cocky, and in return, became sloppy. Failing to cover our tracks, our cover was blown one afternoon as I found my parents sitting in front of a goldmine, over a year of unfiltered clips showcasing the worst of the worst. One in particular, leaked footage of Shaun peeing on my parent’s bathroom floor was exceptionally damaging. I had no choice but to condemn the actions and sever my ties with Shaun.

In time, I would eventually finish The Dark Chronicles. However, it seemed as though my relationship with Shaun was forever strained, and the whole ordeal of which we called “The Dark Chronicles” forever became a blessing, and a curse.

Years past without much contact from Shaun. Perhaps, each of us was a little too stubborn to admit our faults. But after the unfortunate passing of our friend Brandon, a co-star of The Dark Chronicles, I received a message from a long time friend.

“Hey man, I know we’ve been apart for a long time, but I was watching some old skateboarding clips of Brandon and us, and they were absolutely amazing. Just wanted to let you know I miss you man and would love to see you soon, brother.”

–Shaun.

I responded in kind.

“I watch those videos from time to time myself, and think about those days of skating, drinking Mountain Dew, and listening to Blink 182. Brandon was one of the craziest skaters, and I miss him big time. I don’t know the next time we’ll see each other, but whenever that is, I’d like to buy you a beer.”

 

***

 

It came to no surprise then as we waited for Shaun in the parking lot of Ridley’s Grocery that illusions of grandeur poured into my head, a replay of the glory days. I started to believe I could actually do it all over again, the skateboard tricks, shopping cart rides, Jackass stunts—everything, much like Brett Favre did his last years playing for the Vikings. Yes, maybe… just maybe, for one night, and one night only, we could get it all back…

That dream mended into reality Shaun stepped out of his car, exposing his scraggily face and sporting your typical Blink 182 T-shirt with a pair of Dickies, a style unchanged since he was in high school; a style I wouldn’t have any other way.

“What’s going on brother?” he said as he greeted each of us with a hug.

“Nothing at all, just on our way to Wisconsin. What’s going on tonight?”

“I don’t know! What do you guys wanna do?”

“Drink some beer, play some video games, watch a little YouTube,” I half-jokingly suggested.

“You read my mind!” he exclaimed in mid-turn towards the entrance of Ridley’s, fully expecting us to follow. We did—our minds perfectly in sync and aided by the prospect of 84-cent Rockstars, the best deal for the energy drink I had ever seen in my entire life. Could this day get any better?

“What beer do we want?” asked Bill as we perused long and hard at the selection before us. Although not a terrible selection, it wasn’t exactly up to the specifications I had been accustomed to, having lived only two blocks from a hop shop, making the decision of which beer to purchase much more difficult than anticipated.

“Well, I know what I want,” blurted Shaun quite confidently, strutting his way towards a collection of cheaper beer. Bill and I shook our heads in half-humorous disgust as he grabbed for a 40-ounce bottle of Mickey’s.

“Yea, I think I might pass. I’ll go with an IPA, or maybe something light, like a nice PILS-ner or something,” I said to him. My taste buds deserved something better, but there was no point in causing offense over his choice of beer, especially since he was setting us up with a place to stay for the night. And hell, this was Shaun Walters were talking about! The best punk rocker to come out of the Lewis-Clark Valley! Our long lost friend of several years! The last thing I wanted to do was challenge the man’s brew and bring up unnecessary contention!

“Yea, maybe we’ll probably just go with some Summer Shandy, or maybe this Bud Light with Lime, just for you,” said Bill.

“Oh. Right, you guys haven’t drank with me before,” he said with a slight braggadocios tone.

“Heheh, I know, it’s been a long time since we—“

Wai… whoa, what the Hell did he just say? Drank… with me??? No, he couldn’t have. No way he—my God, he did. The words come out of his mouth quite clearly in fact! ‘You guys haven’t drank with me before—’ Yes, those were the words. Those were his words! How… how dare he!”

Suddenly, I had forgotten where I was. “Why am I here, and who is this punk next to me with a freaking Mickey’s in his hand, and this hunk to my right with a box of bud light lime?”

“You guys haven’t drank with me before… you guys haven’t drank with me before…” It was all I knew, a single phrase that lingered, and its intended interpretation. It was a challenge; it had to be. No way Bill and I spent countless nights in Moscow under the Mentoring of a world-class drinker like Mike Gibson, number one at the University of Idaho, for this. The man even had his own, self-proclaimed tagline, “I Could kill off alcohol poisoning with a 5th of Mr. Boston.”

“You guys haven’t drank with me before…” it wasn’t a challenge; it was an insult.

My vision became obfuscated, all but for one, lonely subject. Its label captivated my attention, the only sure way to end all arguments once and for all. This man, who apparently referred to himself as “Shaun Walters,” had to be proven wrong, and this 40-ounce bottle of 8.7% ABV Steel Reserve “Premium” Malt Beverage was the key—

“What am I thinking?” Reason struck, a miraculous shockwave to keep me from making a drastic mistake. “Shaun’s a really good guy; a loyal and good-willed man, the keeper of Neil Young’s long sought after heart of gold. He didn’t mean anything bad by the comment. Surely it was all a joke, just a silly joke he happened to mention. Bad timing, that’s all! All he wants to do tonight is hang with his buds, no need to ruin it with the dirtiest, bottom of the barrel choice of beer you can get your hands on. I mean, he made The Dark Chronicles with you. The Dark Freaking Chronicles! That means something! You’re better than that. Be a good man. Be a friend. And for God sakes, don’t throw your life away. You have so much to live for—“

“What the hell. Let’s do this,” I replied as I grabbed a bottle of Satan’s piss and walked out of the beer cooler, absent of rational thought. “Bill, grab the Rockstars. We’re going!” No eye contact was given leaving the store.

We drove back to Shaun’s apartment with three 40’s, a six pack of IPA, a case of Bud Light with Lime, a carton of orange juice, and 12 Rockstar energy drinks, all of the ingredients for a perfect storm. Conversation was made was only to eliminate suspicion.

“Ready to start drinking?” he asked back at the apartment with a series of YouTube videos in queue. It was a silly question—a very silly question. The 40’s already in my hand for God sakes! “I bet you guy’s can’t beat me.” God, was he was on a role of pissing me off or what?!

The cap to the Steel Reserve flew across the room, ripped from the lid with tremendous torque and the bottle pressed against my lips, filling my mouth with a grotesque replica of toxic sludge. Each gulp slashed the inner lining of my mouth and attacked each square inch of my esophagus as it made its way into my stomach, the only organ that could foster such a destructive mixture, of which God must have laid down a miracle unto its inventors just to get it passed the FDA.

“Add a little orange juice to it. I call it a Brass Monkey.” I was well aware of the concoction called the Brass Monkey, one of which added orange juice to a 40 after about a third of its contents had been consumed. And frankly, I didn’t need to be reeducated on the matter either, but humored him by doing exactly as he said. I let him know I play ball, and hoped that the mixture of OJ and malt beverage would mask the Steel Reserve’s unfavorable taste.

Its effects were the exact opposite, its taste equally as offensive as its appearance. The mixture only exacerbated the previous destruction inside my body, one that my stomach simply could not handle, obviated the moment my lips once again pressed against the rim of the bottle. But I could not stop, and I would not stop… the Shaun Walters could not win. Not this time. I empty the rest of the contents of the 40-ounce container, that cheap imitation of throw-up into my mouth. Not for a moment did I flinch—not once. Both Bill and Shaun stared with amazement; my insides screaming for relief, barely able to sustain the torture forced upon them while my outside remained stoic. There was no room for weakness.

“What is this, amateur hour?” I replied, the smugness seething under my breath, for I had only begun with the insults. “Oh man, you’re actually reading those stupid Game of Throne books?” I asked, looking over at his bookcase. “A big waste of time if you ask me. Just watch the TV show, like I do. It’s way better!” Shaun’s lower lip tucked under his teeth. I couldn’t begin to imagine what pernicious thoughts were running through his head. “I’m getting another beer. Anybody want an IPA?”

“Uh, I think I’ll go with a Bud Light with Lime,” replied Shaun. I figured that’s what he’d say.

“Oh, I forgot you were a 49er’s fan Shaun. Say, when was the last time you guys beat the shi— I mean, Sea—“ I couldn’t do it. “…Never mind.” I couldn’t bring myself to say something nice about the Seahawks.

No other remarks concerning our beer drinking abilities were uttered the remainder of the night.

Instantly upon my return with a fresh round of beers in hand, the cloud of tension that had overcome the mood of our visit had lifted, as if I had been under an evil spell for the last few hours. We resumed our session of YouTube videos, ranging from the greatest moments of my favorite WWE Wrestling stars to… well, now that I think about it, all I can really remember is watching John Cena over and over again with maybe a little Blink 182 in the mix...

As the night went on, we shared memories and retold funny stories, many of which involved Brandon. And for some reason, every time the words “Ben” and “Woodward” were mentioned in the same sentence, each of our heads suddenly lowered in shame, as if the combination triggered an automatic reaction. The drinking continued with Bill and Shaun forced to play catch-up the rest of the night until the beer supply was nearly depleted and each of us fell into a deep slumber…

 

***

 

I awoke the next morning unaware of the carnage my body had undertaken. It was only from Bill’s recounting that I discovered a great battle had taken place all throughout the night, a battle who’s sounds, scents and fury kept him awake for most of the night. It didn’t take long for me to understand the ferocity of such a battle. Judging by my rush into the bathroom, it was still ongoing.

On the toilet I sat, expelling the demons that haunted my bowels, each one making a harsh, blood-curdling scream as it was thrust out of my body. As it turns out, Brass Monkey’s and intestinal tracts do not make a good pairing. In fact, they make quite the bickering couple, a feud I was sorry to involve Shaun with. The process repeated itself multiple times, but my body’s digestive bastion firmly held its position and sent the enemy and all of its weaponry back to the dirty depths of septic hell where it belonged, leaving permanent marks of devastation along the way. The battle may have been fought and won, but the war continued for many hours and miles afterwards.

“Sorry Shaun, I think I accidently destroyed your toilet,” I said, my outside body language no longer able to mask the somberness of its inside counterpart. I knew that whatever happened, whatever monstrosity that was produced—that prematurely woke him from his slumber was a mistake… a huge mistake.

“Heheh, I heard that final push,” replied Shaun with a smile on his face and a pat on the shoulder. My disruptions had quickly been forgiven, and once again, all seemed to be right within the 7 kingdoms of Westoros.

“Did we get in a fight last night?” I had to ask. A risky question to bring up after a night of drinking, but I had to know. There was a feeling of altercation floating about, something that had happened long ago, but couldn’t quite put a finger on, a distant memory all but forgotten except for an inception, the thought that something could’ve happened—my mind trying to convince itself that something did in fact happen, even if the event never actually occurred…

“Absolutely not,” he shot back. Good enough for me!

We shared a couple of hugs and wished each other luck as we repacked our car, preparing ourselves for our next leg of the journey. “Let’s do this again soon.”

“I agree. Let’s do. And let’s not make it another 10 years from now.”

“Agreed. Take care brother.”

We exchanged another set of hugs before we hopped into our separate cars, his going to work, and mine onward, closer to our final destination. As we drove away that morning, I couldn’t help but think… Shaun Patrick Walters. What a great and honorable man. Any more noble and he’d easily be confused with the name “Stark.”

I’ll see you again Sir Walters of Pocatello… very soon. And next time, I’ll bring the 40’s.