Moving through the back stockroom and cursing my manager under my breath, I hesitantly turned and looked at the clock on the wall. Damn. One more hour stuck in Hell’s waiting room, dealing with a wild assortment of coworkers and clueless customers; fifteen minutes in transit and a change, and then finally, finally, I could start my weekend. But first I had to dodge my manager long enough to dip out on the closing meeting, which somehow always seemed to last an incredible half-hour longer than necessary and leave exactly at nine. This would not appear to be a challenge as she had the same credentials as I, (a high school degree), and consistently seemed to be pleasantly surprised that she had matched both of her socks in the morning.
I had learned long ago that your average Sears store, more specifically the tool department, was much more than met the eye. It was a sort of human case study, a chance to delve into the inner workings of a mall employee, the minimum wage earner; the type of cashier that after ringing up your purchases struggle with the correct amount of change, and then completely ignore common courtesies and seem to think that a blank stare is the equivalent of a warm handshake and an amiable ‘cheerio!’. The people you start to wonder if their high school advisor had had a personal vendetta against or merely used them as a test subject in some new bizarre form of experimental education. I decided that my tenure at Sears could be approached as an anthropological experiment, a sort of Jane Goodall-esque, except I hoped much less poop-flinging and communal grooming. I began my time amongst the chimpanzee while working in the shoe department, and after being asked to tie the shoes on an incredibly obese man for the fourth time in a day, I began to seriously regret my decision. But for the good of the scientific community, I persevered. I am currently working on the reports to my findings, soon to be published in the National Geographic -the glossy paper offers better color for the photo spread.
So when presented the opportunity to transfer from the shoe department last year, I leapt at the chance to sell big pieces of gleaming metal and powerful handheld drills capable of death, destruction and wondrous creations. Tools are much manlier than stilettos and bathroom slippers.
But again, it was more than meets the eye. I prowled the aisles, always on the hunt for unsuspecting customers that could be persuaded to purchase an expensive new drill with just the right amount of talking; not too much to be considered a smooth-talking, greasy haired used car-salesman, but just enough to be considered a veritable fount of knowledge. “Oh, and we do offer extended warranty with this…” There was a private battle that was constantly being waged, unspoken amongst the employees, but ongoing nonetheless. Not waged in the trenches with guns and ammo, our truly unconventional warfare was fought bloody and violently between the isles, our weapons consisting of eye-catching signs and three-day sales with miles of red tape. A soldier’s ability to maintain a strict monthly quota of selling extended warranties was the most valuable asset to the brass and any slight discrepancy in our performance was met quickly with stern condemnation and a pick-me-up piece of Double-Bubble gum. Our fearless leader was responsible for maintaining discipline and order in the ranks, and used subtle motivational techniques, such as the oh-so clever reward of a surprise tootsie roll in our mailbox. Or maybe it was a slightly stale airhead, dropped ‘accidentally’ after a big sale, as she walked by with a wink and a Cheshire grin. Either way she was my supervisor, just another pawn, a slightly bigger fish than myself in their sick, twisted food chain. The woman was just different; so inoculated in their world of corporate motivational sessions and 9-5 bullshit that she had lost all touch of trace human instincts.
After a clever diversion laid by an allied comrade, I had managed to sneak out the back door, and with the light of a cigarette and a jog to the car, I was free. Free for fourteen glorious hours to do whatever I pleased. It was kind of like bargaining with Lucifer to rise from the depths of the everlasting fires to walk the earth once more, if only under the full moon. I think it was the breeze once you hit the doors. I had to work tomorrow, but my schedule was decent enough to allow for a night of drinking and debauchery, as I could catch at least a few hours of sleep.
Anyone who studies telephones and truly knows their chosen subject will tell you that there are only a few actual epochal moments in the development of hand-held communication devices. From Alexander Graham Bell’s first call, people have sought to make their lives easier. We have put phones on streets, houses, offices and in bathrooms. With the invention of the cellular phone came the changing definition of a generation and the revolution that has been the ever-increasing effort to speed our lives up. And by god I could use my phone like a sexually harassed secretary. In the five or six minutes that it took for my drive home, I could usually clock four or five calls to find out if there was actually anything going on. And the news from the home front seemed promising, as I called my buddy Zak.
“What’s up man? Talk to me.”
“Whaaat up bra’. You should come over.” Zak had the rapid delivery of a speed freak, and the biggest teeth you’ve ever seen.
“What are you guys doin over there? I kinda wanna drink.” It had been a stressful week and goddamitt, who are you to judge me?”
“J.P and Garrett are over at my house and we’re drinkin the beer they brewed.”
“I’m there in ten.”
A mad dash into my house, a change and a brush of the teeth and I was in the car on my way over. I had been looking forward to this night for quite some time. My friends Jp and Garrett had been brewing their own beer in a basement. It was going to be awesome because not only was it free, probably really good and really fresh, but also it was made with love. And consuming love is not illegal regardless of how old you are, regardless of whatever nonsense your congressman tells you.
I pulled my boat, my car was a huge ‘89 Cadillac, got absolutely the worst gas mileage, up behind Garrett’s Audi and looked at Zak’s house. A sprawling ranch situated on an attractive piece of land; the house and the two garages were a sort of Colombian coke villa situated in a nice area of town. The house, which seemed to exude either a seventies soft-core porn or a fifties black and white Sci-Fi horror film vibe (we could never tell), had a pool out back with a nice porch, perfect for sitting around and drinking. Zak’s older brother Nick was a few years older than Zak and had paved the way. His parents had that rare ability to actually trust him and his friends and allowed us to drink, provided we didn’t drive. This was awesome because in Peoria there were about as many options for teenagers as whorehouses in Vatican City. The summer was not a complete bust, as the riverfront hosted many excellent chances to get drunk and dance with slightly overweight housewives. But as soon as the leaves start to change and fall, the damn cold kept everyone inside and makes for long, dark nights of slowly drinking whiskey and watching bad television.
Walking into the breezeway I always liked to look at the décor. Zak’s parents were a select breed and had collected many different masks from different areas of the world. Horribly disfigured mouths and yawning, garish teeth always seemed like an odd choice for décor, but I wasn’t a designer. The basement was our sanctuary. The footprint of the house provided a long room, that no matter how much smoke was produced, be from cigarettes, incense or other sources, the room never smelled. It was cave, with no natural light coming in. You could never tell what time it was, and it was always extremely disorienting to walk upstairs and have the sun blinding down. I believe I spent the majority of any ride home from his house squinting while bloodshot eyes tried futility to adjust.
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It was about 1:45 in the morning, a serious salad munch out session had just finished, and after the obligatory cigarettes had been smoked (cleanses the palate), we had all settled around the television to watch a quality informational. I believe it was the 8-minute Abs workout. And than Zak uttered the epic words.
“Heh... This is the time of the night when we all head up to White Castle.”
J.P immediately stood and started putting his shoes on. “Let’s do it. No really, I’m going. Sam, you’re coming too. Lets fjh......OH...my.... kasjhdka....Lets go...lksfkl....WE HAVE TO GO!” He had this special ability to slur all that into one, long unintelligible sentence. It was like verbal diarrhea.
“Dude, we don’t have a driver.” Garrett didn’t seem to be bothered with the situation.
“Yeah, plus its up in Joliet. That’s a long drive, definitely not like driving to Steak n’ Shake.” Zak clearly didn’t want to go.
“Yeah, two hours.” I started to lace my boots. “I can drive. I got here late. I’m not even drunk.”
“You can take my car.” Garrett started to sit up too. And for his this was an accomplishment. His action right there definitely made it official. We were going.
“No, I mean, I was just kidding when I said that. I don’t really want to go. It’s really far.”
“Nah, I went to Joliet all the time for soccer, it’s only like three hours away.” It was five. “I can get there in two and a half.”
So off we went. Zak decided that he wanted nothing to do with this venture, and stayed at home. I was elected driver as I was the most sober, (got to love the delineating process), J.P took co-pilot and Garret elected to the rearguard. I am most definitely not advocating drinking and driving, but at that time of my life, I had shown a serious penchant for a lack of observation of even the most basic of society’s laws and driving while intoxicated was no matter. I loved driving Garrett’s Audi, his parents had bought it for him when he was sixteen and in the two years he had put it through hell, it looked nothing like its original glory, but damn that car could drive. It was a completely different from driving my own car, and I was excited of the prospect of spending a few quality hours with it. We drove down to Chillicothe, a smaller farming town along the way some twenty odd minutes en route, to stop by a twenty-four hour BP gas station. J.P’s dad had given him a gas card to be used there and we went to fill up for the journey. We also got all the victuals necessary for a late night drunk drive: about ten Starbuck’s double shot espressos for me (gotta stay awake) and for some odd reason a carton of cigarettes. We all smoked too many cigarettes then and still do, but that was simply outrageous. There is no way possible for me to justify that purchase, other than when you’re going for broke, you got to go all the way. The worst part is we actually made a serous dent in the carton during the course of the journey. Probably should’ve had a heart attack with all the caffeine and nicotine coursing through my veins that night.
The ride up was uneventful until we rolled into LaSalle-Peru, around the midway point between Chicago and home. It was about 3:15 in the morning and the little sleepy town was simply unprepared for our visit. The general consensus of the car was that we needed more beer and we proceeded to find it. Nothing was open of course; it was 3 in the morning for god’s sake, shouldn’t there be a store that sells alcoholic beverages for thirsty travelers 24/7? ‘Twere this medieval times, a buxom bar wench would waiting to hydrate us on our epic quest. But alas. We happened to see two guys roaming the streets of the sleepily little town and pulled up to them.
“Hey….hey man!” I shouted out the window, as we rolled to a stop, not suspiciously at all. As they approached the car, Garret began propositioning our offer.
“We are driving to White Castle. Get in!”
The taller of the two started laughing, “It’s a bit late for food man, I gotta work tomorrow.”
“Alright…fair enough. Is there anywhere we can buy beer around here, that’s open at this god-forsaken hour?”
They gave us directions to a twenty-four hour gas station and wished us well on our journey. After we passed a few cops, the only other cars on the road, we pulled into the parking lot and we ran through our order. Of course, none of us were 21 and even worse no one had a fake id. But we did have a trick that seemed to work unbelievably more often than not. When J.P was ceremoniously awarded a speeding ticket a few months back, he had taken his copy and rewrote in the birthday. Conveniently enough when the cop issued it, he didn’t push down hard enough to have the date go all the through the triplicate form to the third and final copy, the plaintiff’s copy. So he would very calmly stroll up to the counter and when asked for id, he would tell them that the police had seized his license and this was all he had. The befuddled sale’s clerk would than glance at it, verify the age, and ring up the purchase. Isn’t America beautiful?
We all went inside and when we saw who was behind the counter, all parties involved became extremely excited. It was an immigrant who probably couldn’t speak English very well and would think nothing odd of selling beer to three degenerate drunks. While I was in the bathroom, Jp walked over to the beer fridge and proceeded to grab a case of cheap domestic beer, otherwise known as beaver-piss. And that’s where things got interesting.
“Excuse me sah. No beer. NO Beer.”
“What?” Jp strolled up to the counter and placed the case on the counter.
“I can sell no beer after three in the morning. Against state law.”
“Ah, come on its only a little bit later three, we only just missed it.”
“Soorry sah, No beer.”
I walked out of the bathroom and into a battle. Both were yelling at each other; Jp about how this was America and we had the god-given right to purchase alcohol at any hour- he is very patriotic- and the clerk repeating how it was against the law for him to sell after three. So the smooth-talker that I was, I immediately tried to smooth things out. I interrupted J.P who was in a rather loud discourse about our fore fathers, and sent him off to the car like a naughty child with a leg tap and motioned him to join Garret back out at the car. I was going to fix this, no worries….
“Hey how you doing tonight?”
“I fine, but I sell no beer after three in the morning.” The little man seemed adamant about this.
“What’s the problem is against state law?” Here began the desperation lies. “See we are not from the area, we are driving up from Tennessee to visit a friend in Wisconsin and we just got a little thirsty.” Never did it occur to me that even if he was able to sell to us, and even if we were legally able to purchase it, what attendant would sell alcohol to three guys on a road trip? Hmmm…
“Oh, sorry no I can’t do it.”
“Not even if you just put it on the counter and I just leave money, ya know, a little extra for yourself? I bet your wife would like some new shoes?” Yes, I actually said this…
“No sorry sah.”
Discouraged, but not defeated, we climbed back into the car and continued on our journey. When we started to hit Joliet, it was about 4:20 and I was the only one awake. I think the stress of the gas station wore my passengers out, and they passed out, curled up in the small car like little tuckered kittens. When I saw the first sign for a White Castle on the side of a highway, I started yelling. I couldn’t help it. I was so excited. By this point, the sheer amount of caffeine and nicotine I had dumped into my body had completely destroyed any appetite that I had and I was just going for the joy of the journey. When we pulled onto the parking lot, I felt as if it was Christmas morning. Jp and Garrett were both jumping up and down, and after we took a few pictures to celebrate the occasion, we all ran to the door. Only to find it was closed. Just the lobby, though the drive-thru was still open, thank god.
We had planned for the full experience, sitting down, big cokes, maybe some fries- who knows, maybe go a little crazy. But the drive-thru would have to do. Of course we let the people know that we drove all the way from Peoria just to eat here, and to make our burgers extra delicious. Each of us ordered ten sylders apiece and we pulled into a spot in the parking lot to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Garrett and Jp went to town on their ten and after a few minutes of eating in silence, were both finished. I ate one and felt like death. So yes, I drove two and a half hours to eat one burger… What?
The ride home was pretty uneventful. They both passed out, and I drove, chain-smoking like a chimney; a speed freak on a mission. I listened to a Grateful Dead album on repeat about seven times. The only excitement of the ride home came about a half-hour outside of Peoria, on a nasty stretch of two lane county roads that we had used to get on the interstate. That road had the worst fog that I had ever driven through. Visibility was near zero, and of course high beams merely deteriorated everything. Looking back, maybe the fog came from stress, brought on by sub par food. But, nevertheless, we arrived back at Zak’s house about six-thirty in the morning. All parties involved safe, satisfied and having the peculiar taste of success and grade E meat on our lips…
