"How free?" said we.
"It's open and empty and ready for raging and I have the key is what I mean," he said.
"Oh. Well, then," said Max. "What are we waiting for?"
"The weekend, obvi." So we waited and the weekend came, and we took the earliest Explorer Sport out of Dodge on a Friday morn. Not all of us, mind you. We were staggered, caravaning in a trio of cars, no one actually following anyone else, just all racing down the same highway, early to the mountains. Super early. 6:30 early. Before breakfast, and when that breakfast burn came a-burning, we pulled over at the first Denny's we spotted in one of those tiny bustlers between the City and Sacramento. Of course we were high, but not too high though; just a spliff's worth between three friends while BB drove. Maybe four, but when we all went in, we were one shy and it was the long haired fellow, Matt from King Street that strayed behind.
"He says he's just a little sleepy," Grant told us when he caught up to us walking in. "He's coming in a couple minutes." But that's what they all say. We were seated and had ordered and Matt still hadn't come out. "Just get him some pancakes."
"And an OJ," said BB.
"And some tampons," said Mike.
"Ok, but wait. I think there's something I can do," I said, and so I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys. We were in a booth by the window overlooking the parking lot. Grant and BB and Mike all looked at the keys and then out at the car instinctively. Then I hit the panic button. We could barely hear it through the windows, but still, it had to be a little loud because everyone else in Denny's just barely heard it too, and looking out at the car it was clear that Matt had heard it as well. Except more so because he propped up like a springboard in the back seat looking thoroughly confused and bed-woken. So I stopped. But he collapsed back onto the seat that second, so I popped it again, and he sprung back up, and an elderly couple out to morning breakfast walked by, looking at the car queerly. It just kept going and going until he got out, and he walked the walk of shame past the window with all us laughing, and past the hostess to our table.
"Good morning sunshine," said I.
He looked pissed, and at the same time like he was trying hard not to laugh. Strong-jawed and purse-lipped, with tired, witty defeat in his eyes. "Grr. Morning," he murmured as he sat down.
"I hope you like pancakes." said Grant, and he did. And we had a good morning of it on the highway to Tahoe. It was a dance jams and coffee affair, much to Matty's chagrin, which was understandable. He'd had a long night the night before delivering pizzas. But his chagrin was short-lived and by the time we reached the Tahoe city limits, he was awake and a-groovin' and butt-grinding in the back seat with the best of us. Thank God, because when we got to the cabin finally, Taylor and his car had already arrived and were waiting for us on the porch, snowballs in hand, and we needed all the boots we had on the line.
It was a hard, snow-hucking battle to the door. The path was icy slick, and the air was thinner at that high altitude so we were all huffin' and puffin' over the threshold, shaking the flakes off. Taylor's cabin was cozy with a pair of bedrooms and a bathroom downstairs and a bed in the loft upstairs. And the couch in the living room pulled out into a bed as well, which was handy because there was a gaggle of us, all the King St. house and me and BB and Taylor's freshman girlfriend. Yeah, she was a freshman, but she socialized at a carefree senior level, and we all loved her.
The kitchen was on the smaller end of the spectrum as far as kitchens go. It fit with the rest of the place though, cozy, and it didn't really matter either. The only thing we cooked up was batches of hot cider with brandy and cinnamon sticks and little cloves in it. We cooked up the first batch first thing, as soon as our bags were inside, because fuck, it was freezing and hot brandy cider just so happens to be the perfect cure for the frigids. No need to find a super market, we brought all the supplies from Santa Cruz. All the unfiltered cider, the two handles of E & J Brandy, a thing of cinnamon sticks, a thing of cloves, and, lest we forget, three bake trays of super strong pot brownies. Brown-highs we called them, and we delved into those too around that time.
"Ok dudes, so get this," said Taylor, cracking a beer (his dad was in the beverage industry and an associate of his had kicked us a couple proper cases of Budweiser by the bottle). "Our next door neighbor here has a bar in town called the Tudor Pub and said he'd give us a sick deal on drinks tonight if we come in."
"Which neighbor?" asked Grant.
"Uhmm, the one on that side," said Tay pointing to the left.
"They got food there?" I asked.
"Yeah, dude. It's bomb."
"Huh. That sounds good enough for me." And so it was for all of us. So we drank hot cider when we were cold and ate pot brown-highs when we were hungry and before the sun went down we romped around outside making snowmen and snow-women and subsequently raping them, with no heed to gender. And they just stood there and took it. Like drunkenly erected snow bitches.
Such fun never lasts though, at least never at the same rate anyways. When the sun passed over the horizon and the sky darkened, the inevitable dinner stomach grumbles came to. None of us were in any condition to drive though, so we called a pair of cabs to come pick us up and take us to Tudor's. A bunch of friend-girls from Santa Cruz were up in Tahoe too, and we told them to meet us there. And meet up we did. We crashed into them at the bar, upstairs, like pints in a "cheers", beer splashing everywhere. Dinner was quick to get more drinking in at the long booth table that fit the lot of us, all twelve or so heads. It was beers by the pitcher-full, by the three at a time. Not after too long the simple drinking had devolved into drunken drinking games, into hockey and quarters, into never-have-I-ever, and into King's Cup, and all at the same time because the table was so enormous and we couldn't all play with one another. The girls with us were the girls, the same girls, the one's that were always there. They'd come to King Street on Halloween and whenever there was a party they'd always show up. A bunch of like minds and pretty faces who just liked to get high and drink as much as we did. Super pretty, the whole litter. Maybe it was the brownies (they had made their own, like ours, only stronger), but they talked liked kittens talked, always meowing. And they laughed bubbly riots, and they didn't give a fuck, and that, I think, made them prettier. But they didn't care, because I guess it didn't matter. They were just blissful-eyed dreamers, in it for the thrill and the comedy.
And a comedy it was. A veritable laugh shack of young, drunk adolescents stoned off pot brownies. We were the life in the Tudor's lungs that night, only breathing between the wild yells and the care-free flirting and dramatic posturing. We cleared out after last call and the tab was just over a hundred dollars. Not bad, not bad at all. Taylor's neighbor hooked it up and we tipped accordingly, and after we sorted out the payment he told Taylor there was no need for a cab. "We've got a complimentary limo in the parking lot too, if you don't want to cab it." he said.
"Say what now?"
"Sounds baller!" I said stumbling. "Where do I sign?"
"Oh, meow!" We were all stumbling, half-falling down the stairs, half sliding on the ice in the parking lot. There was a limo all right, and it was baller. It was a late-eighties Lincoln limo, not bulky, and not too long and we piled in onto the faded leather seats. Some of us sat on the floor, some on top of someone else, but we all managed to squeeze and it was cozy and all too convenient. We convinced our driver to stop by Safeway for drunk munchies before dropping us back at the cabin. And yeah, we might've been kind of a bother to the her, but what does a bar's complimentary limo driver expect? We tipped her well, and back at the cabin, we had a pillow fight on the fold-out couch 'til we all passed out.
In the morning, after breakfast, Mike and I split a brown-high and took a little drive down to the hardware store. The hardware store? Yes, the hardware store because the night before I'd accidentally broken the shower head off in the bathroom downstairs. Doing what? Well, showering of course. But don't ask me how I broke it, because I hadn't the faintest clue. I just knew that I either needed to get a sealing washer of a certain size for the old shower head, or just a new shower head altogether.
It was supposed to be a simple task; go to the hardware store and get the parts. But nothing's really that simple when you've had pot brownies for breakfast. The high crept up on us, and we were almost there, driving up Lake Tahoe Boulevard when I realized it. We were listening to these crunchy tunes by Danger Mouse and MF Doom and the sun would flash bright between the trees by the lake. It was hypnotizing. "Hey, wait." I said with a start. "What street were we supposed to turn on again?"
"Haha, oh that's right." said Mike, dazed. "I think it was Fremont. Did we pass it?"
"Uhm, I don't know... Did you see it?"
"Maybe... Wait," he made a concerted face like he was trying to grasp something. Then, "Nope, I have no idea, haha! Goddamn, how high are we!?"
"Haaaaa! Dude, right? When did this happen?! Hazaah!" It took was a few back-and-forth's on Tahoe Boulevard, but we found Fremont all right, and it was a fit of laughter the whole way.
Nel's Hardware was the place. A little mom and pop's store with wood counters and walls covered with tiny drawers of different sized screws and nails and washers and wing-nuts and every sort of nick-knack you could imagine. The only people around were two old timers behind the counter that greeted us when we came in. They wore cheap, weathered-looking bifocals and matching old-person jackets, one khaki, one blue.
The shorter one, the one in blue raised his chin high to talk to us as we passed by, "What can I do for you fellas." He asked it matter-of-factly.
I took the lead on this one. "Umm, whelp. We're looking for a part for a shower head," I said, holding up the old shower head. Thank goodness we remembered to bring that thing or we might've looked liked total idiots. With any luck, we weren't anything out of the ordinary, and his eyes were too old to notice the red squint in ours.
"Hmm... yes," he said taking the busted shower head out of my hands and staring at it hard. "Let me take you over to the plumbing supplies."
"Sounds good," I smiled. Smiling's my favorite. For me, it's a thing to do when nothing else feelings right, and hell, I wasn't much in the thinking mood at that point so it just came naturally.
[stop]
He waddled out from behind the counter the way old-timers do and then down an aisle towards the back and we followed in slow strides, pretending to think seriously about our shower-head dilemma and act normal. Which we did stalwartly as he picked up individual washers and seals and held them close to inspect. He didn't seem to have the one we needed, which I took from his muttering, "No... no... no," and shaking his head with each inspection. But nonetheless, we stood there watching him with ho-hum disappointment.
"No..."
"Aw... Darn."
"Oh, maybe this one... No..."
"Nuts."
"No..."
"Well, shucks." And so on.
And for a good while, stretching into a few minutes, until Mike stepped in, "So, just curious. How much would it be for us just to get a new one?"
"Oh!" he said, startled, and then paused for a moment. "Well, we got this one over here for twenty dollars. That would be the cheapest." And he pulled one down and held it out.
I inspected the ends to make sure the new one would fit where the old had been, "Hmm."
But the old man was still committed. Resolute to finding the parts we'd broken, "No..." In a quiet desperation, "No..." We stood there and watched him for another two minutes, darting each other with quizzical looks in the faces because it felt like a long time. A lot of soft-spoken 'no's trailing off. More than a handful. The smallest things become the most amusing when one's stoned enough to let it play all out and enjoy.
"This new one looks like it's gonna work actually, I think," I said to him, and I patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right."
He was flustered and almost ashamed it seemed. "Oh. Okay," he frowned and put the last washer back and waddled the same path to the counter with us behind him walking casually and slow, trying really hard not to laugh. Really hard. Lips pinned.
"So with tax, sir, that will be $22.56," he chimed.
"Well, all righty then." Cheeks tight, not letting my smile out of control. "Thank you kindly. Have a good one." I said it with a squint.
"You too, fellas."
We kept our composure until we were out the door, and then we let it all out in a good laugh to the car. "Did that really just happen? How long were we in there?"
Mike laughed., "I don't know, man!"
"That was ridiculous." I caught my breath in the car, "Let's get out of here. Which way is it?"
"This-a way," said Mike, pointing. "Wait. No, this a-way." And I spun the wheel fast around and we chugged off back to the cabin. To hillside sledding, and an open field snowball fight in crunchy knee high powder. With everyone, the girls too, the dozen of us. All those thrills of wintertime youth we cherished in the moment, but maybe not as much as we would later, the longer it slipped behind us.
[stop]
That night we went to Harrah's on the Nevada side and rambled around the casino. Well, most of us rambled. Max walked straight up to a blackjack table like he owned the place and bought some chips. He didn't move from the spot for the the two hours we were there, and in the end walked away with one-forty in cash. To Max, black-jack wasn't gambling. There was always an expected rate of return with him. Taylor tried his luck, but the dealer just ate up his twenty. He tried at the roulette table and it took him too. "Goddammit! I have the worst luck. I should never gamble."
"At least there's free drinks," said Max. A half empty long island iced tea sat on the table next to him.
"Yeah, where's my free drink?" I asked, looking around.
"You gotta be playing at a table, dummy."
"Oh..." Well, shit. I flipped my wallet open and procured a tenner. "How much you got, Matt?"
"I got a tenner. What're you thinkin'? I'm thirsty."
"Me too. Roulette?"
"Why not."
"Ok, pick a color."
"Um... red."
"That's what I was thinking! We're gonna win for sure." We got two ten dollar chips and put them both on red, before the ball guy spun the wheel. "Oh, boy. Waitress! A long island please!"
"Make it two!" said Matt. "A thousand thank-you's"
The waitress smiled a little more sincere than usual. "Of course, dears." And then turned heel.
"Woo! It hit red!" Grant shouted. He was watching over our shoulders. "Y'all won!"
"Haha!"
"Are you kidding me?" said Taylor. Hilarious. Me and Matty ended up getting to eighty before pulling out back down at forty. But we were still up, and had handful of free drinks to show for it.
A lot, I think, can be taken away from the way we approach life's temptations, and not always the bad ones or the stated ones. Like packing into the car, everyone, the seven of us now, and driving off into the frozen night. Ice was everywhere like a thick blanket and so the extra weight was a good thing. Still, with any sudden acceleration, the back tires would spin wildly, and if I turned the steering wheel one way, they'd fish-tail out to the other. Too fun, especially in an empty mountain casino parking lot. But not for all. Taylor in the back didn't like this game. "Hey, stop it! That's not safe man!"
It was a serious tone and I should've paid attention to that. Obviously, I didn't. "Oops, sorry," I said, and I pushed on the brakes 'til they locked and slid forward on still wheels. Wee!
"I'm serious! Cut it out!" It was sharp, followed by a sharper silence, and I took note this time.
"My bad." I glanced sideways at Mike in the passenger seat and he was biting his lip. Not in a nervous way though, or anything like that. He was trying not to laugh. And so was I.
