December 27, 2004



By Daddy © 2004

I must've been somewhere between celebrating the last second touchdown on a busted flea-flicker, and getting a handjob in the parking lot from the cheerleader with the Marilyn mole when the alarm clock started buzzing. After a few roundhouse swipes at the snooze button, I realized it was my phone that was making all of the noise. The answering machine picked up before I could locate the cordless.

“Dude, are we still on for the game? Call me. I’ll be at my mom’s.”

It was Lester, and apparently he didn’t remember me telling him eleven times the night before that I’d pick him up at his mother’s at noon. Lester didn’t remember much. In fact, the morning of our high-school graduation he forgot to wear his gown. He did, however, remember the fifth of Beam, and before he was finished with it he had made his own gown out of our drama club’s stage curtain.

“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” he’d always say.

Lester Charles McGraw hit the railroad immediately after high school. His entire family was a railroad family. I had decided long before graduation that I belonged in a cubicle paying monthly dues to a coffee mess, and constantly hoping for quarterly bonuses, repaved parking lots, and a new cafeteria menu.

Growing up, our fathers would always sit around the living room together on Saturdays watching the Purdue Boilermakers play football against various Big Ten opponents. Neither family was much on professional football, mostly because we attended church for the better part of the day on Sunday, so all of our weekend energy was exhausted during the Purdue games. My father taught Sunday school when I was a kid, and growing up in a God-fearing household got to be pretty tough. Especially when I’d come home smelling like corn liquor.

“Don’t become one of the rest of ‘em,” my dad would like to tell me after yanking the car keys from my trembling hands.

By “the rest of ‘em” my dad meant Lester’s family.

I received my degree in electrical engineering from Purdue University almost twelve years ago. I’m 34 years-old. I’m single. I have no children that I’m aware of. I work in a cube. I have no life.

I rolled into Lester’s mother’s driveway five minutes shy of noon. I hadn’t called beforehand but that didn’t keep Lester from sitting on the porch swing shaking with anticipation.

“Go Boilers!” I said as I crept to a stop immediately in front of him.

“Fuckin’ Aye’s Right, Go Boilers!” he shouted. “Dude, did you get my message? I called this morning just to make sure...”

“Yeah, I got your message. Don’t you remember me telling you last night that I’d be here at noon?” I said.

“Dude, you know I don’t remember shit when I get all buttered up.”

I knew the answer before I even got the question out of my mouth, but I still had to ask, “Have you started already?”

“Yeah man. It’s fucking Homecoming for fuck’s sake! You think I’m some sort of bitch?”

Maybe its just me getting old, or wise, or whatever, but the thought of thrashing the dog with it’s own hair doesn’t appeal to me much these days.

“How long before we’re tailgating?” Lester inquired.

“Two hours, give or take.”

“Well this oughta get us goin’, I reckon’.” Lester, as usual, had a fifth of Beam tucked into the “secret” pocket of his coveralls. The designer of this particular style of Carhartt garb probably didn’t have whiskey stow away capacity in mind when he constructed the inner pockets, but Lester had made the proper adjustments to accommodate. He simply cut open the bottom of the pocket so that anything that was placed into the pocket would fall into the insulated innards of the coveralls, but stop short of the legs by a cross-seam that ran around the waistline. “I can get two fifths of Beam and a ham sandwich in there on a good day,” he’d say.

The Indianapolis radio station was calling for seasonal lows that day with a brutal wind chill factor rapidly approaching absolute zero. His advice was to stay inside, and make sure to have alternate sources of heat just in case of a power failure. We were on our way to a football game. Go Boilers!

I received a new set of coveralls for Christmas from my mom a few years before, and they had quickly become a staple in my winter wardrobe. They were “Super Insulated” which probably meant that they were stuffed with some ultra-toxic, non-biodegradable, space-aged polymer, but I didn’t mind because they were the warmest piece of clothing I owned. So warm, in fact, that I usually only wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt underneath, otherwise I’d be soaked in sweat, and my multi-layered approach would slow me down considerably. I knew I’d be drinking heavily, which means pissing more often, so a lack of layers is always key when trying to fetch your dick for a “stop n’ go” piss next to the truck, or fence, or concession stand, or jailhouse.

“Want a rip?” Lester asked as he pulled the bottle out of his inner storage compartment.

“Sure. Why not? It’s fuckin’ Homecoming right?”

“Go Boilers!”

The whiskey actually felt pretty damn good going down. My body was much more receptive to the rip than I thought it would be, probably because of the soothing warmth that trickled down my tubes.

Lester suggested that we stop to get another bottle since I was now officially “on board.” We pulled into a small town liquor store about an hour south of Lafayette, and the store clerk was surprised to see anyone out.

“You must be off to the game, no?”

“Go Boilers!” Lester blurted.

“Yeah, we figured we’d need some more juice to tackle the cold.” I mentioned.

“You’ll probably need a lot more than this to keep warm. Weatherman says its s’posed to be the coldest day of the year. In fact he said sumptin’ like it ain’t been this cold since 1920. We got hand warmers, three for five bucks if you want ‘em.”

“Hand warmers are for pussies.” Lester informed the seemingly concerned clerk.

The clerk gave us the “ole well” shrug, handed us the bottle, and wished us warmth. We jumped back in the truck, and hit the final leg of the journey hard. We cleared the first fifth before reaching town, and had cracked the seal on the second bottle shortly thereafter. I pulled the truck over behind an Arby’s that was closed due to the weather, and proceeded to empty my bladder. I congratulated myself on my decision to only wear the skibbiesunderneath when I confirmed the simplicity and convenience of the act.

The moment of anticipation had finally come to a head when we arrived at the stadium.

“Dude, I bet there’s hardly anyone here cause its so fuckin’ cold out.” Lester offered. “We ain’t got nuthin’ to worry ‘bout though ‘cause we got the Beam! Wooohooo!! Go Boilers!!”

Halfway through the second half was when I realized that I was in for one helluva ride. The whiskey had set in pretty well by now (we were down to a few swallers in the second bottle), but I had noticed that my brain started to feel a little more buoyant, and my eyes started to see things a bit more vividly.

“Lester, did you put anything in the whiskey?”

“Dude, I was wondering how long it’d take you to notice. I dropped a couple gel tabs in there about an hour or so ago when you were pissing behind the concession stands. I figured it’d help with your headache, besides it’s fuckin’ Homecoming!!”

After the game we had the opportunity to hit up a post-game tailgate with a couple girls Lester ran into on one of his many “solo journeys” throughout the game. I’ve partied with girls Lester has rounded up before several times in the past, and there’s usually a story that comes of it. This time was no exception. They had beer, vodka, and orange juice. We supplied the comedy. Lester had just finished his Rodney Dangerfield routine when one of the girls asked him if he’d walk her to the “pisshouse.” Lester gave me a quick nod. This was usually code for “You get yours, I’ll get mine, meet you at the truck in thirty,” but something went awry on their journey, and they were back in less than five minutes.

“Dude, I think we should probably go.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I thought she wanted me to come into the bathroom with her, but when I did, she started flipping out like some sorta psychotic weirdo. Next thing I know there’s like six crazy bitches all yelling at me to get out of the bathroom. But, I had to piss, dude. So, I went. Probably nearly all of ‘em saw my balls, even a little girl.”

“Christ, Lester. What the fuck?”

“Let’s go hit up a bar for a few then get home before it gets too dark.”

“It’s going to be dark in about an hour, and we’ve got at least two to drive.”

“Let’s go hit up some shots somewhere at least. I’m fucking freezin’!”

My brain was still swimming in the LSD, and my knees were wobbly from the booze. I didn’t feel like driving all the way home just yet, so a quick diversion to a roadside watering hole may just set me straight.

After a few shots of bourbon Lester started to bounce his knee up and down rapidly underneath the table.

“Dude, let’s get home. I’ll drive.”

“Why on earth would I let you drive me home?”

“Dude, I know that you know that you’re way too fucked up to be driving, and I feel fine. Just gimme the keys and I’ll have you home shortly. Hell, take a nap. You deserve it.”

A nap didn’t sound that bad. I handed Lester the keys and we hit the road. I must’ve nodded off shortly after we left the bar, but was soon awaken by a severe pain in my abdomen.

“Stop the sled, Les, I think I have to shit.”

“Dude, we’ll be home in half an hour.”

“Okay, I’ll just shit myself then. No big deal for me really, in fact it’ll probably warm me up a bit, and I’ll be able to pass out again. You’ll have to deal with the smell, so if you’re cool with that, so am I.”

“Nah, fuck that, dude, I’m stoppin’.”

Lester pulled over to the side of the road, and I tried to map out a strategy as to how I was going to shit without falling down into the snow. I had to declothe, and I had to do it rather quickly as I could hear the rumblings in my intestines grow louder with each passing second. The only bad thing with coveralls is negotiating a shit. I took off the Carhartts and tossed them into the bed of the truck. I jumped back into my boots quickly, but not before soaking the bottoms of each sock with muddy road slush. I decided to take off my glasses as well because the wind was blowing so hard I was afraid they’d blow completely off of my face. When I went to set them on the dash, I noticed that Lester had passed out on the steering wheel.

“Lester. Wake up! Lester!! Okay, I’m gonna shit real quick, then I’ll be right back.”

Still, no answer.

So there I was, tromping through the snow covered cornfield about fifty yards from a brush patch with a couple trees lurching out, wearing nothing but my skivvies, an old Boilermaker T-shirt, and my trusty boots. I probably didn’t need to find a tree, or any cover of sort since there wasn’t anyone on the roads, but I wanted to be sure. One of us had already been exposed that day, and I was going to avoid it if at all possible.

I finally got to the tree cover, and decided the best approach would be to take off my skivvies and use them for toilet paper, and then just ride commando the rest of the way home. No sooner than I get my Hanes down around my ankles and taken off do I hear the truck start up, and slowly take off down the highway.

“WAIT !! Lester, you stupid motherfucker!! Get back here.!!!”

He was gone. Unbeknownst to him, I wasn’t with him anymore. The friend who drove him up to the game, and spent the entire day with him wasn’t with him anymore, yet he wasn’t concerned.

I had other issues at hand. I would need my skivvies for warmth, and I still had to shit. I decided that I could tear off the bottom half of my t-shirt and use it for toilet paper, therefore allowing me to not be bottomless. I took care of business and planned to find warmth somewhere. There was a small town with a 24-hour gas station a few miles down the road, and if I kept up a brisk pace, I may keep warm enough to survive the night.

I soon realized that I had even larger issues than keeping warm when a state police officer slowed down by my side as I was jogging down the highway. He flipped on the cherries & blueberries, and pulled in front of me in sort of a “mini road block” fashion, and then jumped out of his car with his pistol drawn.

“Stop right there!” he demanded. “What in the hell is going on here?!”

The lights were bright enough to give me a brief sense of sobriety, but I still couldn’t fend off the whiskey and acid well enough to convince him that everything was alright. Not to mention the fact that I was almost naked, it was seven below outside, and I was jogging down the highway.

“Officer, I’m so glad to see you. You see, we went to Homecoming. Go Boilers! And Lester woke up and drove off because I had to shit, and I was wearing the Chahartts, and you can’t shit in them. I’m so fucking cold right now, can I sit in your car?”

I’m not sure if he felt pity, wanted to show off this unbelievably hilarious find to his officer buddies, or what, but he put me in the back of the car. I was cuffed, but I was warm.

It took the entire ride to the police station for me to convince him that I wasn’t an escaped loon, or someone on a butane huffing binge desperately seeking attention. He seemed content with the fact that I was just very drunk, and had a bad run of unfortunate events happen.

When we got to the station the police officer said that I wouldn’t be charged with anything, but if I wanted to keep warm I’d have to wear an orange jumpsuit. He also called my parents, and told me that my father was on his way to pick me up. My father who would be teaching Sunday school in less than six hours.

I tried to ignore the chatter, but I couldn’t help but hearing some of the policemen talking about my underwear and the fact that I had what they were calling a mile long “Hershey squirt” running down the back of them. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

My dad arrived about an hour later. The look on his face was without description. I assured him that I was only wearing the jumpsuit because when I had gotten there I was almost naked, but I really don’t think that helped soothe his concerns much. We didn’t speak the entire trip home until we pulled up to my house and I started to get out.

“Son, maybe we need to talk, ya think?”

“Maybe.” I muttered. “Thanks for the ride. Tell mom I’m okay, and that I’ll see you guys soon.”

When I finally got back into my house, which I had left some sixteen hours earlier, I noticed the little red light on the answering machine flashing like a state trooper’s rooftop.

“Dude, where are you at, man? I got your truck, and your glasses are on the dash. I’m starting to worry about you.”

I’m 34 years-old. I have no life. Go Boilers.

Daddy is a gambler from Indiana.

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