I Wanted To Be Like the Guys.
Larry went back to his machinist job, and the guys decided to get the band back together. After all, it had only been a few months. Pittsburgh barely knew we’d been gone.
Drummer Stogie invited us camping. Unlike the time when Larry and I slept on gravel, there would be plenty of people, warm air and sunshine.
When we arrived on the scene, though, we discovered that we were (surprise!) expected to bring our own tent and a couple of chairs.
We rolled up on a half-dozen old guys in chairs wearing baseball caps and smoking cigars. The fresh air wasn’t quite as fresh as I had hoped. We put our helmets on the ground, covered them with our leather jackets, and called those our chairs.
The old guys were surrounded by a smattering of pup tents and giant metal wash tubs full of ice and Schaefer beer. Schaefer was the only kind of beer that tasted like someone had vomited in my mouth. But after three beers it tasted like water – so I choked down my first three beers quickly.
Then I kept drinking quickly.
The restrooms were much too far away, so I went over the hill like the guys did when I needed the facilities. In fact, I wanted to be like the guys whenever I could; I had no qualms.
Around midnight, the old guys stubbed out their cigars and started climbing into their pup tents to sleep. Larry and I, who had arrived chair-less and tent-less on the motorcycle, decided to go to a local bar and get something better than Schaefer beer.
“It’s brandy time!” Larry said gruffly, smiling. “Let’s get warmed up!” He put his arm around me and squeezed, the familiarity oddly comforting.
Somehow we found a bar in the middle of nowhere – a stone building with a couple of stools and tables. We drank blackberry brandy until the bar closed. Then we hopped on the bike to go back to camp.
We’d just pulled onto a ramp leading to the highway when Larry pulled the bike over and stopped. He stepped off and stared at the bike for a second, me on the back.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Larry said. “Can you drive?” Then he laughed, so I thought he was kidding.
“Really?” I asked, perplexed.
“Yep, I’m too drunk to drive!” Larry shook his head, smiling. “Just git up here and I’ll tell you what to do.”
I had never driven a motorcycle in my life and a Harley-Davidson FLH motorcycle weighs about 800 pounds. But I was as drunk as a human being could be, so I slid myself forward and grabbed the handlebars.
Because that’s what a good drunk does to “help.”
Larry climbed on behind me. “Okay, give it some gas; get a feel for it.”
I revved the engine. “Like this?” It was loud.
“Yeah, now ya put it in gear….”
I stood the bike up – which was very difficult – then tried to just sit down and go.
The bike choked and stalled.
I turned it back on and revved it again. The motorcycle went maybe six feet, jerking us both – hard – and nearly throwing us both off. It was like riding a wild bull.
“Never mind,” Larry said, suddenly sober.
He got back into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine, and took off. We were at the campground, unscathed, in a matter of minutes.
It’s the only time Larry ever admitted to being too drunk to drive, and he never asked me to drive his Harley again.
I don’t know where we slept.