The Feet of God

52 - IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK

A few cans of PBR and a couple’a hits of weed while travellin’ the backroads in a car loaded with teenage dudes brought back lazy hazy memories of my own dudehood.  The guys cranked up the volume on the radio as loud as she’d go, and we rocked out to some of the same classics I caught a buzz to back in the day.

I took another hit off the pipe listening to Bad Company.  “Where’d you guys score this shit?”  I tried hard not to cough while talk’n mid-toke.

The driver scanned me in the rear view mirror.  “The old man owns a farm and things got bad a few years back and the bank was gonna foreclose.  A cousin said he should grow some grass with his cornstalks and make some serious money.  Now about every five yards of corn he plants some weed.  He’s got a hundred acres of corn so you can do the math.”  The car swerved as the driver arm-punched his front seat companion, “We cut into the profits a little.”  They both laughed, and coughed, and the pipe got reloaded and passed around again.

We smoked and drank and continued whoopin’ and honkin’ at every car we passed like crazy damned kids.  We crushed empty beer cans and lobbed ‘em at Stop signs as we speeded through intersections.  It seemed like my youth was recaptured in all its glory, like nothing had changed since the good ol’ days after I got expelled from school.  Everything was rolling along just fine until the front passenger lowered his window and proceeded to unexpectedly unzip his jeans.

I saw what was coming.  “Noooo!” I hollered.

But it was too late.  The dude let loose a steady stream.  “This is why God made men superior.  We don’t gotta stop the car to take a piss.”

I was already down near the floor as my seatmate to the right took some direct hits.  There was no end of cursing and punches thrown, but the situation got resolved when we pulled over and relieved ourselves of beer along the roadside.

We piled back into the GTO and headed off.  I opened my backpack to get the plastic bag I’d saved to spread it on the dripping wet car seat, but I’d forgotten about my half-eaten chilidog inside.  It plopped out and caused another ruckus.

“Oh fuck, it’s a turd!” the dude to my left shouted.

The dude on the right yelled, “Shit!  He’s packed a Cleveland steamer!”

The GTO skidded to a sudden, unscheduled stop along the side of the road, as the four dudes jumped outta their car.

From inside I smiled at them a little embarrassed, and worried my joyride might’a come to an abrupt end.  I held up what was left of my foot-long dog in a brown-stained napkin and tried to force a laugh.  “Hey, c’mon.  There’s nothing to worry about.  This ain’t what you think, dudes.  It’s just a leftover piece of chilidog I had for lunch today.  Honest.”  I took a bite to prove it.

There was a period of confused silence, and I wasn’t sure what was gonna happen next.

Then the dudes begun howling and arm-punching each other like this was the most hilarious thing ever.  “Yeah, that’s a good one,” the driver sneered as he got back behind the wheel and started the engine.  The others slapped shoulders and opened more beers while making jokes about crap and feces and defecation.

I scooped up the remains of my chilidog into the plastic bag, and the dude on my left conveniently tossed it out the window for me.  Everyone shouted and laughed and laughed some more, as we gunned down the road to Norfolk, Nebraska.

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