Salad days, Part 14 (Jackme and Waycool Junior's trip to the Big Easy)

It was the best of times, it was the best of times, as Dickens should have said. I was currently between engagements and had gotten that 'road trip' itch that I used to get quite frequently back then( then being somewhere in the early 80's). I had gone through my usual short list of cronies, but all of them were currently gainfully employed and could not go with. On an off chance, I called my favorite cousin Gary, AKA Junior, who lived in Wrentham Ma., to see if he could be persuaded. He was young and inexperienced, but showed great promise. I knew it a sound call on my part. He was, however, holding a job at the time. Fortunately, for the both of us, it was a most unsavory job at a Chicken Farm, probably shovelling chicken stuff or something. It took suprisingly little cajoling to get him to give his 2 minutes notice, and away we went. The destination: New Orleans, the Big Easy. Why? Because it was there. Oh, yeah, and Bourbon Street.

There was one problem. Junior was not, shall we say, of age to partake of adult beverages yet. Not yet 21, he was very nervous the whole trip that he would not get past first base on the festive streets of the French Quarter. He needn't have worried, as I constantly assured him all the way down. It was the Big Easy; what could possibly happen. Well, what happened was that he did, of course get served, time and time again, and I have vague memories of us calling anyone and everyone whos numbers we could remember, at 3am, out in front of some place called Frank's Jazz Alley. I also seem to remember Junior barfing into an empty bag of Doritos, having the decency, even in his inebriated state, not to mess up the cab of my truck.

Of course, my memories were much more clear than Gary's. He spent the next day, curtains pulled tightly, hunkered down in the hotel room, whilst I cruised the streets, sightseeing. Oh, he got served alright. Be careful what you wish for.

So anyway, we're on the round trip back home, via the pan-handle of Florida, of course. Gary had been bugging me the whole time to let him drive a bit. He was an excellent driver, I'm sure, but I just liked driving. But he didn't relent, so about half way through this very rural and placid stretch of the pan-handle, I takes the passenger seat. Not 15 minutes in, the truck sputters, backfires and coasts to thre side of the road, dead. We look at each other... 'see I told you I should have driven'. Anyway, it urns out the timing belt shit the bed, which I guess Ford F-150's are known for. How do I know this? Well, after we hitch-hike to the nearest exit (Ponce-de-Leon, Fla., I shit you not), a guy from the nearest 'Ga-rog', named 'Bobo' ( again, I shit you not), tows us back with his 78 Pinto (I am NOT making this up). I start hearing the music from Deliverence in my head ('y'sure got a purty mouf '). Oh, by the way, Ponce-de-Leon is a dry town. Did I mention that? We spend the night, Hootch free, holed up in the hotel, drinkin' Mr. Pibb and munchin' on Moon Pies ( okay that part I made up), waiting for Bobo to see how much money I had in my account so he could charge me accordingly.

Well, it all worked out in the end. We made it back safely and with some cash left over to boot. Junior's Mom, my Aunt Louise, eventually forgave me, and ol' Waycool never did make it back to the chicken ranch.

To think we could have been workin'.