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The QUEST for BEER  |
If you're young & thirsty,
misery is called 'adventure'
of TheColumnists.com
Every once in awhile
it becomes necessary to participate--as they used to say on "The
Outer Limits"--in a great adventure. The reasons are as
variable as the
weather in March: Curiosity, the lust for fame or wealth and
sometimes just to relieve our boredom. These are just a few of
the motives that drive people to get in their car and drive.
Our reason was far simpler: “Coors beer.”
Being “twenty something” party animals in Washington, a Coors-dry state in the early 70s, posed a huge problem, especially logistics. The closest oasis from which we could draw the precious fluid was either Redding, down in California, or Reno over in Nevada. After a hotly contested and drawn out debate, it was decided that Reno most qualified as the city of choice.
It was decided that Russ Crites, Mike Hollins, Ron Egerson and I would make the trek in Russ’s dad’s Datsun pickup. The truck was chosen because it was the only truck available and it would take a vehicle the size of a truck to bring back all the cases of beer we planned to buy.
Since the truck had a canopy, it was decided that two of us could ride in the back on an old mat and two would ride up front in the cab. This was a pretty good idea and since the driving time from Bellingham. Washington, to Reno was about 13 hours, being stretched out on the mat in the back seemed like the best deal.
The trip started without a hitch. We headed out on Interstate 5 with Mike and I sprawled out in the back and Russ and Ron up front. At first glance, this seemed like a pretty good arrangement. Of course, we had no idea of the trials that awaited us.
Now I normally don’t believe in reincarnation but I do respect those in society who do. After all, anybody can believe pretty much what they want as long as it doesn’t involve me being thrown off a cliff to appease their deity. Russ gave me reason to ponder my take on the eternal daisy chain of life-forces for I truly believe that he is the embodiment of some deceased long haul driver come back from the beyond to make our lives literally “hell on wheels”
Six hours into the trip had made us rummy as we rolled back and forth with every abrupt lane change. Night had desended on the Datsun as we rambled on through central Oregon. Russ was a picture of determination when it came to the acquisition of alcohol and nothing would deter him from his objective--not food, not sleep, nor even bathroom breaks.
A desperation slowly engulfed Mike and me as the hours ticked by. We had to go and we had to go NOW! Our tapping on the cab window fell on deaf ears as Russ, hunched over the wheel, was trying hard to stay on the road through a snow storm. Ron, riding shotgun, leaned against the door, sound asleep. At least, I hope he was asleep because his mouth was agape and drool was running down his chin.
Our bladders were stretched tighter than an NFL football and our options were few. We eyed the tailgate and then each other. There was only one thing to do. We scooted back to the tailgate and carefully opened it. The cold air shocked us as the snow- blanketed road trailed away at breathtaking speed. We took turns hanging on to each other’s belts as we attempted to “do our thing.” We had to muster all our courage but we did succeed, pulling up the tailgate in triumph.
An hour passed before Russ pulled over to fill up the tank, but by this time, we were fast asleep, missing the one great opportunity to stretch our legs. We were oblivious to everything until the morning sun flooded the canopy to awaken us from an uneasy slumber.
“There it is!”
Russ’s voice boomed from the cab as we peered out the side
window just in time to catch the morning glimmer of “The
Biggest Little City in the World.”
We checked into a Motel 6, dropped off our luggage and headed downtown. If we were tired, it quickly dissipated as we planned our attack on the "21" tables. In those days you could still find dollar tables packed with wide-eyed Midwest tourists who continually played with their silver dollars while the dealer shuffled.
I found a table that looked promising and as I stood there I noticed that the dealer seemed to be losing on a fairly regular basis. The only problem facing me was that every spot at the table was taken. (Gamblers can smell blood in the water.) I waited and watched. Not five minutes passed before a chubby tourist in a Hawaiian shirt and sun glasses jumped up, swore at the dealer and left. He apparently got fed up for being reminded not to say “hit me” every time the dealer checked him. Like a flash, I slid in to claim my spot at the trough of good fortune.
As the cards flowed, I became aggressive. Doubling down at every opportunity, I quickly amassed a fortune of maybe $200. I was well ahead of the game and my commitment of not bringing more than $50 a day to live on was quite secure. When the new dealer showed up, some people left, not me.
Two hours later I pushed away from the table with just enough money to pay my share of the motel and the booze. I had almost no money for food which forced me to search out the greasiest buffets in town.
With my spirit broken and my stomach in grease-induced knots, I retreated to our room at the motel. For the next 24 hours, I watched 48 “I Love Lucy” re-runs. No one can appreciate the agony unless you’ve done it.
The ultimate insult came during my 12th hour of confinement. The door to our room burst open and Ron staggered in. He was truly intoxicated and seemed to be talking in Swahili. He could barely stand but he seemed to have just enough balance to stumble over to where I was sitting. As he stood there teetering, he pulled a load of $100 bills from his pocket, the winnings from the table that I had just left, and proceeded to drop them on my lap. He was so evil.
Late the next night, it was time for us to buy the Coors and make tracks for home. On the edge of town, we found a supermarket with enough beer to fill our quota. We packed in as many cases as would fit in the canopy. Human cargo space was considered “wasted space,” so we allowed only enough room for Mike and I to sit across from each other at the tail gate. With our knees to our chins, we could only stare at each other in silence; this would be a long trip home indeed.
Exactly 13 hours later, we pulled into Bellingham in triumph. It might have been more fitting to don flight suits and declare “mission accomplished, the beer is here” if we were able, but we weren’t. It was all we could do to muster the strength to roll out of the truck. We had been pretzel’d in so long that we couldn’t stand up straight; in fact, it took us about a week to get the kinks out.
It took a whole lot longer to even think about another “road trip” to the land where beer flowed legally.
©2005 by Kent Holsather.
The cartoon is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco
Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first
posted May 4, 2005.
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can comment on this column online. Please address your message
to either "The Editors" or Kent Holsather. To send
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