The T. to I. Florida to New York.
They had to be real, if for no other reason than that nobody would bother to put fake ones there. But, they didn't move. Not at all. Not even their watery eyes blinked. The Troopers were real enough though. They didn't actually stop. They slowed. They admonished through cop speakers that it was illegal to hitch-hike on the Interstate. They also threatened arrest if they were still there when they returned. The threat lingered nicely in the stifled air and complimented the sight of the caged backseat and mounted shotgun gleaming like authorities best friend. The gators remained motionless in the ditchy swamp.
A beat up red convertible with South Carolina tags picked them up before the cops came back. They hopped in without using the doors and the driver said they were returning to South Carolina. But a couple hours later up around Jacksonville they were inexplicably dropped off at a gas station. Danny and Stevo watched them take the northbound I-95 on-ramp.
The monotony mounted. Two day to get from Daytona to Jacksonville and there they were. Still stuck in Florida. Might as well have been the same place as yesterday. It was of course, the same road, I-95 North. The pavement bubbled and stuck to their shoes. Reptiles still reclined in the reeds. The only palpable difference being that the cops actually stopped there.
They left the roadway, happy to do something different, even if it only meant walking down an on-ramp. A cracker-box, deep-porched shack was a convenience store. A couple of good ol' boys lounged, sipping beer, but otherwise motionless as alligators. It reminded them of the liquor store in Lake Charles by the highway that looked like a house, it was a house. And so was this place. "It makes for a short commute." suggested Dan. A couple of beers later, sinking in a swaybacked davenport and despair, Dan actually registered what he had been vacantly looking at in front of them, railroad tracks. They had been there an hour and no one had spoken. They even bought beers without words. It was close to eleven. After they broke the silence, the drunker good ol' boy responded, "Well hell yeah, there's a train station here. But it's too far to walk." With a deep satisfying swig, another beer was gone. It clinked in the old style wooden crate at his feet. He had finished one, discarded the bottle, gotten another, opened it, flicked the cap at a cat, missed, and savored the first frosty sip. Always the coldest. He accomplished all these things without moving anything more than his arms. "Thar is a bus though. Comes through eva day at four, stops right thar." He pointed with his almost empty bottle at a bench, roasted black and peeling, twenty feet away by the road. He took a last gulp, went through the whole get another beer thing again, missed the cat again and said, "Goes to the train station too."
At a quarter to four and three sheets to the wind Danny and Stevo said good bye to the one remaining boy. But he was out cold with bottle in hand. They went to the bench. To their surprise and delight a bus came rolling into sight at exactly four o clock. Sweet escape at last. They one-shouldered their packs and reached for their wallets. They had waited more than five hours for this moment. Really they had been trying to get to this moment for days, the moment when they knew for sure they were getting out of Florida. Take this bus to the train station, take a train to New York and be done with it. Then Steve told Dan to look quick. Dan looked in time to see the side of the bus. It took a right one block before reaching them and disappeared. Gone. Never to return. As Dan bent over laughing, Steve started swearing. And they both did this for several minutes.
Never take a fat mans word if he says it's too far to walk. The station was a mile and a half away. Even in their daze, disappointment and half drunkenness, they walked there with heavy packs in the heavy air in half an hour. Dan thought that was pretty funny too.
Of course the last train to New York had just left. The next one was several hours away. They had had enough sitting. They took a cab to the bars. They took another back to the station. Never tell a cabbie to take you to the train station so you can take a train to New York and never see him again and then ask him if he can get you any drugs. He can. He did. He said they were Quaaludes. They believed him and bought them. Maybe they were. They had never taken Quaaludes so how would they know. They were not druggies. They smoked when they skied. That's it.
Settled comfortably in the parlour car, they swallowed the pills with beer. A short time later they were chatting animatedly with a couple of cute city girls that were going to D.C. Steve was telling their story when his neck muscles and wrist muscles suddenly and simultaneously forgot how to work. Dan took his beer and replaced it with a cup of coffee. It didn't matter. He woke up hours later in his seat in a different car just in time to rubber-leg it to the bathroom. He mostly made it. He was in the bathroom. The door was closed. But those sleeping neck muscles made for lousy aim. With the contents of his stomach elsewhere he felt instantly better. He was even in a good mood mopping the bathroom floor with t.p.
They got off at Grand Central and decided to visit Bruce in New London before they flew to old London. They returned from Connecticut and Steve went to visit his parents up in Hilton. Dan went to Greenwich Village and made a new friend. They split up at Grand Central Station. They would meet up again in a few days. That sounded easy enough.
A beat up red convertible with South Carolina tags picked them up before the cops came back. They hopped in without using the doors and the driver said they were returning to South Carolina. But a couple hours later up around Jacksonville they were inexplicably dropped off at a gas station. Danny and Stevo watched them take the northbound I-95 on-ramp.
The monotony mounted. Two day to get from Daytona to Jacksonville and there they were. Still stuck in Florida. Might as well have been the same place as yesterday. It was of course, the same road, I-95 North. The pavement bubbled and stuck to their shoes. Reptiles still reclined in the reeds. The only palpable difference being that the cops actually stopped there.
They left the roadway, happy to do something different, even if it only meant walking down an on-ramp. A cracker-box, deep-porched shack was a convenience store. A couple of good ol' boys lounged, sipping beer, but otherwise motionless as alligators. It reminded them of the liquor store in Lake Charles by the highway that looked like a house, it was a house. And so was this place. "It makes for a short commute." suggested Dan. A couple of beers later, sinking in a swaybacked davenport and despair, Dan actually registered what he had been vacantly looking at in front of them, railroad tracks. They had been there an hour and no one had spoken. They even bought beers without words. It was close to eleven. After they broke the silence, the drunker good ol' boy responded, "Well hell yeah, there's a train station here. But it's too far to walk." With a deep satisfying swig, another beer was gone. It clinked in the old style wooden crate at his feet. He had finished one, discarded the bottle, gotten another, opened it, flicked the cap at a cat, missed, and savored the first frosty sip. Always the coldest. He accomplished all these things without moving anything more than his arms. "Thar is a bus though. Comes through eva day at four, stops right thar." He pointed with his almost empty bottle at a bench, roasted black and peeling, twenty feet away by the road. He took a last gulp, went through the whole get another beer thing again, missed the cat again and said, "Goes to the train station too."
At a quarter to four and three sheets to the wind Danny and Stevo said good bye to the one remaining boy. But he was out cold with bottle in hand. They went to the bench. To their surprise and delight a bus came rolling into sight at exactly four o clock. Sweet escape at last. They one-shouldered their packs and reached for their wallets. They had waited more than five hours for this moment. Really they had been trying to get to this moment for days, the moment when they knew for sure they were getting out of Florida. Take this bus to the train station, take a train to New York and be done with it. Then Steve told Dan to look quick. Dan looked in time to see the side of the bus. It took a right one block before reaching them and disappeared. Gone. Never to return. As Dan bent over laughing, Steve started swearing. And they both did this for several minutes.
Never take a fat mans word if he says it's too far to walk. The station was a mile and a half away. Even in their daze, disappointment and half drunkenness, they walked there with heavy packs in the heavy air in half an hour. Dan thought that was pretty funny too.
Of course the last train to New York had just left. The next one was several hours away. They had had enough sitting. They took a cab to the bars. They took another back to the station. Never tell a cabbie to take you to the train station so you can take a train to New York and never see him again and then ask him if he can get you any drugs. He can. He did. He said they were Quaaludes. They believed him and bought them. Maybe they were. They had never taken Quaaludes so how would they know. They were not druggies. They smoked when they skied. That's it.
Settled comfortably in the parlour car, they swallowed the pills with beer. A short time later they were chatting animatedly with a couple of cute city girls that were going to D.C. Steve was telling their story when his neck muscles and wrist muscles suddenly and simultaneously forgot how to work. Dan took his beer and replaced it with a cup of coffee. It didn't matter. He woke up hours later in his seat in a different car just in time to rubber-leg it to the bathroom. He mostly made it. He was in the bathroom. The door was closed. But those sleeping neck muscles made for lousy aim. With the contents of his stomach elsewhere he felt instantly better. He was even in a good mood mopping the bathroom floor with t.p.
They got off at Grand Central and decided to visit Bruce in New London before they flew to old London. They returned from Connecticut and Steve went to visit his parents up in Hilton. Dan went to Greenwich Village and made a new friend. They split up at Grand Central Station. They would meet up again in a few days. That sounded easy enough.
posted by Steve-O at 12:09 PM
1 Comments:
Hmmmm. A few more details than I've ever heard before . . .
Well-written as always. I appreciated the little details like the gators and asking a fat man what's walking distance.
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