Somehow, one way or another, the approach of summer had gone unnoticed. R. Maxwell Beemer, being a devout mountain man, hedonist, and general escape artist from the real world, set about to make the best of this opportunity. Fortunately, all the crap with security and Manny, and whatever he had gotten himself into, was happening now, and now was summer time. Quickly consulting his desk top playmate calendar revealed that a long weekend was mere hours away. A bit more of Miss July was also revealed in the accompanying photograph. Max knew that this too, must be somehow connected with the rites of spring. So what if it was nearly August? Who says that the rites of spring are not to be enjoyed in the summer?
Even though the phone calls that he needed to make were definitely of a personal nature and would lead to enjoyment and happiness away from work, Max was worried. There were just not enough hours in the day. Considering the present circumstances, he had no intention of remaining at his desk any longer than necessary. Besides, there was no telling when the flatfoots might be by, politely asking him to start his vacation ASAP. Even under normal situations, remaining past quitting time was unheard of--not even in the name of hedonism. Hence, Max instantly stopped doing what he was supposed to do (work) and began arranging the details for what he wanted to do (play).
After about ninety minutes of expertly manipulating the telephone lines, he had managed to modify the best laid plans of five hapless acquaintances. The Mike brothers, their current girlfriends (Anna and Kathy), and Debbie. Debbie was tapped to act as Max's girlfriend for the duration of the weekend. It had taken only two phone calls to sell the Mike brothers on the idea of an expedition to Wilderness Lake. It was their duty to persuade the womenfolk. Arranging suitable companionship for himself took no less than seven phone calls. Number one politely said "No". Number two said she had a previous engagement. Numbers three and four both hung up violently upon hearing his voice. Numbers five and six responded essentially with "Expletive you, obscenity, vile curse, etc.." The last call, the one that he really didn't want to make in the first place, was answered with scintillating enthusiasm.
Debbie did have plans--but she would change them--"Fer shur!"
"What sort of plans, Debbie?"
"Oh--nothing important. No Biggie."
"You sure?" Was Max hoping for confirmation or another rejection? He really didn't know himself at this point.
"Of course, Maxie! No biggie, just the first day at my new job. I really didn't want it that bad anyway. Besides, who knows, maybe they'll still hire me anyway if I show up on Tuesday. I'll tell 'em that I thought I wasn't 'sposed to be there until Tuesday. It's just been too long since I've had a chance to get you alone. Away from those two--jerks!"
"I, uhh, they're coming along, too, Debbie."
"Oh. That's okay, I guess. Shit. We'll have a good time, anyway. Anything for you, Maxie."
"Don't call me Maxie! You really sure you want to go? It's probably not worth risking a new job for."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything. I'll be at your house eight o'clock tomorrow."
"Make it ten. See ya."
"See ya. Love you."
"Yeah."
The doorbell rang at 8:45. "Now who on earth could that be?" Yeah, right. Not much of a mystery who it must be. Max momentarily considered getting back into the shower, but looking through the peephole he saw that she was holding several paper bags that looked as if they might contain breakfast. Opening the door, and quickly stepping aside, Debbie blasted in. His struggle to continue his peaceful enjoyment of the morning's serenity was in dire jeopardy. Max braced himself against the impending and unavoidable bubbly monologue.
"Do you want an Egg McMuffin or a Sausage McMuffin? On a muffin or on a biscuit? How about some of these hash browns? I don't think McDonald's makes very good hash browns but I didn't know if you liked 'em or not. The milk cartons are really weird, a burglar in a clown suit. At least I think it's a clown suit. I remember when the burglars broke in here and took all of your good stuff. Remember? Of course you remember. Don't you? I shouldn't have bought all this stuff, especially the hash browns. McDonald's doesn't make very good hash browns, but they're not too bad. What do you think? Want coffee? It's still hot, at least I think it's still hot. Should be hot. I didn't try it yet. It should still be hot. Did you ever look at--"
"I thought I said ten o'clock."
"Well, I just couldn't wait. And I thought that you might be hungry so...."
"I am. Thanks."
Between the two of them they managed to devour three of the McSandwiches, all of the coffee, and one bite of the McGrease hash browns.
All of the absolutely essential camping materials had been procured and lined up for a quick departure in the morning. Debbie scribbled out each item on the list as it was loaded into the pickup. Beer. Chaise lounge. Hibachi. Charcoal. Booze. Food. Magazines. Ice. More booze. Mixer. Radio. More beer. Sleeping bag. Sunglasses. Beer. Chips. Booze.
It looked like everything that was possibly required for a three-day excursion to Wilderness Lake was checked off the list, loaded up and ready to go. So off they went to roundup the Mike brothers and company.
After being subjected to Debbie's inane babble for more than an hour, Max spared no horsepower during the short hop to the Mike brothers' neighborhood. It was just after ten o'clock when they pulled up and Max exploded out. The '56 Roadmaster was in the gravel driveway. Its rear window was completely obscured with wads of sundry camping paraphernalia. Moldy-looking Boy Scout-brown canvas things, ice chest, fishing tackle, a large State Liquor Control Board sack (complete with the green face of a dead President saying: Don't Drink and Drive), a crusty old boom box, an assortment of Frank Zappa tapes, and a case of Ray-O-Vac D-cells.
Mike and Mike were slumped on the porch, apparently exhausted from the effort expended in loading the car. Or perhaps it was the effort expended at St. Nick's saloon the night before. In either case, be it hangover or physical strain, they were both sporting flushed faces, beaded with droplets of sweat. Mike was cajoling off the top from a Rainier Longneck with the ever-present bottle opener around his neck, while Mike was squeezing the last stubborn drops from a dented Budweiser can.
Anna appeared at the front door and popped onto the porch.
"Max! You're finally here! Before we hit the road, let's all go to McDonald's for breakfast. I just love those hash browns."
Max had a feeling that this was going to be one of those excursions that you can never forget, no matter how hard you try.
Cruising along at about 60, they would need to cover some ground so that Mike, Mike, Anna and Kathy would not overtake and leave them in the dust any sooner than absolutely necessary. Those four members of the entourage were probably still at McDonald's scarfing down mass quantities of otherwise wholesome food saturated with liquid fat and cholesterol. Max had calculated that the trip to the lake would take a little less than four hours. Included in that estimate were the obligatory stops at each posted rest area. To the best of his recollection there were at least three rest areas in the next 180 miles. Of course the lingering afterglow experienced immediately following a stop at a highway rest area invariably triggered an irresistible desire for a 32 ounce Big Gulp, a bag of Fritos, and some beef jerky. At least it always did with Debbie. Max was usually satisfied by merely replenishing the ice in his Batman collector's cup. Well, sometimes, while Debbie was in doing whatever it was that women did for fifteen minutes in the powder room, Max would make sure that the cargo in the trunk was properly stowed and riding well. Particular attention was always paid to Jim, his longtime friend and trusty traveling companion. Jim Beam, that is. One or two snorts every fifty miles or so was considered as the minimum amount of medication required to prevent his brain from turning into green mint jelly as the bountiful barrage of verbiage flowed profusely from Debbie's lovely lips. The Mike brothers had estimated their transit time from McDonald's to the lake to be significantly less than three hours. The big Buick land barge usually settled in at a cruising speed of 70 on the highway, and 80 to 90 on the interstate.
In the rear view mirror, about two miles beyond the first rest area, was a late model Chevy Caprice. The custom painted rig was fully loaded; wide tires, fancy running lights, heavy-duty bumpers, souped-up engine, two-way radio, .357 magnum, radar. Max could see that the Trooper was filling out paper work, or reading the paper, or perhaps jerking-off. Who knew what those guys did all day long between writing the occasional ticket. Max switched on the CB in hopes of warning the Roadmaster that was, in all likelihood, grossly violating the national speed limit. Being that road trips of this nature (i.e. Mike and Mike giving Max and the Falcon a healthy head start) had been refined to the state of pure science in action, the pilot of the Roadmaster should be monitoring channel 19.
"Blue Top at mile post 33. Fish-Lips, you got yer ears on?"
The Fish-Lips was a reference to the distinctive grill work on the Buick. The damn thing looked as if it was a chromium-plated large mouth bass in dire need of dental work.
"Gotcha, Max! Where is that guy again? Are you past the rest area yet?
"Mile post 33. He is on the north-bound shoulder about 2 miles north of the rest area. Be careful, I'll be clear and monitoring."
Max always tried to be brief and as non-specific as possible. No use giving the cops any more info than was absolutely necessary to get the message through. Max and the Mike brothers knew which direction they were going, the cops could only guess. He also could tell by the response that the Falcon was still in the lead. There had been times that the Falcon had been passed while Max was cooling his heels (or mixing a drink) at this very rest stop. With the Buick throttled back to 55 for the next few miles, Max and Debbie stood a very good chance of staying in front for the better part of the morning. Perhaps a rendezvous at the little store just this side of the lake would be possible. That way there would be a chance to make a last check of the supplies. Convincing the Mike brothers to pull out their wallets was best done in person. On the CB it was easy to take grocery orders, but extracting post-purchase contributions was nearly impossible.
Trying to inflate a blown tire with a worn-out bicycle pump made a sound just like the one coming from behind the counter. It was a dry rasping wheeze accompanied by the gurgle of mucous deep inside of the bloated carcass. Every third wheeze or so was muffled as air was drawn first through the filter of a dangling cigarette. In between the wheezes, the wisp of blue smoke snaked upward through stagnant air and pooled under the green plastic visor. The visor would have been de-rigueur for the blackjack dealer on a Mississippi riverboat. The red bulls eye on a pack of Lucky Strikes could be seen through the pocket of the worn white polyester shirt. His shirt, spotted with stains, held together with unmatched buttons, was tucked into pinstriped bell bottomed slacks. A safety pin held the fly closed. Clip-on suspenders kept size 52 trousers hitched-up around the 400 pound smoking machine. This modern-day Quasimodo was framed by racks displaying little bags of beef jerky, pretzels, potato chips, Fritos, and Chapstick. Pasty sallow eyelids were pinched into slits, protecting his eyes against the puddles of smoke under the visor. The eyes moved regularly between the 8-inch TV screen next to the cash register and the game of Klondike spread out on the counter.
A wood framed screen door slamming behind Max and Debbie drew the eyes momentarily from the TV and the solitaire. A cloud of dust boiled up beneath the Buick announcing the arrival of the Mike brothers and their entourage. The ocher dust slowly filtered through the screen door and settled onto the clerk, his cards, and an open box of jelly donuts. Mikes and company blasted into the little store. Obviously under the influence and laughing loudly, Mike held the door open as Anna and Kathy spilled out of the Buick and traipsed into the store.
"Close the frigging door, goddamn it! You're gonna let all the flies out."
It was obvious to Max that Pops (the visored proprietor) had taken and instant dislike to the sunburned, windblown, and long-haired Mike brothers. Particularly now that his donuts were dusty and he was loosing the card game to himself.
Debbie had already scooped up two dozen eggs, a pound of bacon, some coffee, orange juice, and a package of maple bars. Max grabbed a bag of ice, another case of beer, a bottle of Tabasco, and two cans of tomato juice. All the necessary essentials for breakfast tomorrow. Max and Debbie waved to Pops as they quietly slipped out the door. Pops winked back in recognition, his toothless grin widening as a long ash fell to the counter.
Mike and Mike stumbled up to the register, one with a bag of fried pork rinds, the other with a package of red licorice and a six pack of 7-Up. Mike was studying the display case behind the mountainous merchant.
"And gimme a couple pints of Pancho Villa," he announced.
Never taking his eyes off the TV set, Pops spun around on his stool and grabbed a bottle from the white-painted wooden display case. "Anything else?" he grunted.
"Nope. Uh yeah, I'll have a pack of this jerky. That's it."
"Okay, that'll be $67.83 including tax," Pops reported as he hit the total key and pulled down on the operating handle of the antique cash register.
"What the hell you talkin' about, old-man? You gotta be nuts! That's about 40 bucks too much!"
"See for yourself, sonny." Pops tore off the receipt coiling out of the front of the cash register and began reading off prices and reciting the grocery list. Tequila $14.95, chitlins $2.99, Tabasco $2.89, licorice $1.89, jerky $2.85, bacon $3.49, beer $11.99, tomato juice.... "
The other Mike was thumbing through a magazine and not paying particular attention to the goings-on. "Whoa-there partner, we don't have any beer or bacon or tomato juice." Mike was obviously confused and was becoming a little bit apprehensive. "What are you talking about anyway?"
"You boys are friends of Max, right?"
"Yeah, so what? You know Max?" Mike asked as he thumbed through a wad of bills (mostly small) pulled from his cut-off Levi's.
"You bet your sweet ass, I know Max. He's a good man and when he says that he's with you, and you are picking up the tab, I know that you boys are good for it. Now, like I said, the bill is $67.83." The toothless grin disappeared. He spat a smoking butt across the counter, nailing Mike in the chest.
"Listen you fat old bastard, I don't give a shit if you're a friend of Max's or not, but I'm not paying for his stuff on your say-so. You could just be trying to rip us off. How the hell do I know what he bought and what he paid for anyway? We're outta here! Come on, Mike."
Mike was slobbering into a magazine. "Huh?"
"Well, sonny," Pops explained, "I reckon that this ought to be enough to convince you that I'm not fooling."
Pops cycled the action of a sawed-off Mossberg model 500 12-gauge pump shotgun. The dull black pistol-gripped persuader was staring at the spot of cigarette ash centered on Mike's T-shirt. The other Mike's heart stopped and he dropped the magazine, eyes bugging out of his face like a road-kill raccoon. The package of pork rinds crinkled in his hands and dropped to the worn wooden floor in a shower of dust.
"I'm a gonna say it just one more time, sonny. The bill is $67.83. And I don't take no checks."
Mike reached toward the counter as far as he could, at the same time stepping back as far as possible from the business end of the Mossberg poking into his sternum. He dropped all of his bills and a little change onto the masonite counter-top.
Pops poked the money around with a nicotine yellowed finger. "S'not enough. I figger you need at least five more bucks, sonny-boy."
Mike dug into his jeans, pulled out a five spot and flicked it at Pops.
"Thank you very much, boys," Pops said, grinning from gum-to-gum. "Y'all come back real soon, ya hear?".
They probably didn't (hear that is). Pops could hear the Buick engine spitting out high revs in low gear. The rubber kept squealing long after Pops' laughter was cut short as he hocked-up a mouthful of phlegm and reached for another Lucky Strike.
It had been recognized as inevitable about 40 miles outside of the city. The first mistake was feeding the leftover McSandwiches and McFries to Bruno. The mere idea of riding in a 25 year old compact car with three other people on a 180 mile journey is bad enough. Add a brain dead 130 pound Doberman stuffed with greasy fast food and faulty digestion--
Chaos!
"Max told you guys not to feed Bruno. But nooo-- Did you listen? Did you care?" Mike was driving erratically over all four lanes of the highway. Head and shoulders outside the window, one hand on the wheel. Bruno was the only occupant with his head still inside the car. After the second of Bruno's McFarts, the wind wings and air conditioner fan rapidly began loosing the battle for breathable atmosphere.
In an effort to facilitate the breathing process and in hopes of anesthetizing the olfactory nerves, the first bottle of Pancho Villa was produced and dispatched forthwith. Unfortunately the juice had a minimal effect upon the sense of smell, but nobody seemed to care much after the second cork was pulled.
As is quite often the case when crazy people, alcohol and family pets are involved, some wise guy always wants to try his hand at getting said pet to imbibe with the rest of the guys. Bruno never did take well to straight shots of Tequila, but if about a half a pint were mixed with a bag of barbecue Fritos, the resulting gruel vanished in a heartbeat. Happily, Bruno's flatulence vanished along with the agave mush.
"Did you see that, Kathy?"
"See what?"
"The big yellow tractor. Didn't Max say that we were supposed to take a left at the big yellow tractor?"
Anna's face was screwed-up into a visage of intense concentration, Mike was squinting into the rear view mirror. "Yeah, I saw it, but I'm not sure that it was a tractor. It looked more like a big scraper to me. Or maybe it was some kind of logging machine."
Bruno was passed-out on the floorboards, his bloodshot eyeballs were rolled back into his skull, and those lips! Slimy purple lips, fluttering and sputtering with every breath, in a puddle of his own slobber.
The majority of the miles from the city to the lake passed through terrain that was either familiar to the point of boredom, or so monotonous as to numb the senses. Sightseeing invariably was given over to conversation. In the case of Max and Debbie, the conversation had a tendency to run one-way. For the present moment, the conversation was coming from Max.
Max and Debbie and the Falcon were driving along a two-lane state highway that ran along a railroad easement. The highway and the railroad wound lazily through a bone-dry ancient coulee a few hundred feet below thousands of acres of dry land wheat ranches that stretched as far as the eye could see in this part of the country. Well, as far as the eye could see if you were actually standing in one of those fields. Max and Debbie were witness only to the simmering hot asphalt, sagebrush, tumbleweeds, and a few very bored looking buzzards riding thermals in search of road kill. The spacious skies and amber waves of grain were not readily apparent from the front seat of a 1962 Falcon driving along the bottom of a dry coulee.
"This countryside reminds me of a particular Fourth of July weekend when I was living in Arizona. It isn't nearly as dry here, but these wide open spaces and sagebrush remind me of those days."
"Phoenix is where I first became acquainted with the Mike brothers," Max continued. "They were along on that trip too. Yup, there were four of us; the Mike brothers, James Madison Standley, and me. I can't quite recall just what year it was, or what other things were going on about that time in that part of the country, but for one reason or another, we decided to head south of the border and spend the weekend on the beach in Mexico. Jim Standley had woven a tale of paradise around the sleepy little village that he had visited the year before. His yarn of a nearly endless white crescent beach, blue skies, cool breezes, and warm smiles kept the words Puerto Penasco in our minds and on our lips. It was impossible to resist the lure of Puerto Penasco. A road trip was definitely in the cards.
"The car was loaded up with a few sleeping bags, and a cooler full of beer. We must have planned to hit a grocery store, or a market, or something along the way, because for one reason or anther it seems that about all we had brought along for sustenance was several cases of Michelob, an ounce or so of pot, sundry bags of chips, beef jerky, Cheetos, etc. Ah yes, those were the days. No brain, no pain. It was my first trip into Mexico, and as time passed, it became very obvious that there was very little, if any, collective south-of-the-border experience to be found among us.
"From what I can recall, our itinerary brought us through the deserts of south western Arizona, into Mexico and onward to the Sea of Cortez. Most gringos call that part of the world the Gulf of California. Driving through the desert in the hot, very hot, afternoon and early evening was thirsty work, very thirsty work. Not to mention boring. Shortly after sundown, about two hours into the trek, half of the first case of beer had been emptied. About 5 miles this side of the crossing into Mexico, we came up behind a Ford Econoline van, the rear windows of which framed the laughing and smiling faces of what appeared to be young women. They noticed us right away, after all, how could they help noticing a car full of handsome, young men, obviously on a road trip looking for excitement and adventure on inviting tropical beaches. Obviously anxious to attract our attention, the girls in the van started waving at us. They waved through the glass at us with their hands, then with their hands outside the windows, then in the darkening skies they started waving articles of intimate apparel at us. No shit, they were waving brassieres and panties. A few minutes later there were cups and glasses being tossed out. We were being bombarded with underwear, ice cubes, and lemon slices. Needless to say, Jim and the Mike brothers were very anxious to communicate the receipt of their message. I, of course, maintained my usual level of decorum and gentility."
Debbie, knawing on some jerky and washing it down with sips from Max's fortified Big Gulp, just about choked at Max's description of his reserved manners. "Yeah, right, Max, I'm sure! I'll bet that you were about as genteel as a rooster in a hen house!"
"About that time," Max continued, "the van slowed down, presenting what appeared to be an invitation to pass. The invitation was accepted and we passed. One of the Mike brothers and James Madison Standley did what only they could have determined as appropriate when presented with a van full of young women in an obviously festive state of mind. A double barrelled full-moon presented smartly from the rear window of the Falcon. Pressed ham on glass times 2. The driver of the van blinked the high beams several times, and honked the horn continuously for what seemed like miles. Mike and Jim pulled up their shorts as we pulled away from the van and proceeded down the narrowing road to the Mexican border and Sonora."
"Geez, Max, gimme a break! You call that decorum and gentility? That sounds just like something that you would pull. I bet that two of the cheeks in the window belonged to you."
"We arrived at the border crossing a few minutes later, the van following close behind. We pulled over at a gas station to fill up the tank and empty some bladders before entering into Mexico. A uniformed U.S. Border patrol agent walked up to the car and engaged Mike in conversation. In essence he warned us that the driver of the van was complaining about the horrible incident that his innocent family was forced to witness just moments before. He was arguing that his very young daughters were possibly scarred for life at being forced to witness such a vile and perverted act. Our protests were registered sincerely, and honestly. We relayed that the behavior of the women, was without a doubt not only observed, but in all likelihood condoned by the purportedly good father figure. The border guard, fully cognizant of the probable, if not actual, circumstances, was relaying this tale to us tongue-in-cheek. He did however, warn us in all seriousness that the irate father would probably also relate his tale of abuse to the Mexican authorities. To our small band of longhaired, red-eyed, tie-dyed, and generally disheveled travelers, this was a very foreboding bit of information. Visions of what lay in wait, mere yards across the border of a foreign land, flooded into our collective consciousness. Sinister Mexican Federales, rubbing their greasy palms together in anticipation of generous American bribes. Extended torture sessions with cattle prods and cigarette butts expertly applied to the most vulnerable and tender body parts. Repeated body cavity searches gleefully performed in search of imagined contraband.
"Man, were we ever scared! Gripped in abject fear at the thought of being subject to unspeakable horrors at the hands of the grinning gold-toothed heathens, one of the Mikes instantly dove back into the car and grabbed the baggie of dope, rolling papers, roach clips, and any other items of illicit paraphernalia. In a flash, Mike disappeared into the rest room at the Chevron gas station, just this side of the border station. Minutes later he emerged announcing that he had banished our one-way tickets to a Mexican hell hole prison to the septic system.
"Although somewhat dismayed at the prospect of spending a fun-filled weekend at the beach without the illicit pleasures of cannabis, there was not a bit of disagreement among us. What Mike had done, was the only way that we could avoid becoming discarded members of the disappeared. We all joined in a final meticulous combing of the car to locate any errant roach, bud, or seed that might attract the attention of snoopy constabulary, foreign or domestic. It was then, and only then, that we tentatively proceeded to the crossing.
"Expecting to be confronted by the Mexican border guards, we were all somewhat disappointed, if not simultaneously relieved, to discover that the only thing that they were concerned with was the three dollars each of us forked over for a 72 hour tourist visa. We could have been carrying a bale of hemp and a crate of machine guns for all these yokels cared. Inside of twenty minutes we were back on the road again to Puerto Penasco.
"Anyway, we had some amazing experiences on that trip. Everything from stinging man-o-war jellyfish, sea monsters, Mexican Federales toting pearl-handled .45s that extorted camping fees, fourth of July fireworks setting a tent on fire. But, to get back to the particular anecdote that I had in mind, we gotta skip ahead to the afternoon before our planned departure. Jim had just returned from a walk down the beach with some very interesting news. He had found THE VAN. Yup, the very same van that had turned us into the Border Patrol and had scared us all so much that we flushed all of our reefer down a gas station commode. Jim suggested that perhaps some justice was in order. His plan was laid out, and executed late that evening.
"About 2:00 am, after eating very large and fibrous quantities of greasy Mexican fare all day long, Jim returned to the van. With him he brought a paper plate and some toilet paper. Arriving at the van, he found the occupants sound asleep in sleeping bags spread out about on the floor of the van. He used the paper plate as a wilderness latrine, and used the TP in the usual manner. The fully loaded paper plate was very carefully positioned between two of the sleeping victims. Early the next morning, our camp was quickly broken and we began a sedate exit from the beach. Sure enough, as we neared the van, there were several people with very disgusted looks on their faces. It was very obvious that Jim's plan had worked perfectly. The crowded van sleepers moved about ever so slightly during the night, spreading the grisly deposits liberally over themselves, the sleeping bags, the van, and its contents. Passing by we waved, honked, and tossed out the remnants of a roll of TP in their general direction. Sweet justice. Never saw the van again, but I must admit that we were a bit nervous until we crossed back into the USA!"
"Sorry, Max, but that wasn't a very funny story. It was absolutely rude and crude. UGH! God, Max, you're a sick man. I think that you must have a feces fetish or something. How many times have I heard one of your literally crappy jokes, or a story about Bruno and his fermenting gastrointestinal tract? I just hope for your sake that wasn't a true story. I can just imagine how those poor people must have felt the next day! Heh-Heh-Heh, I guess that they did get what they deserved. Max, I'm hungry. And I'm thirsty. I need to go to the bathroom again, too, Max."
Max didn't hear the urgent plea for food and drink. Not to mention the comfort break. Recounting his tale of a Mexican vacation, and especially the Federales, had torn his thoughts away from the recreation at hand. Manny and Shelly and Little Ed, and especially the morgue, were not easy thoughts to dismiss.
"Max. Max! Earth to max, Earth to Max." Debbie was trying to get his attention. She finally resorted to a wet tongue stuck in his ear.
"Hey! Oh, sorry," he apologized. "I was thinking about somethin'. Is there a little left in that Jim Beam bottle?"
Max forced a bitter slug of whiskey into his belly. He depended on his old friend 'Jimmy" to rout the demons from his thoughts.
"Honest, its the truth. 100%," he continued. "You ought to hear what else we did to amuse ourselves in the 48 hours between the border guards and the midnight toilet training! The more I think about it now the more some very interesting little tidbits are coming back. Just try mentioning something about this story to either one of the Mike brothers. Just drop 'em a little hint. I'm positive they'll swear everything that I just told you is the gospel truth."
"Yeah. Yeah, tell me all about it. What a load!"
"Oh yeah!" Max challenged. "Wanna bet?"
"Sure, whatcha got to bet, big boy?" Debbie asked with a very lecherous tone in her voice and mischievous glint in her eye. "Hey, Max! There it is! It's the big yellow tractor up ahead, just like you said... Cool!"
Max thought himself lucky to have been saved by the sighting of the elusive yellow tractor, at least for the present moment. No doubt that Debbie would probably have her way with him sometime this weekend regardless of his protests. Well, its a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.
Despite the hugely powerful engine in the Roadmaster, the extremely heavy foot of it's driver, Max and Debbie had beaten them to the Wilderness Lake turnoff. About a quarter of a mile ahead they could see the Buick, careening down the highway at very obvious high rate of speed. This came as no surprise to Max. Considering the somewhat serious state of inebriation that the Mikes demonstrated just about 30 minutes ago at the grocery store, he was more than a little surprised that they had managed to find the yellow tractor on the second pass.
"Oh, God!"
Max was struggling violently inside the silken cocoon. His racing pulse and the rivulets of sweat trickling over his tortured body made it impossible to think of anything else. Eminent doom at the hands (Did they have hands?) of the grisly aliens.
Then he heard it. A rapid clicka-click, clicka-click, clicka-click. A quick raspy sound that Max recognized as one of 'them' approaching. Its foul hot breath smelled of decay.
Max was savagely repulsed when he felt the hot viscous slime being slathered upon his face.
"Basted! I'm being basted! Grawwwk!"
Just moments before he was to be popped into the 500 degree oven to bubble and turn golden brown like a giant pup-in-the-blanket, Max made a final super-human effort to open his eyes and face his tormentor.
The inch-long fangs, dripping with saliva seemed strangely familiar. His putrid breath had the aroma of Alpo Doggie Dinner. The furry face with light brown eyebrows had an incredibly stupid expression--just like--
"Bruno! Quit licking my face! Get the hell outta here!"
Bruno, Max's mentally retarded, emasculated and overweight Doberman, backed up, farted and sat down. Max continued his struggles to extricate himself from the J.C. Penny sleeping bag. A slight breeze from Bruno's direction inspired extra effort from Max, and the sleeping bag finally gave up. Gasping for breath, a sweaty R. Maxwell Beemer pulled up a nearby boulder and sat down to contemplate his situation.
It was morning, somewhere. A few yards distant was a clump of lump green sleeping bags emitting wheezing sounds and occasionally one would move a bit. Sundry articles of clothing were strewn about over a large area. On the smoldering coals of a campfire sat a pair of what were once Eddie Bauer hiking shoes but now more closely resembled Vibram soled beef jerky.
Scattered here and there amidst the cast off clothing were empty, or partly empty, bottles. Booze bottles. For the most part Tequila bottles, accentuated by squeezed-out lemon rinds. There were also a two quart jar of Kosher Dill pickles in which several large lemons had been quartered and immersed. It wasn't a pretty sight.
Max remembered advocating the virtues of pickle juice as a substitute for fresh lemons when drinking Tequila. That way, you see, you get the salt and sour all at once. Besides, less hand-eye co-ordination is required than with a lemon, a salt shaker and a shot glass. With memory, hangover and queasy stomach all developing ill parallel the true significance of the pickle jar became clear: One part Kosher Dill pickles, one part sliced lemons and seven parts Pancho Villa Tequila.
"I wonder how long those pickles will keep in there?" Max pondered as he fought to stifle the eruption from his abused digestive tract.
After rustling up some hair of the dog in the form of orange juice and Bacardi, Max began to rummage about searching for clues that he didn't really want to find. Things like traffic tickets wadded up in the ashtray, bits of blood soaked clothing stuck in the radiator grille, massive dents in fenders, bullet holes, etc.. Happily enough, none of the above were discovered in the first cursory investigation. He did, however come across several interesting items in the back seat of the Falcon: One 'No Parking-Tow Away Zone' sign; one 30 Minute Parking meter; two paper toilet seat cover dispensers; one pool cue (21 ounces, broken tip); one eight ball; one pool cue chalk (blue in color); seven copies of the Saturday Spokesman Review; three 200 yard spools of waxed mint flavor dental floss; one grey cat trussed up in sweat sox and dental floss; two bottles of Maalox antacid; one six pound block of half frozen beef tripe.
All of these items definitely fell into the category of clues. Clues to precisely what is a different story altogether.
The next order of business was the unfortunate grey cat. He was alive as evidenced by the periodic feeble meerowmff noise that was coming out from the end of the bundle where his head probably was. Sweat sox and dental floss fell away without too much difficulty. Surprisingly enough, the poor critter didn't hardly put up any fuss at all--until Bruno showed up. He poked his slobbering head into the back seat just as the last strands of floss were unravelled. Bruno barked. The cat spit. Bruno barked. The cat slashed. Bruno ran. The cat chased.
"And that was the last I saw of Bruno," Max recounted. "That poor dog crashed right into the bushes over there with that little grey cat right on his ass. Every few minutes he'd let out a pitiful howl. I think that savage kitten treed my dog."
The Mike brothers had risen--slithered out of their sleeping bags and were in the process of revitalizing themselves at the Coleman cooler wet bar. Upon hearing of the disappearance of Bruno, both of them visibly perked up. Regardless of his cowardice and stupidity, Mike and Mike were both terrified of Bruno--at least when he was sober.
"Can anyone tell me where all of this stuff came from?" Max asked as he flipped a pack of toilet seat covers from the back seat. "Or perhaps it would make more sense to ask what the hell all this stuff is for!"
Mike unwound the blue and white neckerchief from his throat and began to wipe the murky debris from his glasses. (It seemed that Mike had been awakened by Bruno's tongue a bit earlier). With the dog slime dispatched, and his spectacles replaced, Mike assumed a rather authoritative posture.
"As I tried to explain last night, the ass gaskets serve the dual purpose of kindling for the campfire, and the classic over-the-head napkin. The pool cue, when the point is properly prepared, is ideal for roasting hot dogs on the fire. With the parking meter, we can time the cooking process for the perfect hot dog."
"Okay, Einstein, what are we going to do with that giant wad of menudo, huh?"
"Bait. Bait to distract Bruno while we roast the dogs. It'll take him an hour to choke down that rubbery goo, plenty of time for our luncheon feast. Anyone care to chalk-up?"
The collective memory became very cloudy, if not completely non-existent regarding the grisly incident at the Dairy Queen. Other than a few snatches of recollection involving a blue-haired old lady in a wheel chair, a large Polish sausage and a drunken Doberman, the rest of the tale is probably best left forgotten. At least until the Spokane County Sheriff's Department calms down a bit.
Neither Mike, Mike, nor Max could come up with a plausible explanation for the sign, the eight ball, dental floss, or the multiple volumes of Sunday's paper.
All things considered, it was a beautiful day. By consensus the bar was temporarily closed until coffee had been brewed and solid food had at least been considered for breakfast.
Anna, Debbie and Kathy were awakened either by the fumes from the madly boiling coffee pot or by the pitiful howling from Bruno.
Following the initial ration of Kahlua and coffee, Mike, Mike and Max instantly perked up and made Herculean efforts to put forth images of complete and idyllic contentment. After all, it was their idea to come here. As a minimum they should give the appearance of being at ease among the trees and wildlife (that is, poison oak, snakes, mosquitos, etc.).
As Anna daintily picked her way toward the outhouse, Debbie and Kathy hovered around the campfire.
"You know they say that the smoke from the fire keeps the bugs away," Mike offered as Max plucked a particularly large blood-sucking winged specimen from his coffee mug. The smoke was keeping the bugs away-about six feet back from the cloudy blue column swirling around the fire. The instant anyone moved out of the haze the little buggers would swoop in for the kill.
"Well the little bastards aren't keeping away from me!" Kathy whined, flailing her arms madly at real and imagined tormentors.
Debbie stuck an orange can of bug repellant toward Kathy. "Here. Try this."
Snatching the can, encrusted with an amalgam of sand, coffee, and bug goo, Kathy soaked herself from head to foot with the noxious spray. Now as the bugs attacked they became fouled in the sticky drops adorning the intrepid woods woman.
"Have you noticed that whenever Kathy comes with us, nobody else seems to get bitten?" Debbie whispered through her braces, ducking just in time as the orange can came flying by at a high rate of speed.
"Aiyeeee--!" Shrieking madly, Anna exploded from the outhouse, trailing toilet paper and clutching at her blue jeans. The little grey cat was hot on her trail when she piled into Kathy, still swatting at the killer mosquitos.
Pointing the flapping outhouse door, Anna's eyes were bugging out of her ashen face as she scrambled about in the dust. "A bear! There's a bear in there! A big black bear with eyes! He's in there!"
With the dust settling (most of it sticking to Kathy) into the coffee cups, Mike and Mike and Max erupted into hysterical laughter until there wasn't a dry eye among them.
"A bear with eyes. Ooooh! How scary! How many eyes did he have? Seven? A big black bear, huh? If there is a bear in the outhouse, he probably is brown by now!"
"Shut up, Max, you asshole! I don't care what you say. There's a bear down there and he almost got me."
"Okay--Okay. We'll go on over and run-off this 'honey bear'," said Mike as he broke down into a babbling pile of levity.
Armed with coffee cups, a long stick, and a flashlight, the three brave woodsmen approached the den of the ferocious 'honey bear'.
"Shh!" said Max. "Did you hear somethin'?"
"No. Maybe. Yup! Sort of like snoring."
"Sounds more like farting to me."
Slowly, Max hooked the end of his stick under the toilet seat lid. With a flip of his wrist the lid snapped open. The snore/fart was louder now, reverberating in the pit. As the three brave lads approached, Max was prodded into the point position. Mike handed him the flashlight.
"Good luck. Be careful. Its been nice knowing you pal."
Peering into the rancid darkness, Max detected some movement and heard a murky slurping sound. Suddenly, into the flashlight beam sprang a vision of flashing teeth and frightened eyes! Incredibly stupid-looking eyes.
"Bruno! How'd you get in here?"
With blinding speed the gook-coated beast burst through the privy port and began to shake--pandemonium erupted as the three brave bear hunters tried in vain to escape the flying debris. It wasn't a pretty sight.
Even the cloud of mosquitos buzzing about Kathy headed for the hills as Bruno, ecstatic over his liberation from the latrine, bounded over to greet the horror-struck campers.
Bruno thought that this was a grand time to play, so he took up the chase as the motley crew of terrified campers made a mad dash toward the lake.
An accounting of the casualties showed little actual damage to anyone (pride and self image excluded). The mosquitos had returned to Kathy in full force, now that she was sans citronella. Bruno was clean, although he was too stupid to appreciate the improvement. Debbie's braces probably wouldn't rust.
Max and the Mike brothers were all wet to begin with.
The miles were much longer on the return trip.
Even though he was anxious to get back home, Max found that the Falcon's speedometer was consistently hovering beneath the speed limit. When the mileage back to the lake exceeded the distance to the city, pastoral serenetiy had been swallowed by urban angst. He swore that he wouldn't call Manny.
But he knew that he would.