I Fear For My Scalp

Have you ever been truly scared before? The first time I was in fear of what might physically happen to me occurred, oddly enough, in Arkansas.

Seven friends and I decided to go to Little Rock. It was all about the road trip. Rusty was from Little Rock and had created this little fantasy world for us around a place called Burns Park and a rock quarry there that provides a swimming hole for the locals. Keep in mind that Rusty is legally blind, but for some reason we completely bought into his detailed picture of a redneck Disney World complete with girls in bathing suits and free flowing narcotics.

So eight of us loaded into two tiny cars, a Datsun B210 and a Honda Civic. We bought two cases of Boone's Farm, put them on ice, and put the coolers under my control in the Datsun. I know, you are thinking "Boone's Farm? What kind of pussy shit is this???" but keep in mind we were underage and we took what we could get without reservations. We made a pact to not drink any of the booze until we got to the park, mostly out of some misguided sense of responsibility.

Of course the no drinking rule only lasted until we had left the city limits of Memphis. I reached back into the cooler and cracked open a bottle. My crew and I quickly made short work of that bottle and three others and being the light weights that we were, we felt pretty good. Until...... mother nature called. We couldn't pull over, there would be questions from the other car and they would know we had broken the covenant.

Eventually, we had to make a decision. Being the brilliant thinker that I am, I decided that the empty Boone's farm bottles should not go to waste and quickly filled one up. The other fellas followed suit and we were left with four bottles of warm piss that kind of looked like Boone's Farm!

All was well, we had our little buzz, we were on our way to fantasy land, and our buddies in the other car had no inkling of the deception. Suddenly, the steering wheel spun like the girls head in The Exorcist and Art, the driver, was having trouble controlling the car. We managed to pull to the side of the road where we discovered a flat tire. We quickly jumped out and made short work of the change before the others caught a clue that we had been into the goody cooler. However, we all agreed that we should get a new tire since the one that had just been put on was balder than Telly Savalas.

We found a mechanic and while he was working on the tire, Rusty came over and notice the bottles on the floor of the car. I quickly made my apologies, told Rusty that we had only drank two and it was fair that they drink two in the other car. Rusty called Tony over and they agreed that while our transgressions were serious, they were not fatal and just as the mechanic threw the old spare into the trunk, we handed Rusty and Tony a couple of bottles. Everybody piled into their respective vehicles and we returned to the road.

A note about Tony. He is a full blooded Navajo, six feet tall, close to three hundred pounds, and has a very quick temper.

About three or four miles down the road, the other car suddenly zoomed up behind us, horn blaring and lights flashing. Jim asked out loud "wonder what their problem is?" When I informed him that I gave them a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm he looked a little puzzled and leaned back to look in the cooler. "They are all still here," he said.

"Not the ones we emptied and refilled," I replied.

His face blanched as he put two and two together. The other car pulled even with ours and we could see Rusty leaning out one window puking his guts. Tony merely glared at us, then grabbed his hair, pulling it up and drew and index finger across his forehead. The implication was very clear.

Two or three years later, Tony had his revenge. He had been drinking seven and seven from a big gulp all night and a one point asked me if I wanted a drink. I will never forget the taste of warm Navajo piss. At least I still have my hair.