(Posted in Muddled Memories)
(Continued from Sorry, Keep the Champagne on Ice – Part 2)
Two buds, draft. Want anything to eat? Nachos, Bruce. Order of nachos and a hot dog, extra mustard. That’ll be $20 even, sir. Piston looked like someone took a broken bottle to his Charger’s tires. $20!? Filet mignon gettin’ sprinkled on them nachos? His downtown Flint attitude took the cashier off guard. He didn’t know what to say. No, sorry, just cheese with the nachos. Piston forked over the cash. Decades later, he’s still in denial that beers aren’t a quarter anymore. Why you gotta do that? These prices are ridiculous. It’s not like he sets the prices. Come on, you know that McClane. Easy to say when it’s free, Bluto. I stand corrected. But, the wheels are in motion Butch. I’ll be getting the next round. You steal someone’s lunch money? No, I convinced them to give it to me. Give it a year, no more hand outs. With a “I see your BS and raise you” grin, – Okay, Biff. We grabbed our hillbilly supper and trotted off to see shit get smashed.
The pungent smell of gasoline and b.o. stampeded upon my senses as I walked through the grandstand. I could taste the
sewage excitement. This is so American! Piston agreed as he nudged his way through a group of Big Berthas sporting belly high Wranglers. Damnit! Aw, Shucks! 5 minutes into the event and Piston’s buzz was already killed. One of the Bertha’s bumped into him and spilled beer on his sentimental Gorski Automotive shirt. Forget the ol’ shirt, Piston is steamed about losing 50 cents worth of brew. The Gravedigger better revive the night, damnit.
At last, we reached our comfy hard plastic seats. Time to enjoy the delightful combination of stale chippy’s and artificial cheese. After checking my fingers for any remnants of left over cheese, I slipped on my trusty batter’s glove. What the hell are you doing? Yes, I come prepared. I don’t want to turn my hand into an icicle while enjoying my beverage. After taking a couple sips, I realized that this was most likely perceived as a sign of a alcoholic or a resourceful idiot; with no in between. My theory was reinforced when I caught Piston’s perplexed glare. I quickly scanned my surroundings to find a counter. Look, they’ve got the right idea. A group of resourceful gents. I yelled down to my fellow aristocrats. Ehh! They turned around. With my free hand, I pointed to my boozin’ glove. Get R Done! We “air” cheers’d and let ’em rip.
Piston signaled near their seats. I suppose your hand would get cold after 10 cups. Chalk one up for us outside the box thinkers Piston. I couldn’t help but think it was an omen or something; this was the perfect segue for bringing up my idea. F’in alcoholics. Did I just hear Ol’ Piston mumble F’in alcoholics? What? Huh, nothin’. So much for the omen. Better yet. I signaled to the beer guy. Two buds.
Oh, good, I’m just about out. Oh, you want one? Damn, you should move down there with the Belushi brothers. I had a long week. I changed the order. Make it 4. Another perplexed glare was shot at my grill. God gave you two hands for a reason. Yeah, to build things, to fix things. Not to shot put beer into your mouth. I guess you used to street race for tea and jellybeans then. Lighten up Stone Cold. I handed the beer guy a $20 for the alottment. That from the first national bank of Piston? You referring to yourself in the 3rd person now? I grabbed the other glove out of my pocket and tossed it onto Ol’ Piston’s lap. He caved. Alright. He slipped on the glove and gripped one of the cups. He held it up – To Motor City.
Part 4 will be served shortly . . .
Cheers to sharing!