The Kansas Road Trip
I’m doing this whole thing from now on, where I post old stories and articles I’ve written every once in a while. This first one is from about three years ago. Hopefully you like it, but not more than the shit I’m writing now. No part of the following piece has been altered. Thanks to beautiful wonderful faraway (love of my life) Tara Michelle for inspiring me to do this.
The Kansas Trip - September 26, 2005
This past weekend, I made a solo journey to the (not-so) great state of Kansas to visit my brother Alex and my best friend Andrew (he will be called Whitey for the duration of this tale). Along the way, I encountered a great many fascinating situations, some good, some bad. The following is a synopsis of what will be hence forth known as The Weekend of Ups, Downs, and Police Scandal on the Plains.
/// PART I ///
Friday, September 23.
A warm, dry morning in Colorado found me awakening aside the love of my life with little recollection of the previous night’s escapades. A throbbing headache and a 30 Seconds to Mars ticket stub are all I have left. At least I remember looking into the eyes of Jared Leto as he performed on stage, I tell myself. I quickly roll out of bed and move to the clothes dryer, which I activate by pressing Start. Unfortunately, the aforementioned appliance is relatively incapable of actually producing dry garments, so I am forced to remove a still damp wardrobe and unwillingly pack a substantial number of ensembles into a small black duffel. Showering is not on the agenda this morning, so I throw on a hat and proceed to consume a breakfast of chocolate and Emer-gen-C. As I reach for the keys to my mid-size sport-utility vehicle I am pleased to discover a nearly-full pack of cigarettes that I purchased at the Smelly Deli moments before blacking out. Rapture. After saying a few half-hearted goodbyes I exit my unkempt apartment and move slowly but surely to the car. Cigarette, ignition, iPod, and we have liftoff.
Three hours and a tank of gasoline later I attempt to make an order at Arby’s in the quaint but not pretty town of Limon, Colorado. The attendant at the drive-thru informs me that due to a power outtage, we will not be serving ninety percent of our menu today. Disappointment strikes, and I move one block north to another fast food restaurant: McDonald’s. Disgust. I order two Spicy McChicken sandwiches and think of Jody. Yet another tank of gas punches a smoldering hole in my credit card and I am back on my way.
The region that most cartographers refer to as Eastern Colorado and/or Western Kansas is perhaps the least exciting place in the contiguous United States. Perhaps you think this is a bold statement; but I encourage you to make such an argument after seeing the area for yourself. It is, to be blunt, quite flat. It is also quite large, and one should not brave such territory while attempting to enjoy two Spicy McChicken sandwiches. Needless to say, the first of those so-called entrees barely made its way through my digestive system safely; and the second made it no further than the bag in which it came.
I arrive in Lawrence having spent two hundred and twenty American dollars on fuel alone; this is not a good thing. Of course, the great state of Kansas has taken it upon itself to place a toll road between the capital of Topeka and my final destination. Frustration ensues. Eighty-five cents of pure frustration, to be exact. Nevertheless, I have completed the grueling eight-hour trek, and I arrive at the University of Kansas sometime around nine pm.
My great friend and brother Alex is the first to greet me. I make acquaintance with a few of the boys sharing his hallway in a drab dormitory, one of which experiences great difficulty in turning his attention away from BET to shake my hand. I am uncomfortable spending too much time in Alex’s room, so I suggest we depart and meet Whitey at the abode of his friend Jamie, a bisexual who prefers vintage sundresses over the common garb of today.
Whitey is in great spirits despite a number of personal issues plaguing his previous week. We are ecstatic to see each other and the following half hour consists of repeated hugs and content smiles. Josh is there too, but at first I don’t recognize him because his hair drapes over his shoulders. He is dressed very well. I am wearing a tank top and jeans. We go to dinner with a moderately large group.
The Mexican food at La Familia is unhealthy, but far better than the dreaded Spicy McChicken sandwich. I contemplate ordering a specialty beer, but digress due to the fact that everyone in my company is well under the age of twenty-one. Josh reminds me that we can drink Milwaukee’s Best Ice tonight, which greatly excites me because in Colorado, I am not afforded the same opportunity. You will find out later that a mixup in communication found us drinking Miller High Life instead. We pay our bill and leave.
In passing a local concert venue after dinner, I notice that Idlewild is slated to perform the following night and immediately demand we attend. Everyone seems willing, so I am happy. Whitey drives us to his apartment, which is small but accomodating. With great difficulty I manage to operate the shower but discover I am out of facewash. I bathe, dry off with an orange towel, then get dressed and straighten my hair. We return to Jamie’s house and are warmly welcomed by Josh and beer. We warmly embrace both.
As time passes and the quantity of available alcohol slowly diminishes, more of Kansas’ finest inhabitants arrive at the venue. I learn names, most of which are forgotten in a matter of seconds, and participate in comical banter with an array of people. After hearing that two of those people in attendance are professional rollerbladers, I refrain from talking to them. Elitism is a necessary evil.
The night is beginning to wind down when I catch wind that one of these so-called professional athletes has pilfered, in small quantities, part of our alcoholic reservoir. Josh and Whitey immediately confront the thief while I remain seated and enjoy a cigarette on the back porch. The culprit has red hair and, as far as I can see, the mental capacity of a person half his age. I judge by the bottle of whiskey clutched to his side that alcoholism has played a significant part in the destruction of his nervous system. He has a hard time grasping the argument now being made by the majority of the party, and chooses to leave. We sip beer for another hour and retire to Whitey’s residence. Ten minutes after beginning the Family Guy movie, we are asleep.
/// PART II ///
Saturday, September 24.
I awaken some time later. It’s hot in the room, and humid. My face is pressed against the wall, and I see that he is still fast asleep on the other side of the bed. I expertly pick myself up and slide off the foot of the bed without waking him. Marley, the newest resident of Whitey’s tenement, claws at my leg and attempts to engage my foot in a rousing game of Tear the Skin off the Bone. My foot is disinclined to participate. Whitey rises from the bed moments later and we have a cigarette, being careful to blow tendrils of grey smoke into the fan set upon the windowsill. After a short period of mindless, aimless activity, the pair of us embark upon Lawrence looking for sustenance. Wendy’s will suffice. Now to rouse Alex so I can watch football on his roomate’s extraordinarily large television. Whitey is pro-reading. He doesn’t have TV.
It’s no later than two in the afternoon when we arrive at the sprawling dormitory complex, yet Alex is well on his way to the Land of Drunken Fantasy. I relax in a dish chair and scream obsceneties at the screen as Alex edges ever closer to the thin red line between sobriety and inebriation. Whitey has fallen asleep on a fashionable beige futon. Eventually we grow bored of our current occupations and once again throw ourselves into the fray that is Middle America.
Thankfully, I am granted a second opportunity to finish the Family Guy Movie, and this time, I take full advantage. I shower afterward, but the inescapable humidity provides as a fine disguise for any visible proof of this. During the movie I enjoyed two aluminum containers of High Life left over from the previous night, and then two cups of coffee. During a short stint of lounging outside Whitey’s apartment, we are approached by a salesman whose tactics were discussed for some time after his disappearance. Upon deciding that our inherent lethargy is a hinderance to the coincidental consumerism of everyday life, a sojourn to the local Best Buy becomes the next order of business.
The air-conditioned warehouse of electronic commerce is soothing when contrasted to the steamy atmosphere outside. Whitey buys Dogtown & Z-Boys and suggests we watch it later that night while under the influence of foreign substances. I concur. It is at this point that we return to find that an unknown denizen has used his or her large vehicle not only to strike the rear of Whitey’s car, but to drive away from the scene as well. Anger strikes. A helpful police officer apologizes for his inability to remedy the situation, because accidents on private property are the responsibility of the vehicle owners and not local law enforcement. Shame. Whitey decides that the damage to his Acura is substantially unimportant and we leave. I suggest we eat at Steak & Shake, and we do; but first, we pick up a now fully intoxicated Alex and his equally intoxicated friend. A short trip to another room in the building ends in awkward glances and ultimately nothing at all.
There is one more stop to make before the glory of Steak & Shake is to be realized. It’s wonderful to see Kacie again. Her apartment is clean, and looks like it should be anywhere but Lawrence. She joins us at dinner; we all order milkshakes and share them. Alex is unable to order without falling into moments of chaotic laughter, and we all laugh along. Kacie smokes marijuana now; she’s still pretty. I ask her if she’ll accompany us to the Idlewild concert, but due to what she perceives an impending illness, she reluctantly declines. What bitter misfortune.
Josh and his roomate Darren have also come to dine with us. Darren is one of the most peculiar people I’ve met; the personality shift that occurs through alcohol is greatest with him. I’m convinced that the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was written about a person sharing the same condition. I look forward to his presence later on in the evening.
Of the assembled group, Whitey and I are the only two that uphold the previous vow to attend the Idlewild concert. I am happy that we go, because Pabst Blue Ribbon is on special that night. Whitey makes a valiant effort to gain us free entry to the venue but to no avail. The doors open at eight; we arrive closer to nine. I take pictures for no longer than five minutes before the battery inside my camera dies. Sadness enslaves me for thirty seconds. Inara George and her disheveled band take the stage precisely at nine-thirty and proceed to amaze the both of us. Entranced by the woman under a spotlight, we forget to place an order for the Camo 40’s we’d previously planned on drinking later that night. Sobriety is immenent.
Idlewild’s performance is entertaining, but due to a lack of knowledge about the band and their decision to avoid playing my favorite songs, I find myself anxious to return to the open air and inevitably begin socializing. The show ends and immediately we make our way back to Jamie’s house, which is crawling with more miscreants than the night before. There is little alcohol left, but I am convinced to take shots of tequila with an already-infected Josh. Darren is parading around with a grin plastered to his face and all previous judgments regarding his character are nowhere to be found.
Whitey grows more infuriated as the evening progresses. In an attempt to locate more spirits, a simple caravan quickly evolves into a full-scale grand prix, a number of cars tearing recklessly through suburban neighborhoods that clearly do not contain collegiate residents. There comes a point when we are lost, far away from the familiar streets surrounding the university. We drive aimlessly for some time before Whitey’s frustration gets the best of him and we return to Jamie’s once again.
Things have changed since our last appearance. Josh is still quite drunk, now joined by the majority of the aforementioned miscreants. Someone has taken it upon themselves to destroy fenceposts surrounding the front porch, and nearly thirty bodies are squeezed into the kitchen in a joyous embrace. Song after song pours out of the room and I feel as if I’ve stepped into a speakeasy in Northern Ireland. I am, however, far more sober than the people around me, so once again I drink tequila.
There is not enough tequila. Whitey and I leave. As suggested, we watch Dogtown & Z-Boys. We sleep.
/// PART III ///
Sunday, September 25.
As is becoming a noticeable trend in the city of Lawrence, Kansas, the morning weather is hot, humid and nigh unbearable. I wake to the feeling of tequila still coursing through my bloodstream. Typical: I don’t get drunk, but at least the hangover still happens. Whitey is grappling with his internal clock for more sleep, so while he tosses and turns I flip through the pages of a British music magazine. An enclosed article written about the Kings of Leon does much to dispel rumors about the band, especially the one that Jared is a gentleman (wink). While I read, Marley tears at my socks. I’m in no mood for this. Whitey finally rises from his slumber, still weary from the pot brownie he ate the previous afternoon. I pack my bag in preparation for the long drive home, and we contemplate food. While packing, I recall that one of the headlights in front of my SUV had burned out, weeks ago at this point. I should leave early so this doesn’t present a significant problem. Or, I can eat another meal with my friends. I choose friends. Foreshadowing.
One last time, Whitey and I make the pilgrimage to the towering monstrosity that is Alex’s place of residence, and he joins us for a final meal. We contact Josh and he agrees to join in the fun. I’m craving chicken wings. Coincidentally, my companions feel the same. We journey to Buffalo Wild Wings (which I insist upon referring to as BW3, the chain’s previous nomenclature), located on Massachusetts.
Mass is the most exciting avenue in Lawrence, and quite possibly all of Kansas. On days when the humidity isn’t too excessive, the street offers an array of mom’n’pop commerce and enough sobering activities for all twenty thousand students at the University of Kansas. Dotted with more antique shops and record stores than necessary, any post-adolescent “non-conformist” feels more at home here than, well, when they’re actually at home. Of course, as with any pseudo-historic area, corporate business has managed to sneak in the back door and lay waste to much of what’s left. When an Urban Outfitters springs up across from a John Deere parts store, all may as well be lost.
Josh is seated outside BW3 adorned in the same ensemble he wore the night before. The smile across his face is recessed, and now resembles an oblivious gaze. Had he a mop of dredlocks on his head, he might be the most disheveled character on Mass. Still, he is in good spirits. We enter the restaurant unkempt and morning-slow. The waitress at our corner booth is hot - not just attractive, or even sexy - but hot. She immediately takes a liking to Alex, and makes several failed attempts to shyly glance at him. After each of her visits to the table, little eruptions of laughter and crude commentary follow; but most of them are drowned out by the screams of about seven collegiate men at a table near us. They are watching a football game, and I can safely say I’ve never seen nor heard such asinine fans in my life. Apparently the Greek circuit at Kansas is far more intense than that of my own alma mater, and I couldn’t be happier to return home.
The chicken wings are meager but adequate, and I thank God that the football game has reached halftime and our gargantuan counterparts have ceased their yelling. The only noise to arise from the table is an occasional comment about how John Madden is cool, even though he’s “hella old” and can’t even remember where he is anymore. I actually agree with this. But I digress. The food is gone, and it is time to say our goodbyes. I take Alex and Whitey to Jamie’s where we examine damage inflicted upon the house, exchange goodbyes, and I leave. I stop at a gas station on my way out of town and discover that Monster Energy Drinks are for sale in four-packs at the outrageous price of eight dollars. I buy them and put the car in drive, leaving Lawrence in my wake.
The first five hours of the drive home are effortless. I listen to soft alternative rock, slipping in and out of oblivion, keeping myself from smoking too many cigarettes. I am invincible. This trip is almost over…if only.
While driving through Strasburg, Colorado, a state patrol officer signals me to pull aside. He approaches my window, and the following conversation ensues:
Chris: I’m sorry officer, is there a problem?I don’t.
Officer: You’ve got a headlight out; and you were going eighty-one.
Chris: Eighty-one? Isn’t the speed limit seventy-five?
Officer: Yes. And you were speeding. Six miles per hour over the limit. And you’ve got a headlight out. Do you have proof of insurance?
Chris: I know I’ve got it here somewhere.
Officer: I’m going to run your license to make sure you have insurance; and don’t worry, I won’t write you up tonight.The officer returns to his car…and doesn’t come back. Not for quite some time. I wait, for half an hour. Still, he sits in his vehicle. Finally, after thirty-five minutes or so, he saunters back up to my window, and our conversation resumes:
Chris: Great. Thanks so much. I appreciate it.
Officer: Are you aware that you’re driving without a license?I drive, ever-so-carefully, to the nearest rest stop with the patrol car on my tail, park, and immediately proceed to smoke upwards of five cigarettes in as many minutes. Recognizing the humor of the situation, I make a number of phone calls. Most people I speak with don’t grasp the humor I choose to embrace. After calling my father, he agrees to pick me up with a good friend. At this point the time is approaching eleven at night. On a Sunday.
Chris: Excuse me? No, I don’t think that’s correct.
Officer: It’s correct. My records say your license was revoked in May of this year. Are you aware this is a jailable offense?
Chris: Officer, I haven’t gotten a citation in almost a year. How could my license have been revoked?
Officer: I can’t tell you that. All I can say is that you need to pull off the road and have someone pick you up.
Chris: Fantastic. Can I just drive the rest of the way home?
Officer: I wouldn’t suggest that. If you drive any further than the next rest stop, I’ll take you to jail.
Chris: Thanks. This is wonderful.
Being an increasingly proactive person, I look upon this misfortune as a perfect excuse to tidy up the interior of my SUV. I laugh, relieved that Officer What’s-His-Name didn’t search my trunk, because in cleaning I discover a cornucopia of containers clearly intended for alcoholic beverages. Ah, the irony. Dad shows up and we hastily get back on the road. I finish my last Monster Energy Drink and incite conversation regarding the current situation. I can’t recall any infractions in the last year, and at the time am convinced that revoking my license is wrong. My dad suggests we drop the subject until the next morning, and we’ll sort things out at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I concur. We arrive back at home, and after a few more phone calls I slip into stasis.
It’s Jamieson’s birthday on Monday. The family goes for breakfast at a local donut shop, but I am too tired from this epicly bizarre weekend, so instead of joining them I take the opportunity to cherish another hour of sleep. My father and I take on the dreaded DMV. I approach a clerk with my newly-acquired citation, and upon review, said clerk tells me the entire situation should not have taken place. Incredible. A computer error mistook my personal traffic record with that of another, clearly more careless individual. I accept a temporary license, get back in my car, and drive to work.
And that, my friends, is that. That is, right there, the Saga: The Weekend of Ups, Downs, and Police Scandal on the Plains. I hope you enjoyed it. 1 year ago
