“What the hell are you even talking about?” Patrick chimed in more directly.
“I got a plan for us, young whippersnappers—” Brian smirked. “Let’s head up north and do some mountain camping!” He concluded.
“Where, when, how, and why?” Were my immediate questions.
“And who’s paying?” added Patrick.
“Easy-peasy, guys. There’s a really cool campsite in the White Mountains right off the Kancamagus Highway. I’ve stayed a few times. It’s near Mount Washington, a great hike, and you can practically touch the stars from there. I’ve got a four-man tent we can bring, and I’ll drive. You boys up for it? Everyone good to go?” He queried, his smile and enthusiasm both equally addictive.
It was just then when trouble arrived by the name of Edward Steven O’Connor III. Naturally, before even saying hi, he put me and Brian into double headlocks, squeezing hard. “Hey there, you Mighty Midgets!”
Until we both screamed (freakin’) “UNCLE!”…Eddie, what a prick.
“What are you pretty ladies plotting this time?” He dug for the information we were reluctant to reveal.
“Nothing!” was our joint response.
But we were too late.
Oh, no. Here we go again.
So, after getting permission from our parents (At least me and Brian did.), we were good to go.
Subsequently, we loaded with every rock ’n roll eight-track we could muster, and extra-large iced coffees all around from The Club for morning energy, we jumped into Bri’s beat-up Mercury Cougar, Big Patrick muscling me aside to grab shotgun, and hit the rowdy road. That meant I was stuck sitting next to Eddie, who relentlessly gave me shoulder noogies for the first half hour, turning my suntanned arm various shades of black and blue.
Gee, thanks for the added color Ed, NOT! Man, I wish I was bigger! Damnit.
The ride was fun. We cranked up the music full blast, my first experience hearing The Yardbirds, and caught a good breeze blowing through the rolled-down windows as we zipped along the highway at a cool (unless you’re caught) eighty, feeling our oats and taking no prisoners on a hot summer’s day. A perfect day.
But with this rowdy crew, everything eventually turned into “a situation” or “problem” or “circumstance,” the drive up north being no exception. This time, Trouble with a capital T reared its ugly head when we stopped for lunch at Lum’s Family Restaurant, just off the highway in Manchester New Hampshire, for some Coke’s, burgers, fries, and a beer or two (well, Eddie could).
It looked like a “seat-yourself” place so we grabbed the first table right by the front window. Before our asses were even on the bench, a roar of extraordinary power came from behind us followed in step by our soon-to-be waitress, Miss Attila the Hun. (We had no clue who that actually was but certain she was a dead ringer.) Attila was large and round and looked like she just rode in on her Harley motorcycle, judging for her poor excuse for hair which was sticking out in fourteen directions, without a helmet, and might have taken a few spills along the way. If you catch my drift.
Anyhow, what she lacked in majesty she amply made up for in sheer volume and tenacity.
“You NICE (yeah, loud) boys gets your cute-as-dumplings hind quarters away from MY very best table and set your own selves over there. She pointed to an identical table, but all the way in the back in the corner. Hmmm, far away from customers…
The lunch itself was good, damn good. Personally, I bucked the triple burger with multiple slices of cheese trend, by ordering a clam roll with plenty of extra tartah (emphasizing my Boston accent) sauce please, oh yeah, and onion rings. After gobbling that down, we each had hot fudge sundaes for dessert. Patrick, somehow still hungry, added about six or seven extra toppings to his sundae and Eddie ordered a ’Gansett beer without issue (quickly passed around for sips when no one was looking). Unfortunately, Patrick’s valiant attempt at ordering a cold brew was rejected by Attila who laughed and rolled her eyes as she carded him, unsurprised when no I.D. was in turn produced. Meanwhile, Brian and I looked twelve.
While the meal started off well, it didn’t end that way.
You see, like most teens we were always starving. Famished, morning, noon, and night (skinny or not). We all shoveled down the food, especially Patrick and Eddie who were voracious eaters, as evidenced by their bulky physiques, spit-clean plates, and then, the ridiculously high bill! Shockingly so! (Man, we ate a lot.) The payment of which was gonna put a significant crimp in our road-trip fund, but hey, I guess that’s the price Road Warriors gotta pay. Nonetheless, the crinkled green check sat like a blistered leper on the table’s edge, not one of us acknowledging its presence.
Then surprise of surprises! Of all people, Crazy Eddie suddenly got up, grabbed the check, quickly scanned it over, and offered, “Know somethin boys? This one’s on me. I clipped a few extra bucks from my old lady’s purse before we left, so I got this covered.”
“Say whaaaat??” was the group response
“No, seriously, guys. My treat.”
This was totally out of character and more than a little suspicious, but who cared; free is free.
“Hey, if he wants to pay, let him pay!” Was the immediate consensus.
So Eddie scoffed the check and got up to go find the waitress, who we hadn’t seen since she plopped the sundaes in front of us a solid fifteen minutes ago. Within a few minutes he was back to the table giving us a victorious two thumbs up and boasting.
“All set, ladies, let’s roll!”
And with that said, we got up (Brian giggling merrily pointing at the hot fudge stain currently residing at the corner of Patrick’s mouth) and headed to our car. “I Got Shotg—” I started to say when Patrick once again shoved me to the side, claiming the coveted seat for himself. Ugh, stuck in the back with Eddie again,
“This sucks!” being my only retort.
Then, just as we were pulling out of the parking space we heard a loud commotion and saw two or three people running toward our car, pointing our way and screaming, apparently, no make that definitely, at us. One of them, instantly recognizable as our (former) waitress, now catapulting F-bombs in our direction, and was that a chef with some kind of a meat cleaver, gaining on us? Holy crap it was!
“Floor it, Bri,” shouted Eddie in between hysterical fits of laughter, while madly waving the crinkled green check he pulled from inside his waistband. “Haa, We just chewed and screwed boys!! We’re going to Hell! No way would I ever pay for you asswhooooooles! Haaaaa! Faster Brian, they’re gaining on us!” He concluded in obnoxious delight.
“Eddie. You prick you.”
Brian hit the gas, and hard, his tires burning toxic rubber as he pointed his Cougar toward the exit, now with four or five employees in hot pursuit! I gotta admit, by this time we were ALL hysterically laughing (Patrick doing so while leaning over the back seat trying to punch Eddie!). It wasn’t quite as funny when we felt something smack hard on the back of Brian’s Mercury, the object in question looking remarkably similar to the glass dish our sundaes were served in!
“We’re calling the policeeeeeeeee!!!” Were the last words we heard before Bri’s car lunged into the street, briefly bottoming out, and sped straight outta sight, leaving our enraged pursuers eating our dust!
Once again, it had to be said, “Eddie. You prick you.”
But that was nothing, compared to what happened that night on the mountain!
So, up to Tuckerman’s Ravine we did hike, a trek of about four hearty miles, backpacks, sleeping bags, food, and yes some beer strapped securely to our backs. This, my friends, was cool! The campsite was awesome. It took maybe three hours to hike there over fairly steep and rocky terrain, but now it seemed worth every blister-producing step.
The hike was significantly aided by our walking sticks, each carefully selected, contoured, and assigned by Brian, far and away our most experienced hiker, and therefore, the de facto trail trailblazer. A damn good one too, I might add. Looking back, I think the woods was Brian’s happy place, and we were all too happy to follow in his glow.
