The first time I ever get to fire a real gun will occur in my freshman year of high school, during this big hunting trip some of us take to Maine. Though my brother and I and a couple of our cousins had accompanied Dad K and an uncle or two on somewhat bullshit hunting forays in the past, never before have I truly been an active participant. And to be clear, am not really clamoring for such now, either, as a fourteen year old still trying to come to grips with this strange new high school landscape. I’ve never really bothered to ask Dad K what inspired him to put this together, either, in all the years since, because it’s such a great memory, this entire week, and anyway it’s unlikely I would get an accurate answer at this point, after so much time has passed.
Well, so on to the particulars. Occurring in mid-December, this odyssey of course involved being taken out of school for approximately a week. It might have seemingly made more sense for him to have planned this trip during Christmas break, but who knows what kind of moving parts required intricate arrangements just to make this happen. The contortions involved for just getting everyone there alone are staggering, and make me eternally wonder in retrospect how the pieces all came together to begin with.
The first significant development requires two fellow travelers to show up at our house, in Lexington, so the four of us can pile into our Cadillac — a big, boxy, black, very 1980s number that Dad had purchased used awhile back from his “upline” pal and closest Amway mentor, Terry Franks. Our passengers for this particular leg of the journey are his “downline” buddy Joe Overholt, and Joe’s son Jeremy, who is pretty much the same age as me, if I’m not mistaken in the same grade. He and I get along okay, but although he displays a smidgen more general confidence in life than I do, for us to be good friends someone would have to become a little more talkative, and this is neither of our fortes. But at least he’s not obnoxious. Also, though this recurring joke would inexplicably become popular about fifteen years later or so, thanks to The Office, Jeremy’s own catchphrase, oft repeated, is the whole “that’s what she said,” punchline bit, inserted on occasion where appropriate. In fact when Michael Scott started uttering it all the time on TV, I was a bit confused that nobody seemed to recognize it had already made the rounds in the late 80s — and instantly brought me back to this trip, still makes me think of Jeremy and the Maine hunting epic every now and then.
So we’re apparently leaving in the morning, on whatever random day this is. Based on snowfall records I’m looking up now, decades later online, I have a good theory about which day this must have been, but am not 100% certain. It doesn’t matter, because the logistics are no less bonkers any way you slice it. While researching and writing this piece, I must admit, part of me was beginning to wonder whether this was even possible, for this much to have occurred in the space of a day, if I hadn’t completely blacked out or something and was forgetting an entire day; but no, it turns out this is all just barely possible to have pulled out in exactly the time frame that’s lining up in my mind.
Anyway, the next step is for us to make a pit stop in Wadsworth, Ohio, at Gary Libby’s house. Not to pick up Gary, by any means, an even higher upline figure in the Amway line of sponsorship — but instead to switch cars, into his newer, roomier, much more impressive Cadillac or Lincoln or whatever it was.
With this accomplished, the next mysterious stop in our itinerary arrives relatively quickly: Hubbard, Ohio, right near the Pennsylvania border, very much in the spirit of our great state’s grimy industrial north. In his younger days, Dean Martin got his start dealing blackjack at a speakeasy here in Hubbard. That kind of town. Well, I don’t know anything about any of that, not at the age of fourteen, though I’m already quite familiar with the truck stop here, everyone in my family is. It’s right off of I-80 and as this is the same route we take to visit my Aunt Jackie and Uncle Rob in State College, this truck stop has made for a just about essential, more or less symbolically if not factual halfway point pit stop, in both directions, for years. It’s a huge place, feeling almost like an indoor shopping mall more than anything else, with this spacious central atrium type walkway, shops fanning off on both sides. An arcade, even, though we’ve generally been in too big of a hurry to ever truly partake of that particular option.
The meaning behind this scripted pin on the map today, though, is so we can pick up passenger number five, some Jay kid who’s in his early twenties. I’m not even sure how this was arranged, because if I’m not mistaken, none of us had ever met him before. I know I certainly had not, and it seems equally unlikely the Overholts ever had. But I believe he was a total stranger to Dad as well, which means it was probably plotted out in the only manner you basically could back then, in those distant, if not prehistoric then certainly pre-cell phone times, i.e. Gary probably told him to be standing in a particular spot at an exact time, gave us the same info, with maybe some additional sketching out as far as our various appearances were concerned, how many in our party, et cetera.
It’s unclear how Gary even knows this kid, because he isn’t in Amway, isn’t even a prospect. And let’s just say the age and personality gaps are sizable, meaning there’s no way these two are grand old chums or what have you. Jay seems like a nice enough guy, but he has a little bit of an edgy vibe, and if there’s one thing I’ve noticed about Gary over the years, he does have this benevolent streak, I guess you’d call it, a soft spot for taking wayward youths under this wing. He even adopted a son, years ago, although without his ever getting into specifics, we’ve gathered that this was more or less a disaster — another troubled, but ultimately incorrigible kid that he couldn’t straighten out. So it would seem this is another father-son or big brother-little brother situation, best as we can tell.
From here, we have what is mostly by far the only uneventful stretch, that long, straight-ish, neverending slog, edge to edge right through the heart of Pennsylvania, all five or so hours of it. As much as you can say this, that is, about a cold, snowy night, with five dudes who mostly don’t even known each other all that well, or even not at all, crammed in here together, one of whom is piloting still some other guy’s car. During which we stop at one point to…pick up a freaking hitchhiker. Yes.
To say this is not exactly an everyday occurrence, hmm, well, understatement of the year. But what happens is that as these flurries continue to blow with a mild fury (the one key historical factoid useful for me in looking up ancient weather data, all these years later), we’re out in the middle of relative nowhere, traffic is not exactly robust at this already somewhat late hour, and here we happen upon some car broken down at the side of the road. Slowing down somewhat as we pass, ours eyes naturally drift in that direction, and land upon some girl sitting in the shotgun seat, but nobody else visible anywhere.
She looks fairly horrified, as one might imagine, yet even so, we don’t stop. I have to admit it’s somewhat astounding, now that I look back upon this, given the way Dad typically jumps out of his shoes with eagerness to help people, that he didn’t pull over the car right that instant. But instead, and it certainly “helps” that you’re moving at a pretty decent clip, even in the snow, on the interstate, that we debate what to do for so long that the car’s out of sight before we even reach a verdict. And nowhere to turn around even if we did decide to help her.
As it so happens, however, who knows how many miles up the road, here our headlights next land on some lad, probably about Jay’s age, in his early twenties, trudging alongside the road. He may or may not have had a gas can in his hands, I can’t recall. Whatever the case, though, he’s bundled up heavily against the cold and the flurries, and with relatively little debate whatsoever, it seems a no-brainer we’re at least going to slow down enough to pull up beside him and ask what the deal is.
And yes indeed, it turns out that was his car and his girlfriend back there. Their vehicle broke down, but he believes they’re just out of gas. He’s attempting to hoof it up to the next exit, but isn’t even sure how far away that is. Nor are we. This is clearly smack dab in the middle of Nowhere County, with no sign of civilization in sight, in any direction, apart from our fellow occasional passing motorist.
With considerable relief, he readily accepts our offer of a ride to the next gas station, and climbs into the middle of the roomy front seat. Maybe this is a stupid move, because for all we know he could be packing a gun or a knife, but he seems harmless enough, there are after all five of us in here, and it feels like a rather large, ridiculous, improbable stunt to be pulling in this weather, to concoct such an elaborate ruse just to murder some people or steal their own ride or something. And the good karma shall surely shine upon all of us in waves, following this kind deed extended on behalf of a stranger. On the minus side of the argumental ledger, well, it’s easy to forget I suppose that this isn’t even our car. It doesn’t belong to anybody present, rather an Emerald, a fairly big deal in the Amway hierarchy, whom we are driving toward.
But it all goes down exactly as scripted. At the next exit, encountered just a handful of (driving) minutes later, we’re dropping this guy off at the first gas station encountered. I don’t recall what happened next, because although it seems like the rational, human thing to do, if truly committed to this good Samaritan bit, would have been for us to then drive him back and make sure they were up and running again, I don’t remember us doing so. He’s effusive with his praise, and I think just seemed confident enough that this was the issue — either that or he knew somebody nearby he could call, from a payphone — to the extent we left him right here and kept on motoring forward, eastbound through the Keystone State.
One other consideration is that we’re on a pretty tight schedule. Therefore wouldn’t have had time if this turned into some epic ordeal and it emerged that they had more serious problems than just needing fuel. Because the reason we picked up Gary’s car is that he’s flying in from who knows where, and landing at such and such time, about midnight-ish if I recall, at Logan International Airport in Boston. And we are his ride, or should we say he has been ours this entire time.
Beginning at the point we cross over into New York, this is my first foray into all these northeastern U.S. and/or New England states. The sights and cities up here are crammed into what seems like relatively tight spaces, therefore they come flying at you with unrelenting persistence, and I don’t form too many lasting impressions. I do remember us driving through Hartford, Connecticut, however, and considering it a dump, really highly reminiscent of Ohio’s dirty old industrial burgs, not even all that large, and thinking about the Whalers, unable to comprehend how this city could have possibly ever landed an NHL franchise. And like that, we are through it.
At the airport, instead of chilling in the car, at the curb or something and waiting on Gary to exit, for some reason we park and venture inside, make our way through its byzantine corridors and meet him at the gate. He seems happy to see us, and is chattering up a storm, a pattern that will hold as he takes the wheel from here on out, and basically narrates every mile traveled for the rest of this trip. With an assist I guess you might say from the Louis L’Amour audiobooks we are also listening to mostly relentlessly, something of a tradition during Amway roadtrips.
Regarding Gary, although in fairness somewhat of an interesting guy, it’s nonetheless safe to say that none of us kids ever really liked him all that much. And though they had to pretend otherwise at the time, my parents will eventually admit as much as well, years later. Appearance-wise he mostly resembles Elmer Fudd — squat, round, bald — while his personality reminds me of Ben Gazzara’s character from Road House. In other words, kind of slimy, although you can’t quite put your finger on exactly why he makes your skin crawl. But he’s in their upline and an Emerald and therefore we’ve got to humor the guy, to hang on his every word, and respect him as we soak up his endless wisdom. He did after all put this hunting expedition together, so that’s something.
Though it would seem a ridiculous hour — even for a night owl like me — it turns out there are still a couple of items remaining on our itinerary for this evening, which has now passed into the next day. A couple hours later, after hugging the coast line, more or less, on I-95, we find ourselves at the original L.L. Bean store, in Freeport, Maine, which remains open 24–7, and is positively humming with bodies, though two or three in the morning by now. It’s a multilevel affair, rustic as one might imagine, and Gary is like a kid at Christmas, he was so adamant that we check out this store. I really have no interest in this stuff, however, and mostly just wander around endlessly until it’s time to leave.
He remains borderline giddy over showing us all the sights and sounds in this neck of the woods. It’s understandable, considering he grew up here. So he does have that youthful enthusiasm about him, at times. And goes out of his way to be chummy with us kids, more often than not, which is more than you can say about most of the jewel-level upline characters. Like for instance, this parlor trick I’ve never really been able to deduce, how he pulls this off, where when meeting someone for the first time, he has them bend one elbow, as he then cups his hand around it and pushes up from underneath, and based only on this can usually guess within about five pounds how much somebody weighs. One time he was doing this, I forget where, and as I stood nearby this person watching, Gary looked over at me and winked as he formulated his guess. This was my first clue that maybe this stunt wasn’t quite what it seemed, but even so, I still can’t figure out how he’s doing it other than maybe some exceptionally attuned eyesight.
And yet…he can be curiously grouchy at times. Though according to Dad, Gary was a pothead hippie in his much, much younger days, pre Amway, itself just about unfathomable, so incongruous is this image with this currently well dressed and highly polished one, he hates classic rock, was known to grouse on one occasion, as Stephen Stills’s Love The One You’re With was playing somewhere, “oh yeah, that’s just great, just love whoever, who cares,” with an exceedingly sour face. Totally not approving this devil music.
He’s also single, has in fact never been married, which is almost unheard of in these circles. Successful Amway businesses are almost exclusively husband-wife partnerships, if you flip through the monthly magazine it has to represent a good 99% of those who are making it. In fact, the only other exception anyone can come up with, among people we personally know, it just so happens to be…our lovable downline goofball friend, Mike Mills.
“He’s the only guy I’ve ever seen who went Direct without even using the products himself,” Terry Franks once marveled, with a shake of the head, half bewildered and half in admiration of Mike’s off the wall antics.
Regarding Gary Libby, nobody has even been able to explain why he remains perpetually single. He’s dated women here and there, but if pressed, will only offer some variation of, “it didn’t work out.” My silently held take is that they are probably picking up on this sliminess themselves, before too long. But he’s also curiously prissy — again, think of Ben Gazzara’s Brad Wesley character, from Road House — which is even harder to explain, considering he did after all grow up in the backwoods of Maine. He has two brothers that I know of, too, both of which are much more rugged types (not to mention much more likable), so it’s hard to say exactly what happened here, with him.
As far as one of those brothers are concerned, his house, in Bangor, blessedly marks the end of the line for this insane day. His name’s Tyler and he’s also an upline Emerald, well on his way to making Diamond, in fact is the one who originally sponsored Gary. They have a spacious, sprawling, but not quite mansion sized home on some sleepy residential street, albeit not too far removed from the main drag. I have this memory that all six of us slept on the carpeted floor of some smallish upstairs room, more like a queen sized walk-in closet, although I have to admit it’s really hard to picture Gary crashing in such spartan extremes. So maybe he found a spare bed or couch or something. Maybe some others did, too, I’m not sure. All I know is I have no problem falling asleep pretty much instantly, even though it’s on the floor. And we’re due up again just a few hours later.
Recommended Book of the Day:
Catfished and Caught by Cassie Meadows
She exposed his lie. He exposed her heart.
Rule #1 of Online Dating: If he looks too good to be true, he’s probably a catfish. Rule #2: Don’t accidentally fall in love with him after you destroy his reputation.
Priya Patel is a woman of receipts. As the cynical strategist for the dating app Cupid’s Arrow, her job is to hunt down fakes. So when she exposes the app's most perfect user, "ValentineVibe," as a fraud, she expects a promotion.
She gets a PR nightmare instead.
Because the catfish is Liam Sterling. Her office rival. The Golden Boy of UX. And to save the company’s massive merger, their boss issues an ultimatum: Fake a relationship until the Valentine’s Day Gala, or pack your bags.
Now, Priya is stuck in a "romance" with the man she hates. But between setting a cooking class on fire, a $600,000 accidental auction bid, and a secret blog Liam definitely shouldn't know about, the lines are blurring.
Liam isn't just the slick executive she thought he was. He’s messy, he’s lonely, and he’s the only one who sees the real her. But when the truth about why he created the profile comes out, will their "retention metric" romance survive reality?
She exposed his lie. He exposed her heart.
