Us three guys decide to stroll up the street, to the next insanely packed bar. Here, a more middle aged yet somehow much crappier cover band has set up shop, and I’m not exactly surprised to hear Boat Drinks followed by Rupert Holmes’s Escape, immediately upon entry. Yet our attentions are soon diverted from the set list when somehow our collective attention is drawn to this older yet quite shapely blonde standing by herself, just outside the ladies room. She’s in a brown summer dress, has incredible blue eyes and a smoldering body, introduces herself as Janice when we begin chatting with her.
However, we should by now expect merely the latest astronomical fluke. For it soon emerges that the person she is waiting on is…none other than Sally, who strolls out of the restroom a few minutes later. This is weekend bunkmate number four over there at room 237. Initially, I just can’t get over the odds of this, that out of hundreds of women at this crowded pub alone, we settled upon her. And that this has now basically happened three times in a row, immediately bumping into preexisting connections out of the blue, despite thousands upon thousands of souls running amok all over this island. The more fatalistic among us might consider that everything happening is already predetermined somehow. But my eventual take is that, much like the Las Vegas strip or even our campus scene back home, this seeming chaos is actually a lot more predictable than it might appear. People typically stumble into various locales in a choreographed order, and depending upon how much time someone has spent here, you could often reasonably predict where she is at this moment.
We don’t stick around at this place very long, though, beyond chatting with Sally and Janice for a few. One unpredictable element is that, despite this rampant mayhem, the tiny roads clogged with not just cars and street legal golf carts but sardine tight pedestrians and even the occasional bicycle, these waterfront bars all close at midnight. I never would have guessed that, although it’s possible the authorities felt they had no choice, in order to corral these maniacal throngs by daybreak. The main thoroughfare on this island is actually a state route, and Dylan is telling me this means that a trooper is required to ferry over here every so often to patrol that road, by law, x number of times a year. If so I can only imagine that represents a ticket writing field day. It sounds like a rookie assignment if ever I heard one, or else any veterans saddled with such waiting until perhaps Wednesday afternoons in February or November to drift out this way.
Not all is lost, however, for we do have that blender and the alcohol cache. Also, word reaches us that a couple of scattered bars buried farther back inland are permitted to remain open until two. We therefore begin drifting up the hill, to take a time out and assess this situation. Sally and Janice are adamant that they are packing it in, having admirably extended themselves well beyond Happy Hour Crew parameters. Though they don’t exactly invite us to stick around and party, we do swing by their room for a moment, where the fifth and final occupant is at last introduced to us, a totally okay looking brunette named Debbie, who does at least have an engaging smile and warm, vibrant eyes. Yet she too is going through the shamanistic rituals for bed. Meanwhile Mary Jo is already passed out, none too surprisingly, and Tracy is sitting up on the mattress beside her with glasses on and lamp emitting its cozy golden rays, reading a book.
Despite this scene that is obviously going nowhere, Dennis insists upon flopping into a chair and remaining here, chatting with these ladies. They seem fine with this, although Sally does casually yet pointedly mention that Dave will probably swing through in a few. As for Dylan and me, upon exiting the room, we agree that this might improve our chances, for Dennis has demonstrated he doesn’t adhere to the Clooney model much beyond possessing that vague look about him. He will make the occasional amusing, goofball type comments, and we like him enough, sure. Yet has already told what we consider a couple huge whoppers, in the tall tale department, and furthermore has established himself as even clumsier than our harebrained schemes at picking up women.
Onward, ho, then. Dylan suggests we try and hit one of these bars deeper within the island, and it just so happens that a small mob of hive minded souls are lodging at this very hotel. In fact, this is such a popular move that a charming little bus makes regular rounds, and stops in front of our lobby just a few minutes later. For a couple bucks apiece, we and everybody else climb aboard, bound for some oasis in the relative boondocks — as much as a 3.7 x 1.5 mile, mostly inhabited land chunk can be said to possess such — named Skyway, which is next to their tiny regional airport.
Yet the instant we are deposited out in front of this rural tavern, it immediately strikes us that something is not quite right here. We know that things can get a little rowdy on this island, the kind of place where, to cite one notorious example, there were so many people on another bar’s wooden patio that the thing once collapsed. But this is something else entirely, an almost palpable aura of menace in the air. As a result, considering that they serve drinks at a portable bar outside, in the front drinking garden surrounded by a fence, we don’t even step into the interior.
The building itself is a low stone one, with the name spelled in cursive lights on its roof, and a sign above the door bearing the legend FIRST CALL FOR ALCOHOL. I’m sure it’s not always like this, and it’s possible that if we did maybe venture indoors, we would discover it chock full of totally harmless regulars. But out here, in this murky lighting reminiscent of a backyard barbecue, only slightly less crowded, albeit tilted more toward an evident insider packed, middle aged crowd? It feels somewhat like a biker bar populated with a bunch of Harley riders who’ve steadily sipped whiskey all day and haven’t had anything to eat…but only if you planted that bar in, say, the middle of the Mexican countryside. Not that we really see any Latinos, even, but it has that look about it, just such an establishment glimpsed from some movie or TV show.
“I don’t like the vibe here. Something feels off,” I tell Dylan.
“It’s funny you should say that,” he concurs, as we are hastily knocking back these first and possibly only bottled beers, “I was just thinking the same thing.”
This is a keg party where you’re not welcome, a rowdy tavern with the telltale static electricity right before a fight breaks out. And so while possibly our overactive imaginations, it does seem some of the regulars are looking over their shoulders at us, with evil intent, as though plotting to bash our heads in with tire irons any minute now. We even run into two of those five married women from the Roundhouse Bar, whom we chatted with briefly over there, but now their smiles sink into instant grimaces, they have no interest in speaking with us at this locale.
Somehow, while maintaining our distance, off to the side and as close to this front gate as possible, we manage to meet an exceptionally attractive young brunette, who introduces herself as Amy. She’s short and tan with erratically curly brown hair down to her shoulders, in a red dress bearing this repetitive blue flower pattern. I get the impression she’s as wary of this scene as we are, and may have recognized us as seemingly safe compatriots. Or maybe not, although it’s true that after very little deliberation at all, she mentions having some friends over at that state park. Dylan and I confirm possessing the same, and so with shrugs and glances at one another, admitting that we have no better ideas, that we aren’t quite certain how much time remains before that bus returns, we three take off on foot for the campground.
The only crossroad anywhere near here, slicing sideways through the island, is coincidentally within sight — and better yet, will take us basically take us right to the doorstep of the South Bass Island State Park. This is not even a mile, but it’s a mostly dark and entirely residential hike, making for a spooky contrast to the near total mayhem annihilating our eardrums thus far. As we walk along this country road, though Amy was a sight friendlier earlier, she now keeps her distance about two paces ahead of Dylan and me. A gait made substantially slower, however, in that she’s clomping along in these tall, clunky sandals, and is obviously just a little bit sloshed. He and I mostly pass the time muttering vague plans for the rest of the weekend. Though neither of us are dumb enough to come right out and say so, I can tell he feels the same I do about this chick, amazed that she actually walked off into the night like this with two strange men.
“She’s lucky we’re good guys,” Dylan tells me later, “that was really a pretty stupid thing for her to do, if she got mixed up with the wrong people.”
Shocked and rightfully dismayed parents show up on the evening news shaking their heads wondering what became of their missing daughters, oblivious that these little girls are getting wasted at clubs and disappearing with people they don’t even know. Looking at it in that light, maybe leaving with Dylan and me was the smartest thing she ever did — who knows what kind of depraved souls Amy might have walked off with instead, had we not shown up. After all, she did have the same queasy feelings about the Skyway as we.
As if to illustrate this point, during our long walk, as she’s clunking along and we trail just a couple steps behind, numerous vehicles full of hollering boys whistle past, but they see us with her and never stop. Then, a moment of confusion at this fork in the road, with the park plainly visible before us, though we’re not exactly sure where the entrance is. Dylan and I stand in place, attempting to sort this out and make a rational decision, while her tipsy frame sways in the breeze, unable to think.
We eventually decide that turning left makes the most sense. Within a couple of minutes, the park gate appears before us, confirming this hunch. Yet any celebration is short lived, when the gatekeeper asks for either the lot number or the name it was booked under. Dylan knows neither of these things, nor do I. Though taking a stab at his ex-girlfriend’s name and then Jodi With No E’s, both guesses come up empty, and we don’t know the first thing about those other three girls, or whoever else could be camping with them.
The whole no-cell-phone strategy has worked like a charm for both of us, clear up to this exact moment. Now it doesn’t seem so funny. Not that, come to think of it, Dylan even has Jodie’s number memorized. As for Amy, though, she does know these key details about her party, and is able to breeze right on through. Yet our pleas for her to play along and just pretend we’re all together, as simple as this is, are drowned out by the sound of her thunderous heels.
“We’re with her!” we attempt telling the flashlight wielding, off duty cop acting as doorman, pointing in Amy’s rapidly receding direction.
“They with you?” he asks.
Moving forward, casting a glance first at him and then back at us, she coldly states, “I don’t know these guys.”
So this is how she repays her saviors, we valiant, chivalrous saviors escorting her to safety, through the backwoods of this treacherous night. Leaving us to stand mouths agape, without a word of thanks. One smaller part of me might get it, that she is probably questioning what would happen after we gained entry, anyway, considering we don’t even know our party’s campsite number, and for that matter might have made the whole thing up. Whether she would be stuck entertaining us or worse. Still, in this moment, it feels mostly shitty, and will continue to every time the subject is reintroduced.
“Unfuckingbelievable. What…a…cunt!” Dylan marvels, shaking his head.
“Yeah really,” I concur, then cup my hands over my mouth and shout, “Thanks! You’re welcome!”
Regarding our plight, meanwhile, it looks as though we are facing a somewhat lengthy hike back into town. Just when things are at their bleakest, however, a taxi happens to roll up and deposit some people at the gate. Given this unexpected opening for a last minute buzzer shot, he and I climb aboard in their wake.
Back at the room, Karen’s passed out in one of the beds, Dennis the other. This can only mean that pretty much wherever Monica is, she has greatly exceeded expectations on the partying front. Mere association with Dylan’s lame coworkers does not mean she is one of them, I must remind myself, and therefore she may represent a solid backup plan after all. As far as our other bunkmates, however, this current configuration is about as scientifically precise in its irritation as possible. We did expect that given there are just two queen beds and five of us, that some floor sleeping would loom ahead for us guys, though, even if specifics were never ironed out. Ideally, we would hope to shack up with some female by tomorrow night’s conclusion. Staking off separate corners of the carpet, Dylan and I attempt to get some shuteye. Monica staggers in somewhere around six thirty a.m., having chilled on that boat with the Michigan guys all this time, and crawls into bed with Karen.
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Thanks and have a great week!
