I-75 to Heaven

"So … Do you like music?" The scantily claded brunette cooed.
"Sure…but it depends on how do you define music " tryin to be as suave as possible without giving away the almost siesuresque way my hands were trembling.
"AC/DC , The Stones , The Doors … just to name a few" she said as her long nails was twirling the ice in the half empty Long Island Ice Tea .
"DAMN" (ohmagod did my voice just crack?) "M’ame you ain’t from around here are ya?"
But that was O.k. because neither was I.

"I’m telling ya man … Atlanta is were we need to go" Jeff proclaimed . " They got these bars down there were women run around topless."
Let me clue you in on my friend Jeff, the only reason we aloud him in our lil’o group was because he bared an uncanny resemblance to Freddie Mercury (Although Jeff was nowhere near as masculine as Freddie was).
I had just received a check from Uncle Sam for $500 and added to my weekly paycheck of $250 dollars gave me a grand total of ….. around $800 (Damned North Georgia educational system.) I wasn’t goin to just throw my money down the toilet and spend it on something frivolous. Hell no I work hard for this money (at least $250 of it) and I gonna use it as an investment. I was goin to buy a fully functional, battle ready, hand made, perfectly balanced, bastard sword.

"Look…" my friend (I’ve was told by my editor that maybe I should change the names of some of my friends because these people has families now and it might cause some discomfort to them. I argued that this happened thirteen years ago when we were all young, dumb, and full of piss and vinegar (Oh Shit did I just mix up my clichés) And consequences be damned because I’m telling the truth and come hell or high water the truth will be told… no matter what feelings or families I tare asunder ‘so help me god.)

"Look …" my friend Mr. X said. "You’ll still have money left over, the sword only cost $350, and we can still go out and have a good time."
Sensing wisdom in his words I gave in. Mr. X had $200 himself and Jeff pitched in the dollar he found in his Mama’s washing machine, we went to a local car rental lot and rented a Caravan for the weekend trip.

" O.k. this is what we’ll do" Jeff commanding like some kind of sissified drill sergeant ," Scott we’ll pretend that you’re the son of a wealthy carpet mill owner and we’re your friends living it up on Daddy’s money." Now gentle readers this is the same kinda stragedy Pickett used while planning his charge.

"It won’t work." I stated. "Why not?" Jeff squealed. " because with my worn out tennis shoes, my glasses being held together with a staple, and not to mention my ensemble straight off the rack from Wal-Mart . Nobody’s gonna believe I’m the son of a carpet tycoon." Tryin to get him on the same plane of reality that we were on.

"Well do you have a better idea?" Jeff said scornfully.

"Yeah… we go in there with $900 dollars and don’t say shit." Mr. X countered.
So with our master plan laid out before us, and a boom-box rigged simultaneously to the Caravan cigarette lighter and also to the fuse box ( be-damned if we were gonna pay $10 extra for a Caravan with a radio), and Saxson/Cursader screamin at 9 (because at 10 the speakers would bust… cheap-ass piece of shit), and Mr. X muttering under his breath " I’m gonna fuck em….I’m gonna fuck em…. They better not say anything to me because if they do…. I’m gonna fuck em." We were on our way to the happiest place on earth Hotlanta.

2 hours and 4 fuses later we arrived and I was already planning out my personal strategy. "O.k. I’ll spend $20 on beer, $20 in 1’s for the girls garters, $10 for a table dance , $50 bucks total. No sense bein’ stupid about it.", had become my mantra.. While Jeff’s was "Dear Penthouse Forum …You’ll never guess what happened to me today."

While tootlin’ down Ponce de Leon ave. we spotted a place called "Tattletails". "Hey… that was in that song by Motley Crue’s Girls,Girls,Girls". Mr. X pronounced. " Rockin in Atlanta at Tattletails.

"Jesus… You actually admitted to listening to Motley Crue." I poked.
"It was Mrs. X’s tape and it wasn’t labeled . When I realized who it was I stabbed myself in the ears with a #2 pencil." Mr. X… ladies and gentlemen… Musical Martyr.

After procuring our suite at the La Quinta Inn (strategically 50ft away from Tattletails ) we started making our way to the aforementioned club.

What we beheld gentle readers short circuited our young cracker minds. We went in with the assumption that it was just a topless bar. "Holy Shit… thare naked!!!" hollered Mr.X I was quite speechless while Jeff was giggling like a lil’ school girl. I could be wrong but I believe this was the first time we have seen women of this caliber that wasn’t 2 dimensional with a staple in there belly button. It was pretty funny because for the first 30 minutes we were there when a dancer would look at us we would collectively turn our heads and look at something like a light or a plant (notice I didn’t say bush ).

To make matters worse we witness this Mountain walk up to 3 Hispanics fellas sitting at a table and yelled " I SAW YOU TOUCH THE DANCER, GET THE FUCK OUT!" I don’t know if they knew English, but I’m sure they knew what he meant.
Within a couple of beers we started to relax and enjoy the scenery finally able to make eye contact with the lovely ladies. Mr. X was sitting beside me with the composer of the statue "The Thinker" with Charley Manson’s eyes. "you’re not afraid of me are ya ?" a cute lil’ blond asked him. Mr. X only answer was the nervous shaking of his head.

A few hour past and we went from being "Los Trios la Wallflowers" to "Kings of the Fuckin World" One practically well groomed brunette ask Mr. X if he liked her haircut and without missing a beat he said " Bushwhacker Huh?"

All was goin fine until I had to go to the bathroom and I accidentally ran into a wall. At least I thought it was a wall. Then I realized walls don’t normally ware belt buckles that came up about chin level, and ware black suites, and have a habit of beating the tee-total shit of drunks who can’t control themselves.

"Oh Shit" it was the Mountain.

I looked up into the eyes of the Mountain ( I couldn’t tell if there was a cloud around his head, or it the place was just smokey.) and he stared at me like he just caught me doin the tube snake boogie with his girlfriend, his sister, and his mother." Mustering up the courage of condemned man who has made peace with the world and ready to accept his fate.

"Sorry man … don’t beat the shit out of me." I groveled (Fuck courage, Fuck fate) " I was just goin to the john." Suddenly the Mountain moved and the soft illumination of the men’s room sign shined the same way The Holy Grail shined to Arthur and his Knights (cue Angelic Choir).

Upon entering there was a gentleman in a nice dress shirt and black slacks was in front of me. "Go ahead Sir." He said with a big smile. "Man... that is so cool … the guy is gonna let me go before him." I thought. I went into the stall and did what had to be done and as I came out I noticed the Gentleman was still there with a big ol’ smile on his face. I smiled back and started to leave and he turned on the water. "I didn’t piss on my hands." I thought but went ahead and washed my hands while keeping my eye on the oh so helpful gentleman. Then he handed me a towel. "If this MotherFucker does one more thing I’m gonna punch him in da fuckin face." I thought to myself.

"Want a breath mint?" he said politely.
"WHAT!!" I hollered.
Nervously he said it again.
"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN?" feeling my manhood was bein questioned..
"Man do you want a breath mint…. Cologne … Cigarette?" as he was doin the Vanna White hand gestures toward the display of cologne, cigarettes, and yes breath mints, also there was a glass jar with money in it with a white piece of paper scotch taped to it with the word "TIP" written on it.
"Oh shit … You’re a bathroom attendant!" I said with exultant joy. "Yeah man … what was you thinking?" He asked.
"I don’t know I thought you were some kind of … never mind … you don’t mind change do ya? I’m saving the paper money for ladies?" I said as I was feeling like the biggest dumbass, slackjawed, backwoods, hillbilly, yokel in the fuckin state.

Upon return from the last embarrassing act that I did, I knew that the night wouldn’t be complete before I pulled the proverbial "Hat-trick" of fuck ups, and then it happened.
All of a sudden the deejay squawked over the speakers "At 4 o clock beer $1…. Table dances $2 !!!"

"Holy Shit…. With the money we have left over we could… let’s see $1 times X amount of beers, plus $2 times Y amount of girls, divided by Z amount of money we had." We figured (with the mathematician skills that would put Good Will Hunting to shame) come around 4 o’clock we would own the fuckin bar.

"Hate to break this to ya Hon," one of the dancers who over heard our nefarious plan,
"But the club closes at 3… the deejay fuckin with ya." It took about 2 seconds for what she said to sink in, and in a unison so perfect it would make the Vienna Boys Choir hang their collective heads in shame we hollered "FUCK!".

Somehow we made it back to the suite and woke up the next mourning to a much darker mood.
"We only got $12 left." Said Mr. X.
"Oh shit… how did that happen?" I wondered.
" I guess it might have sumthin to do with you and 3 table dances at the same time."
I don’t know if it was the dread of having to go home with 30 hours still on the clock, or if Jeff started feeling guilty for not contributing for the night before. "I just thought of sumthin… my income tax check should be in the mailbox at my house."
"How much are you supposed to have?" I asked.
"Around $700."

So our choices were A: go home and Jeff’s check would be there and come back, or 2: go home with our tails tucked between our legs and not come back. So guess what? Yeap you guessed it.
No and I repeat No road trip story would be complete without the prerequisite wrong turn and right off of Ponce de Leon when we should have took left we didn’t realize we took the wrong way until we were half way to Athens.
By the time we got back to Dalton we had $0 and suckin fumes and prayin that there would a envelope with the IRS equivalent of 700 George Washingtons.

Guess what? God loves stripclubs.

"HOTDAMN-HOTDAMN-HOTDAMN!!!" Mr. X sang as he did a Irish jig around the van. One stop at the local Bi-Lo to cash the check and we were in and out of town in less than 20 minutes headed back down I-75 to the rest of our lost weekend.

I never thought 24 hrs was a very long time especially for change. I mean c’mon we’re talking 24 measly hours what could possibly change. The whole fuckin world that’s what.
Case in point 24 hours earlier we entered this establishment as young, shy, North Ga. hicks from the land that is known for its red clay and its air/lint ratio. Now we where conquering heroes with the battle cry "Carp’e Poon" and we would be smarter about it this time around ( Sheeya Right ).

Jeff had made nicey-nicey with a not-so-natural blond (with the dress code for the ladies you could tell that kind thing.) Mr. X and myself was admiring what our prayers had put before us as I fell in love at least 57 different times that magical night. All of a sudden my chair whirled around and a fetching young woman looked deeply into my glazed over baby blues and with a tiger like purr said "I wanna ride you." And with a rabbit like whimper I said "o.k." as #58 was gyrating on top of me with M.C. Hammer’s "You can’t touch this" floating over the bar like a fog, I was wondering if she was appreciating the irony of the song (My answer would be you bet your ass she did.) as the song closed she sat down across from me and started telling me how the boss hated her because she wouldn’t give it up to him. "That Bastard" I brooded not realizing that all this was part of the con. "So you wanna another lap dance?" she asked. Summoning my mastery for conversation I said "Uhhhh Yeup." I didn’t want to piss off the Mountain so I held my hands behind my back kinda reminded me of those old spy films ( Do your worse I’ll never tell you where the microfilm is hidden.) as she slowly poured herself over me with ZZ top "Fool for your stockings" egging her on. I was wondering what color our first house was going to be. All of a sudden Mr. X said "You know… I think I can take that Mountain."

"O.K. time to go." the next day we on our way back to the land of routine, we stopped over in Carbondale just over the Whitfield county line so Jeff could use the pay phone. I was sitting in the caravan reminiscing of the beautiful women we met and how they made us feel like kings when I looked over at a near by swimming pool and saw a woman roughly the size of a Escort station wagon in a 2 piece string bikini look my way and gave me the look as if just suck a lemon or smelled a fart or vice versa. "Well that seals it … Welcome Dalton where even the ugly girls have a Fuckin attitude."

With the visions of hot chicks swimming around in my head and a grand total of $1600 gone I felt pretty good. I felt like I accomplished what I wanted to. As I walked through the door my uncle was sitting on the couch smiling. "Well let’s see it." He said.

"See what?" I retorted.

"The sword"

"FUCK" I knew I would forget something.

Until the next round

D.B.

Helen of Dalton

"Profound Beauty" I said to Donnie.

"Yes....that's it" He exclaimed.

"A woman with such a subtle mix of looks, grace, and inner beauty that you only witness it once in a lifetime....twice if you're lucky"

"A women that time doesn’t so much as stand still for, but wraps around and tries to keep her for itself making every thing else look like a slo-motion replay in her wake?"
Curley from "City Slickers" talked about such a woman. I'm pretty sure that Helen of Troy was one also.

I'm not talkin’ about a pretty girl.... they're a dime a dozen.... with most women there's at least one flaw that is so glaring that it keeps them from ever even coming close to glancing at; not to mention ever achieving.
It may seem like a strange subject for a couple of North Georgia Crackers in a "not so Irish" Irish pub to be discussing, but Donnie and I are capable of such debates... especially after a couple of pints of Guinness.

"Have you ever seen such a woman?" My friend asked.
"Oh indeed I have," already falling back into my past.
Summer of 1997... Kind of a numb year for me. I was trying to adjust to my newfound life as a bachelor after 7 years of marriage in which the last 2 years was more of apathetic routine than undying love. I was ready to get on with my life (Well to be more correct... trying to bullshit everybody else that I was trying to get on with my life... More accurately trying to bullshit myself.)

While me and my son was eating at this restaurant on that one faithful afternoon I ran into my cousin Tracy who I've haven't seen since the last family reunion ... err I mean funeral.
"Scottie!!!!!" I heard with such joy and exuberance that it was hard for me to believe it was coming from a females lips. Scottie was the label that only my family called me; my ex-wife or my closest and dearest friends always called me Scott or Bastard.

"Tray... How ya doin?" I said with confused enthusiasm, because she looks so different, not in a bad /good way mind you, just different.
"You just hafta go out with me and my new boyfriend tonight ....we'll go bar-hoppin’." she said.
"Who’s your new boyfriend?"
"Oh, his name is Chad.... you'll like him"
The relationship I had with my cousins was more like brother and sisters. We grew up around each other and always lived in close proximity. So my chances of actually liking this guy was the same chance of me winning the Ga. Lottery. (Especially since I rather keep the dollar than to waste it on a 1 in 100 million chance that lighting will strike.)

I met up with Tracy at her motel room at 6:30 PM that night and met her new beau Chad (let’s just say I'm glad I kept the dollar). "So where are we goin?" I wondered out loud. "We’re goin to Jimmy’s" Tracy said. "That's just fuckin’ great," I thought to myself. Jimmy's is a place where all the mid-twenty's people went to so they can be seen and be shallow with others of the same ilk. I figured that probably 90% of the parking lot would have those FUCK-UP Volkswagen bugs that are so popular with new generation of upwardly mo-bile pricks.

"Great... let's go."
Upon entering Jimmy's I had this sudden sensation to put a razor to my wrist and save myself the indignation of the night's festivities. Before I could find a plug-in… "Scottie .... I want you to meet a friend of mine.... Brad.... this is Scott."
"Hey big guy ... how's it going? "He said. "Goin’ o.k. I guess..... Shit ... where did Tray go?" I said. "Oh, she's probably making the rounds......saying hi to everybody...You may not know this but I'm the bouncer here."
"Oh really," I asked as I was looking down at the top of his already balding scalp.
"Yeah, I might not look like much, but I can hold my on when I need to."
"I bet you can," I mused. "This is just sucky," I thought. "I’m stuck here with an Oompa-Loompa in a golf shirt with a fuckin’ chip on his shoulder."

"So, what's your poison Big-Guy?" he asked.
"Well, what do they have?"
"Anything you want, Big-Guy."
"O.k., I'll have a Newcastle." He had the same look in his eyes that my dog used to get when I tried explaining the difference between the living room floor and the newspaper in the bathroom.
"What...?"
"Newcastle? ... Guinness?" I was met with the same sound that Tim Allen used to use on Home Improvement.
"I'll just go up to the bar," I said.
"O.k. we'll see you later Big-guy."

I started making my way to the bar and the place was so crowded that I was constantly bumping in to other people. "Oh excuse me." "I’m sorry." And the ever useful "uh-oh" was my shield. And it was like every body I bumped into was reading for the same part in a play. "No problem Big-Guy," they would answer.
"What’s this shit?" I thought. I'm 5'10 and 200 lbs., not small by any means but, every body was acting like I'm Andre the Fuckin’ Giant. And so these ladder-climbers christened me Big-Guy. So I finally make it to the bar.
"What’ll it be Big-Guy?" the bar-maid smirked.
"What kind of beer ya'll got?" I fumed.
"Oh, we got anything you want."
"Great...I'll have a Newcastle."
Once again, I was looked at with the same look my friend, Lee, got when I tried to explain to him that playin’ "Sawblade Frisbee" was not a good idea.
"Guinness?" still nothing.
"What do you have that's not a Miller, Coors, Michelob, or Budweiser?"
"We have Killian's." she said.
"Super....Killian's then…" less than enthusiastic I answered.

Then a fellow bumped into me at the bar. I noticed he looked more out of place than I did. He was wearing blue jeans, t-shirt, and a dirty red baseball cap.
"Hey man.... how ya doin?" He said cheerfully.
"Doin’ alright ..... How about you?" I returned.
"O.k., I guess. There's a lot of pretty women running around here ain't they."
"Yeah... I guess ..." I said as I saw two ladies who would probably blow you if you owned one of those new V W bugs coming out of the ladies room rubbing there Rudolf like noses.
"I’ve asked a bunch of them to dance but nobody wants to," my newfound brother in awkwardness quipped. "Well, good luck man... see ya later," I told him.

Feeling good that I met someone in this god-forsaken place that didn't call me Big-Guy. Then I ran into this gentleman and accidentally made him spill his beer. "Sorry, man," I said sincerely. "Let me get you another." "That’s o.k... you’re bigger than me ....no prob... Big-Guy" "FUCK!" I yelled leaving that guy a lil' more than just puzzled.

The night was a total wash out.... and I was trying to come up with a good lie that I could tell Tracy... ya' know the kind... the kind that you tell someone you care for deeply so you wont hurt there feelings. Like, "No. Really. Grandma, I would love to have some hogs head cheese but I just had these stomach staples put in and I don't want them to bust open." Or, "No. Honey, I don't mind you tying me up and clamping a battery charger to my testicles, but I left my batteries at the office and I don't have enough gas to go back and get ‘em."
As I finally came up with a good lie and as soon as the first syllable was escaping my lips...
In she walked.

"Oh, glorious muse, grant me the ability to wrap wisdom around my tongue and let forth the nectar of eloquence to....to.... ahhh fuck it."

Really what could be said.... the same tired old clichés that are passed around like a funnel at a frat party. No, I don't want to do her that injustice.
She kinda look like Penelope Anne Miller; blonde hair; straight not quite shoulder length. She was wearing a tight, black dress that came about 2 inches above the knee with a split up the side that in itself would have made her a very pretty woman but it was the way flowed across the room . Space liquefied and blurred around her and I saw her with a focus so keen that I doubted my senses.

"Scottie .... Come dance with me." Tracy pleaded. As she dragged me across the dance floor, I looked over at the bar and saw the red ball cap of my brother in awkwardness. He gave me the thumbs up. I wanted to tell him, "No....no... no... You got it all wrong this is family, but I don't think that would have made a difference. In N. Ga. there are three dances that are acceptable to people of my ilk: 1. air guitar to a song, 2. head banging and/or Foot Tapping, and 3. the lame ass Caucasian/Bruce Springsteen "Dancing in the Dark" routine.

Looking around at my so-called contemporaries, I knew 1 and 2 was out of the question. As I was shaking my groove thing, my dear sweet cousin, who I still pictured as an 11 year old brat was more up to date on the latest dance steps, started gyrating in front of me. I'm in over my head; I thought and was praying to God that this was one of those 30 second songs that was so popular with the youngins. Point 4 minutes later I was able to leave the dance floor and go and hide in a dark corner somewhere. Then I noticed "The Woman" again. She was playing darts and I could never think of a time when that game was so alluring to me. As she went to retrieve her darts, I noticed that her left foot came up ever so slightly off the floor as she looked behind her over her shoulder and gave her partner a smile that would have made even the sternest and most jaded of men to turn into that buzzard off the Bugs Bunny cartoon.

I sat and witnessed the rest of the night, nursing my third Killians, listening to really bad karaoke.... and watching. Not stalking mind you, just admiring.
As the night came to a close and Tracy getting closer to knowing the vomit fairy I noticed that "The Woman" was getting ready to leave. "O.k... if you don't do it now... you’ll regret it for the rest of your life," I said to myself.

"Excuse me," I said sheepishly.
"Yes," she turned and answered.
Do or die, Scott.

"I just have to say you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen." There I said it.
And with the same smile she gave her partner she said, "Thank you."


And then I walked.