Westing by Tim and Beer
as written fer Western Lore

Western Lore: A magazine about ghost towns and the West.
Available from Tim White for one buck. send well concealed cash.
3322 broadway
sacramento ca
95817

Kaptain Robbie Knievel was attempting the greatest jump of his life -- 30 limos -- on live teevee, Wednesday, February 25, 1998. Well that's what it sounded like Sunday night while drunkenly watching the Simpsons.

Bill looked over as he grabbed another beer, "Let's go." He was jumping Tuesday night, so we called up Avel and Steve and asked if they wanted to go. Of course. Bill bought a $500 VW Fox, but it was out of commission by Monday night.

Steve and Avel showed up at 2:30 AM, and Avel stayed up all night playing Atari 2600. There was no way we were going to miss out, so we rented a Plymouth tuesday morning. By the time we left to go pick up the car, we knew we weren't going to make it on time. But that was no reason not to go. Hell, we had a Redd Foxx tape.

I needed to pick some crud up from work, so we swung by on our way out of town. I saw poor little Timmy White sitting at his desk looking sad and pathetic, "Hey Tim, we're driving to Vegas to see Robbie Knievel jump. We're not going to make it on time. Wanna go?" Tim told the Walking Boss he was sick and hopped in the car.

The first thing Tim did was demand we take the sketchy snow route over Donner Pass at I-80 and down Highway 95 to Vegas. We did whatever it took to keep Tim off our backs. That man is dangerous. We figured if it was snowed in, we could retreat and take I-5. Unlike those stupid chumps the Donners, we zipped over the pass with nary a bit cannibalism.

Bill doesn't pay much attention when he drives, but it's okay because he drives fast. We started a pool on when Bill would loose control. Avel was sitting up front, and when it was his time, he'd turn off the wipers.

No luck, Bill didn't crash. It didn't matter, we weren't going to make it anyway.

We stopped at a thrift store somewhere in the desert and bought a tape of truck driving songs, and some Atari games. They had a gnarly bitchin mirror with an airbrushed picture of a hotpants wearing, bare breasted biker babe straddling a Harley. Man, what I wouldn't do for a piece of ass like that, but Tim is the only one I know Man enough to handle that kind. That's why he's The King of Nevada.

We hit 95 which, if you don't know, runs straight down the middle of nowhere -- right down the throat of Nevada. Bill was making good time, when The Man came down hard on us. Bill patiently explained that we were in a hurry to see Robbie Knievel. The Man asked why we didn't have anything better to do than ditch out of work and drive to Vegas, also pointing out we should just watch it at home on teevee. Fuck The Man! Off the pigs! The Man just don't understand. Stop talking sense, pig. Bill took his ticket. He did not shoot the deputy.

I don't know if you've ever listened to Redd Foxx, but he ain't funny. That didn't stop us from playing his tape though. Sample punchline: "Tamale wagon? Hell, I didn't even notice his zipper was down." Somewhere, someone threw the tape out the window . We almost stopped and decided we'd just pick it up on the way back. We put in the tape with Holiday Road. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, we both know it's that song on National Lampoon's Vacation.

When we hit Mina, Tim pointed out a good bar, so we stopped. We piled out of the car. Bill left the engine running and the doors open for quick getaway. Several $1.25 cans of Meister Brau colored us gone.

Full bladders, but we desperately needed more beer. We sped past two hippies hitchhiking. We laughed at them for being stuck out in the middle of snow covered BF Egypt, then figured, what the hell and we turned around. We crammed 'em in the Plymouth, and now there was seven.

Word on the street was they were hitching to Guatemala by way of El Paso. Straight from Huggy Bear's mouth. I shit you not. We stopped at a McDonalds leaving the car running with the hitchhikers. We had spent all our money on beer, and Steve wasn't sharing. Scraping change, Bill, Avel, Tim and I had enough to split a cheeseburger four ways. I didn't even get a pickle. Bastards.

We located an ATM but there was no more time left to eat, we had to see Robbie, damn it. We passed through another town barely big enough for a bar. We stopped. Had a few beers. Even the hitchhikers had a few. We were trying to decide whether to continue on or stay and drink. The hitchhikers decided we should continue.

Time was running short so Avel wrote "Please don't pull us over. Vegas by 6!" in the dust on the Plymouth. Bill got pulled over again. Not only is The Man ignorant, but he can't read none neither. The cop said, "Do you know how fast you were going?" Bill, "35. No, okay, it was 40." Then he explained why we were in a hurry. The cop ran the license, and let us go with a warning. Bill yelled "Yay!!" or "Woo!!" or something else dumb like that and we took off. The cop didn't even mention that the car was overloaded with people. You know why? Cause he was scared. Scared of what Tim might do to him. Scared that Tim would kick hell out him and his women and children. Scared so bad that he don't even want to go on living. Tim is the Heart of Darkness. He has that effect on people.

We rolled onto Vegas screaming for booze. The hitchhikers asked quietly but firmly to please be let out. We slowed down long enough to get them the hell out, picked up a dozen of Schlitz, and drove to Robbie.

He had already jumped. We weren't even close. We got a cheap steak, and some drinks. Five drinks for the four of us. "Uh, you ordered an extra drink." "No, I'm just an alcoholic." I was desperate to get drunk so I didn't have to drive on the way back. The steak sucked, the service was horrible. It was impossible to get a waiter to come by the table. It took forever to order, and another million years to get our drinks. We decided to short 'em $20, so we tossed our money on the table and made an orderly, but quick break for the car. The waiter came running out. "Oh, we're $20 short? Sorry about that." We gave him his 20 clams, the bastard. Hopped in the car and headed home.

We played the song Holiday Road all the back. As the sun rose on the Highway 99 corridor, Tim and Avel realized that Holiday Road's just a metaphor for heroin addiction. Tim called in sick. I showered and went to work.

Proof that Holiday Road is a metaphor for heroin addiction link.

12/24/98