Daily Story—Category: Story From My Past
Tuesday, August 25, 2009 at 3:05PM -------------------------------------------------
Sundays in Des Moines, Iowa, 1976-77
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I always tell people I didn’t go to college, but in actuality I did. I attended Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa for one year in 1976. My older Brother Jim was a junior there, the year that I was a freshman. That’s the main reason I went there, because he was there. I lived in the dorms, but he had a ground floor, ratty, one-bedroom apartment and I hung out there all the time. Sometimes I slept on the couch at night if I was too fucked up to go home. Which was many a night.
I only spent one year there because I flunked out. I was a fine arts major (this is back when I used to draw) and my first semester was spotty, but the second semester was a true exercise in slackerdom, before the word “slacker” was even used. I flunked every single class I had enrolled in. It’s not that I’m stupid, I just stopped going to classes and was basically high and drunk for an entire semester. I did this on purpose, I knew I could probably never have a time like this again in my life and I decided to pursue several months of just fucking around and having pure fun in my life. This was a great year of my life. That summer after my parents saw my 0.0 grade average (do you know how proud I was when a few years later Animal House came out and Bluto Blutarsky’s grade average was 0.0?) it was decided that maybe I was more suited for a life of toiling in shitty jobs. I moved out on my own and got a job delivering furniture. The first of many dead end gigs. I ended up in the printing trade, where I now work nights and I’ve never had a job I like or look forward going to. Not having a college degree has cost me some writing jobs, but you know what? It was worth it for those nine months of wild, unabashed, motherfucking fun. How many of you have had nine months of pure, unadulterated fun? Well, I did, I ran wild and never looked back. When you’re young you can do this and I’m glad I did.
The most fun day of the week back then was always Sunday. I loved Sundays in Des Moines, Iowa in 1976-77.
In those days Des Moines, Iowa was “dry” on Sundays and you couldn’t buy booze. This was always troublesome for Jim and I. At the start of the school year we would just buy extra booze for Sunday’s drinkathon. But sadly, as our booze supply would run low on Saturday night, or when we went back to his apartment after a party, we would greedily consume Sunday’s supply (we were doing a lot of speed those days and we would drink, drink, drink!) and my oh my, how dry we would be on Sunday. It was gruesome. We’d smoke pot and maybe do some pills, but it just wasn’t as much fun without booze. Soon we figured a remedy to this nerve-rattling problem.
About three weeks into the school year we figured out the solution to our Sunday booze situation We’d have a party. And steal our own booze, that is, booze that the guests would bring to the shindig (I love the word “shindig” by the way.) We went around on a Saturday afternoon and invited everyone that we knew or even half knew and invited them to a party at Jim’s apartment. And we told everyone not to show up empty-handed, since we were throwing the shindig (there’s that word again!), the least they could do is bring some booze. And if they had drugs? All the better, we never said no in those days.
Around seven that night people started showing up and soon it was a full scale party, with Jim’s stereo blaring rock ‘n’ roll, kids drinking and getting high and just general college type merriment and going nuts. About a half an hour into the party, Jim and I would go to work. Basically all kids drank those days was beer and cheap wine. So the refrigerator would be full of both. What we would do is take two to three beers out like we were taking them to someone and then stash them all over his apartment. Even though the apartment would be filled with people, we became quite adept at stashing booze right in front of people. There were four cupboards on the wall in the kitchen and we would open them, take out a glass and toss a beer in at the same time and then pour the remaining can of beer in the glass. The bedroom was usually empty so that was a primo place to stash beers and bottles of wine. The way we worked the wine would be to take a bottle out of the refrigerator, walk around filling up our party guests glasses like the good little host’s we were and then when the bottle was half empty or less, we’d stash it in the bedroom or bathroom. You couldn’t pull the cupboard trick with a big bottle. Well, I guess we could’ve tried, but a good booze-stasher knows not to push his luck or to be too showy or extravagant in your work. We were professionals and we played by the rules. We had a party at his place almost every Saturday and pulled the stashing trick week after week to tremendous results.
When the booze would run out, we’d pass the hat, get a new supply and stash, stash, stash the night away. The party was usually over around two or three in the morning and then we’d pass out (for some reason, since the booze was hidden, we weren’t tempted to drink it, I guess cause it would be warm and too much of a chore when you’re sozzled out of your ever-loving gourd to start looking for the stash) and wake up in the morning to quite a mess. We’d go to a local Convenient store and get something to drink and maybe something to eat and then go back to Jim’s apartment and sit around, have our drinks and food and listen to records or watch TV. Then we’d start bagging up all the empty cans and bottles, empty the ash trays and throw them into the dumpster in the back. Then the fun would begin.
We’d get so fucked up at the party, that we’d forget where we stashed all the booze on Sunday, so we’d start opening up cupboards, looking under Jim’s bed, inside the laundry hamper in the bathroom, under the couch, on the window sill behind the curtain and on and on. It was like an alcoholic version of an Easter egg hunt. We would put the beers and the half-empty bottles of wine on his rickety kitchen table and usually the hunt would yield between fifteen to twenty beers and three or four half empty bottles of wine. Sundays may have been dry in Des Moines, Iowa, but deep in the heart of Wombacherville it would soon be happy hour. All fucking night! Huzzah!
After we had found all the stashed booze, we’d put it in the fridge and then we’d go fuck around all day and let it refrigerate. My brother had a beater of a car, so we’d drive to record stores, book stores, maybe to the mall, to the park and sometimes we’d just motor around town and fuck with people we thought looked like uptight assholes. One thing we would do sometimes is go to the Convenient store and get a big fountain Coke with ice and then drive around looking for a guy on a bike. He would have to look like some sort of jocko, sporty type asshole, if he looked like a nice guy, just enjoying a leisurely ride, we’d leave him alone. Women were definitely off limits. But if he fit the “asshole” criteria, Jim would slow down and we’d pull over as close to Sporto as he could. I’d lean out the passenger window and scream out something like, “Hey dickhead!” He’d turn and I’d throw the entire Coke in his face. Jim would then floor it and we’d be howling with laughter as the jocko guy would be screaming at us. Fun, fun, fun!
Usually around five we’d go back to Jim’s apartment and get high and drink a few beers. Our version of a two-man happy hour. Then it would be time to pick up dinner. And I mean “pick up.” We’d go to a grocery store and one of us would steal a can of Manwich and the other would steal a package of ground beef and then we’d buy the cheapest pack of hamburger buns possible. Then we’d go back to Jim’s apartment and continue drinking while making our Manwich feast. One thing to note here is that in the winter, it was easy to steal this shit, because you had a big winter coat on and you could fit the item you were stealing in your coat pocket. But in the beginning of the year and at the end when it was warm and you would look a little conspicuous wearing a winter coat in to the store it was tough. We had to “jock” the items. In other words stick them down our pants. We’d wear oversize shirts, untucked and baggy pants and we’d stuff the item down our pants, buy the buns and take the stolen goods out of our pants as soon as we got into the car. That’s why we took turns on what we’d steal, putting ground beef in your pants is a weird feeling and neither of us liked it. But without beef, Manwich is pretty much like putting hot ketchup on hamburger buns. But with the browned, ground beef mixed in...well, we all know this, but I’ll repeat it anyway: A sandwich is a sandwich, but a Manwich is a motherfucking meal, motherfucker! Especially when you’re high as a kite and half drunk, which is what we would be as we would put a few open buns on a plate and ladle the magic mixture on and dig in and pig out.
Then we’d eat the meal while watching the Sonny and Cher comedy hour. We’d usually wolf the food down fast and then continue drinking and smoking pot. And then after Sonny and Cher, we’d watch Kojak, starring Telly Savalas. By now we’d be pretty well blasted and Kojak always cracked us the fuck up. If you’re not familiar with the show, Telly Savalas played Kojak, a tough talking, New York detective. Two of his trademarks were that he sucked on Tootsie Roll pops and he called everyone “baby.” And he smoked pencil thin cigars. For some reason, we thought this show was hilarious. We’d count the number of times he said “baby,” and we would laugh and laugh and laugh. It was always a goddamned blast.
Fun comes in all shapes and sizes and I hope everyone who reads this blog has some fun stashed up their sleeves. Have fun while you can my friends, life is short and so is Gary Coleman.
Reader Comments (4)
great story, marty! even though i'd have lost half my beer, i wish i was there!
I LOVE it!! Thank you for sharing this story with us. I look forward to many more.
Great story, Marty! Five stars!
Very great story! Plus I learned a lot of new words ! :) the word "shindig" is great ! and the equivalent in french is great too! reeepeat after meeee : Bamboula ! Bamboula ! I'm going to make a Bamboula ! haha
TO SOZZLED OUT !