Taken from my book, When We Were Young

Empty on a Full Tank of Rum
Hash was a friend who lived in a neighborhood full of business executives and lawyers. The houses surrounded a golf course, and they all looked the same. His dad battled cancer when he was about twelve. I didn't know him then, but friends who did said they saw him change as his dad got worse. Then his dad died, and he became like us--that piece of the puzzle that was manufactured wrong and just didn't fit no matter how you tried to turn the piece.
I was friends with him because we were in a band together back in high school. When some of the guys formed another band with Hash, he asked me to play guitar. I said no. They wanted a sound like all the other bands out there that complained about breaking up with a girl--or just complained. I felt there was more to life then breaking up--what about breaking in? That was why I’d said no. Still, we were all friends.
Hash was kicked out of the band for reasons that I don’t know, but they may have been because of his drinking and drug use. Personally, I thought he got fucked over. He was still a good drummer.
I graduated high school before him, but we kept in touch. He was struggling for a passing grade. It wasn't that he was stupid; it was just that he had better things to do, like getting a paycheck and drinking.
One night, he came over to the apartment. Tactics bought him bottles of cheap vodka and rum. Beer was already in the fridge, so Hash used an uncola chaser, and I used grapefruit juice with the vodka. There was a high probability, we weren't going to remember that night.
Tactics started on beer first and then worked to vodka and rum. We watched a movie that boosted our testosterone, and our drinks enhanced our destructive impulses. Everyone has these destructive impulses, and maybe they should give into them sometimes.
Pirating was routine for Tactics and me; we'd been doing it since we'd moved in to our apartment. It almost seemed like a job. Whenever you saw the FEAR stencil, it was like payday. We weren't revolutionaries; we just had nothing better to do. Boredom and everything else in our life was our motive. We always put on our dark clothing for our pirate voyage. This was the best job. But Hash seemed lost.
"Does anyone have any dark clothes for me to wear?"
Tactics put on his ski mask. "Here are some pants. We're driving your car."
Tactics grabbed his FEAR stencil and two cans of spray paint. We each had our own pack of cigarettes, and it was a unanimous decision to bring what was left of the rum. We walked quickly to Hash's car, blending in with the darkness in the silent parking lot.
Hash drove and held onto the bottle of rum. Tactics rode shotgun, and I was in the back seat of the red BMW. Tactics showed Hash the church and a convenience store that were already tagged with our mark: FEAR. The sight of FEAR stenciled on the wall at these locations always made the drive to and from school a little more satisfying.
Hash laughed out loud, almost spilling the rum. Tonight we had our sights on something bigger, a place visible and well-known to everyone who lived in this small town.
Growing up going to a church like this, two things could happen to you: (1) you could learn how to live a life of no sex or no drugs or no real opinion on how things are; or (2) you could catch up on your sleep from the night before. I should have brought a pillow.
This church, like most, was the ultimate symbol for fear--the fear of living, the fear of dying, and the fear of truly being free.
Hash parked in the side parking lot. Tactics held his spray can tightly, and I took a few swigs of rum, and then passed the bottle back to Hash. The smell of rage, boredom, and revenge released was more than the rum. This was our baptism.
Tactics gave a count of three, while Hash drank the rum and kept the engine going for a quick getaway. Tactics and I were in a dead sprint to the side doors of the clone factory. He quickly painted FEAR on the windows and the bricks. I spent my time destroying anything breakable. Tactics looked at me and gave a nod to run back to Hash's car. I was still laughing.
We got in, and Hash drove away in skids and squeals.
"What did you guys do?" Hash asked.
Still laughing, I said, "Tactic spray painted the church."
"I know, man. I'm disappointed in myself," Tactics said.
"Why?" asked Hash.
"I couldn't think of anything to say,” Tactics answered. “I was there staring at the wall with my spray paint, and I couldn't think of anything to say. I used to do this all the time in Richmond."
"Maybe you're getting old,” I said.
"Shut up! Pass me the rum."
If there is a God, I thought, we were definitely going to hell. The way I saw it, on the other hand, was if all my friends were there, and if my heroes were already there, then I was glad I was burning with the people I cared about.
"You have to create your own fun in this town," said Tactics.
We drove downtown, past the barhopping drunkards, past the kids with nothing to do, past a few cop cars.
Hash pulled behind a white Bronco. Purple lettering on the side said the vehicle belonged to Dr. DJ. The vehicle was also decorated with a phone number and the slogan, “Let's party.”
"He probably finished playing some middle-school dance," said Tactics.
"What a waste,” I said.
"I hate pop. You know that's all he was hearing tonight," said Hash.
So it was unanimous to get Dr. DJ for the common good (what was left of it). We all took a drink. Tactics put his ski mask back on and stared, Hash flicked him off, and I started to realize how drunk Hash was becoming as his head became heavier.
Dr. DJ stopped at a convenience store and parked in their lot, so Hash parked in a different parking lot. The parking lots were separated by a two-foot high wall. We waited, not knowing what we were actually doing.
The unsuspecting Dr DJ came out with a cold beverage, got into his Dr. DJ mobile, and drove away.
"He's getting away!" yelled Tactics.
Hash revved up the engine and drove at top speed over the small wall. For a split second, his car was in the air, not finding the ground underneath. The contact as the car hit the pavement sounded like a ravenous drummer in a quartet beating everything back. As sparks flew, we howled.
Hash maintained control of the car, and we were in heated pursuit of Dr. DJ.
Realizing Dr DJ was out of our sight, Hash yelled, "Where the hell is he?"
"Wow, Hash. Your drunk driving skills are excellent," said Tactics.
I chugged the rum and cola. Finishing it, I wondered why I wasn't feeling the effects, but I was sober enough to say, "We are all going to die."
These words initiated more howling.
I thought that if this was going to be used later as a re-enactment of drunk driving for a drivers improvement class, we might as well make the most of it. Either way, we had no real destination in mind. We could have gone anywhere that night, but we stayed within the confines of the small town.
"Hey, Hash. Where are we going?" asked Tactics.
"I don't know. Just driving. Where are we?" slurred Hash, "I can't believe I'm still driving."
Tactic started giving Hash random directions. "All right, man. Go left, go right, and remember to keep your foot on the gas."
We ended up in a residential area.
"Hey, Tactics," I said, "you think Hash is okay to drive?"
"Yeah, sure,” Tactics answered. “Jonah, check out this soccer mom Caravan in front of us. Ya think I should?"
"Hell, yeah," slurred Hash as he slowly started to pass out.
"No Hash, you can't go to sleep. You have to drive," Tactics insisted.
"Oh, all right. Hey, this is a nice neighborhood. Maybe I'll live here after I move out of my mom's house," Hash concluded.
Tactics ran out and stenciled FEAR on the van. In a few hours when the baby factory woke up, she would go into cardiac arrest. Tactics jumped back in the car, and we laughed.
Hash pulled out and found his way back to a well-lighted, main stretch of road, a place where three guys as drunk as we were shouldn't have been.
Our heads were full of rum and beer, and suddenly a cop car was on our left side. This was sobering, as another one, and then another, drove with us down the long stretch of road. There was nothing but silence between us. Was this it? Were we going to be pulled over?
The three of us softly strapped on our seat belts and faced forward, hands folded on our laps like a group of choir boys on their way to church. I needed more rum.
I didn't want to go to jail, and I didn't think Hash should have been driving, but, lucky for us, the three cops turned left while we went right through an intersection. The howling began again.
"Where are we?" asked Tactics.
"I was about to ask you the same question,” I said.
"Whoa, we're drunk!" yelled the insightful Hash.
Confusion crept up like vomit as Hash nodded off at the wheel, causing the car to swerve. It was late enough that we didn't have to worry about other cars on the road, but the median kept getting closer and closer. It was only a matter of time before we heard BLAMA! CHUNK! and CHUNK! Two wheels were where they were supposed to be, but the other set was on the median.
Tactics took the wheel and refreshed Hash's memory about what straight meant.
"See those dotted lines on your right and that yellow line on your left? Stay between those,” he said.
"What go right?" slurred Hash.
Tactics surveyed the situation and told Hash to turn into the parking lot of a convenience store that was closed.
"I'm driving," said Tactics.
"No! Uh, I have to take a piss," Hash answered.
Drunk and disorderly, Hash stumbled out of the car at the same time that he tried to unzip his fly.
"Don't piss on your car, man!" I yelled.
"Where is it?" asked Hash.
"Just keep walking straight, man, to the store. Piss there,” I said.
"Where's the yellow line, man?" Hash asked.
Hash walked with one hand holding his zipper, which was down, and the other hand holding his crotch.
"I'm kind of drunk, but I can drive,” I told Tactics.
"No,” Tactics answered. “I'm drunk, but I know my way home."
"Ok, you drive. But where are we?" I asked.
"I don't know, but I do know I should be driving."
Hash came back and sat in the front seat, where he immediately fell into the monk prayer position. Tactics went to take a piss and returned with a potted plant.
"What's with the plant?" I asked.
"It may look nice in our apartment,” he answered.
"Cool," I concluded.
Hash groaned, "I can't remember the last time I was this fucked, uh, this fucked up."
"If you could remember, you wouldn't have been fucked up," I told him.
"Whooo, I'm fucked up?" yelled Hash as he went under in a deep sleep.
"Bullshit, Hash. If I have to be up, so do you," announced Tactics. "I didn't know I was going to babysit tonight."
"Do you know where we are yet?" I asked.
Tactics and I looked around, trying to find anything that looked familiar. We knew we were nowhere near home, but we didn’t know how far. I wondered if we were in the same state.
"It looks like the back woods," Tactics said.
We were immediately scared, in a vacant highway sort of way. The road wasn't lit, and we had already passed several decent places to put a dead body.
Finally, we passed a sign that meant sleep, rest, and relaxation to us--or “home, the small town blend,” 27 miles away.
"I know where we are," cheered Tactics, "only 27 miles! How in the hell did we get this far away from home?"
"Everybody, just sit back and relax," Tactics said as if he was a flight attendant.
"Attention, ladies, and gentlemen, and Hash. The pilot finally knows where we are," I announced as if I was a on a loud speaker.
Hash groaned.
I sat back in my seat, rolled down the window, and breathed easier. This was the perfect cool summer night to have an adventure with a few detours. Too bad Hash would never remember this.
"Hey, Tactics, put on some music,” I said.
"Good call. You got a cigarette?" he asked.
I handed him my last, and that was when I noticed how close the orange needle was to the E and getting larger. It all started to sink in. We were almost on empty.
"Hey Tactics, we are almost out of gas," I told him.
"Oh shit! We have enough. We can make it."
I punched the back of Hash's seat. "Why didn't you fill up before this excursion? That is irresponsible behavior!"
Hash groaned.
"We'll make it," Tactics said.
"I dig your optimism, man, but we still have 20 miles left,” I told him.
"If we can only get to a gas station," said Tactics.
"We're in the back woods. I don't think they have gasoline-powered engines in this neck of the woods,” I told him.
Tactics laughed. "I think they do, man. The problem will be finding a gas station that is open. They actually close them out here."
The car jerked as it sucked up the last drop of gasoline. The end was close, and we managed to get to the crest of a hill and coast down. Tactics moved his shoulders and back forward and backward, trying to inch the car closer to home, forgetting that he wasn't a part of the engine that refused to go any farther. We stared spitefully at Hash and at each other.
"Hey, Hash. We have a problem," said Tactics.
Hash moaned.
"It involves your mom's car," I said.
"Fuck it," groaned Hash.
I looked around to the right and saw an old cabin. A dog chained to a tree was barking. At the top of the next hill (the one that we failed to go up), I could see a gasoline station that appeared to be closed. We got out of the car, and Hash tried to stand. Tactics gave me the potted plant.
"Throw it as far as you can."
"I thought this was for the apartment?" I inquired.
"Get rid of the evidence," Tactics said.
"Speaking of evidence, look at your hands,” I said.
Tactic's hands were caked in silver and black spray paint. We started laughing.
"Do you have a plan, Jonah?" he asked.
"Yeah, first we can sell Hash to whoever lives in that cabin."
"No, they wouldn't take him. Hash is too skinny," Tactics answered.
"I'm sure he would love to have him on a leash. Anyway, the other plan is that I'm going to get out and walk until I find something that will help our situation."
"Are you sure, brother?" Tactics asked.
"Yeah man, I got it taken care of,” I answered.
I got out, took a few cigarettes from Hash's pack, and gave them to Tactics. "I'm out, so we might as well take his. He won't know," I said.
Hash stumbled back into the car.
"If I don't come back in 45 minutes, don't come looking for me. You know what happens,” I announced.
"Why would I want to? It’s cold as hell out. Be careful, though. I'll stay here and take care of this guy," Tactics said.
I started walking, feeling the splinters of a cold wind. I wrapped my arms around myself trying to get warm, all the time calling myself the hero of the evening of hell we were going through. The Immortal. The Chosen One. I was still freezing.
My face was chapped, making it scrunched up like a villain from an old Saturday morning cartoon. I couldn’t forget that I was wearing all black and looking like I was up to no good. This was also a problem when I tried to hitch hike, because no one saw me until after they passed me by. The black made me invisible. I finally found a brilliantly lit restaurant that was open 24 hours.
As I entered the restaurant, everyone stopped their conversation and stared at me like eggs served over easy. I strolled to the front desk and asked the host if I could use the phone or get some help because my friends and I were out of gas on the side of the road a ways back.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Wow, that sounds like a problem. But you can't use our phone, because you’re not a paying customer, but we probably have an empty milk jug.
"A milk jug?" I inquired.
"Yeah, put gasoline in it when you find a gas station," he said.
I said thanks, even though I could have really used a free phone call. I didn't have 35 cents. I did have $2, but I needed to use that money to buy gas.
I walked back to the car, freezing and carrying the milk jug. Too bad the rum was gone. I got back in the car with no clue or solution for our dilemma--just an empty milk jug. I told Tactics everything that happened.
"So now. What do you want to do?" Tactics asked.
"I guess wait until that gasoline station opens,” I answered.
Suddenly I heard it and felt it. The wail of sirens crawled up my shins, my thighs, and my back, and it felt like a sandpaper massage. It was a cop car.
This was it. We were going to jail. I would have to call my parents, and for the rest of my life I would never hear the end of it, the time my parents had to pick me up from jail at 4:30 am.
I quickly acknowledged my fate--either way, it was a great experience. Too bad Hash still had no clue about what was going on.
"What the hell are you boys doing on the side of the road at this hour?" the cop said as he rolled down his window.
I could tell by the twang of the voice the cop was from around here.
"Car trouble," said Tactics.
"What's wrong?" he asked as he slowly got out of his car.
"We're out of gas,” I said.
Tactics shook his head as the cop approached closer. "Here it comes," He said to me under his breath.
"What's wrong with your friend in the front seat?" the cop asked.
"He's stupid,” I yelled back.
The cop chuckled. "You boys need a ride?"
Tactics and I looked at each other. One of us had to go. I knew that both of us probably reeked of rum, beer, and vodka but, for some reason, we felt sober now.
"You want to go?" Tactics asked me.
"Let's send out Hash. He hasn't done anything the whole night,” I whispered to Tactics so that the cop couldn’t hear.
"I wish," Tactics mumbled.
"Yeah, I'll go,” I said.
I got out of the red BMW with my empty milk jug and opened the door of the cop’s car for what might be a death trap.
The cop was smoking cherry pipe tobacco, his hat lay on the dashboard, and I rested easier as the stench of cheap whiskey plagued the rest of the car.
"Top of the morning to ya," I said.
"How ya doing, partner?" he asked cordially.
He started driving, and the area began to look more familiar to me.
"Everything was going good until we ran out of gas,” I told him.
"That's a problem," he said.
"Yup. Do you always have to wake up this early?" I asked making random conversation.
"Yup."
"Is that your hat on the dashboard?" I asked.
"Yup."
"Mind if I put it on?" I asked.
"No! Are you crazy?"
"Ah, come on," I pleaded.
He chuckled devilishly. "You’re something."
Paranoia suddenly visited me. Was this a guy shooting the shit with me? Or was he some deranged homosexual cop who enjoyed picking up young 19-year-old boys on a vacant highway? If so, the only thing I had to defend myself was an empty milk jug.
I let out a long sigh as he pulled over at a gasoline station. I got out with the milk jug and filled it to the top, spilling gasoline on myself. I went inside and paid for my milk jug full of gas.
The lady smiled at me and shook her head. "Had a rough night?"
I sighed. "You have no idea."
I got back in to the cop car, and we drove back in total silence. I felt satisfied though, because we had enough gasoline to get back home. He stopped at Hash's car, and I got out, holding the milk jug full of gasoline like a trophy. I thanked the cop, and he drove away.
Tactics flipped the gas cap open and got out of the car. I unscrewed the lid and poured the gasoline in. But I stopped when I realized that most of the gasoline was on my feet.
"We need a nozzle to put the gasoline in," I stammered.
"We're stupid," Tactics said, monotone.
Insanity conquered my senses, "Ha, ha, ha, we are going to die here. We'll never leave, and Hash doesn't give a shit."
"Man, I'm going to walk up to the gasoline station and use the phone. Everything will be cool." Tactics reassured me.
"Wear your ski mask; its cold,” I advised.
Tactics started walking, and I sat in the driver's seat plotting against Hash. Meanwhile, the night sky was fading past midnight blue into dawn awakenings, different shades of orange, purple, and gold found their routine, and the sun threatened to show. I had my own picture show right in front of me. Sometimes the sunset can be as motivating as a beautiful blonde who asks you for directions.
"Hey, Hash. You're missing it," I whispered.
He moaned.
"Suit yourself," I told him.
I stopped thinking about sleeping, about being under the covers and having a pillow under my head. I smoked Hash's last cigarette as the new day came in. I wondered if Tactics was seeing this--as midnight black became obsolete, the sun was shining through the night I’d just had. I looked over at the old cabin, and even that looked better than it had when we’d first arrived on empty.
The sun slowly came up, and cars were around, and a few cars passed us probably wondering what predicament we might be in. I stared as the sun rose, and I thought how much people take advantage of it. Now, that was the thing that will never become digitalized.
Then there it was… a tow truck arriving in the midst of a new day rising. I looked around to see if any other cars were on the side of the road. No, it had to be ours. It pulled up in front of Hash's car. Tactics jumped out of the cab, and the driver followed.
"He's going to tow us all the way back home," said Tactics.
"Is there enough room in the cab?" I asked.
"Nope, you're gonna sit in your friend’s car and enjoy the ride. Your friend looks like he had a few too many," the driver said.
"He's not my friend," I said.
I got in the car as the driver hooked up to his classic tow truck with the crane high in the air.
The sudden jerks awoke Hash, and the confusion on his face as his jaw dropped closer to the ground was indescribable. He had no idea where he was or who he was. His eyes were heavy, yet still open.
"Hash, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep,” I told him. He did so.
We were at a 45-degree angle behind a tow truck and finally going home. I waved at all the senior citizens as they prepared to terrorize the employees at breakfast places offering discounts to the elderly. They stared back in disbelief, and I gave them the thumbs up, like I was an astronaut waiting to be shot into space.
I enjoyed the ride all the way back to our apartment. The driver parked Hash's car perfectly and lowered it to the ground.
We were back home, and Hash was still passed out. I tried waking him up, but he wouldn't budge. I finally gave up and left him sleeping in his car. The car was his problem now.
Tactics and I sluggishly strolled into our apartment, ate a can of pork and beans, and went to sleep to the sound of Miles Davis. I had only one regret…if only Gloria had seen me riding behind that classic tow truck.