We all have them. Those things that are essentially us and make up the fabric of who we are. They are those self-indulgent exercises that everyone says they hate and then drops what they are doing to fill them out. Self-centered and self-indulgent as I am, I labor under no such falsehood. I love them.
The fact that I hate to fly would be among the first things people mention in those crass Facebook exercises so when I got an invitation from my wife to be part of The Michigan Delegation at the 2008 Democratic National Convention, I'd say that people who knew me were initially stunned to hear I would drive to Denver from Detroit. After some thought the stunned reaction turned to a bewildered "What the Fuck is wrong with you?"
They had never flown with me. My wife never doubted I would drive, never tried to talk me out of it, and certainly didn't offer to fly with me. She served her time on an airplane with me and would gladly never fly with me again. I cant blame her. I'm a mess on an airplane. I get loaded on red wine and Xanax which is just enough to get me on the plane but does nothing for the groans, the swearing, the sweating, the gasps, and the panicked inquisitions (WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT NOISE?)
Above that, I love to drive and the romantic in me relished the opportunity to drive 3/4 across the country. I downloaded several episodes of "This American Life" as an homage to my trip, loaded the car, and started out on a Saturday night to drop the dog at my in-laws.
This is where we see the first act of my buddy Nate's one man show intersect with my trip.
Our plan was to take some time and golf in the mountains. The fact I was driving would allow this easily, I just had to meet up with Nate on my way out of town to get his clubs. I knew Nate was golfing in an outing that day and quickly decided that since he would be drinking heavily from sun up in the sweltering heat, I would need a back up plan. I called Nate as I drove past our agreed upon meeting spot and never thought for a second he would answer. He didn't and I drove on, having already secured my father-in-laws spare clubs. I was prepared when a dejected Nate called with only a slight slur to his words
"Duude"(slightly elongated by the booze )
"No problem man. I figured we wouldn't meet up so I asked my father-in-law and you can use his spares"
"Yeaaah....shit. What are we going to do?"
"Nate? Listen. I can bring Jim's clubs and its no big deal."
"You sure? Fuck are you sure?"
"It's no problem Nate. Seriously"
"All right. If you're sure. Fuck."
It took a little doing but Nate was both lucid and in full comprehension when we hung up. Something happened over the course of 30 minutes to change both of those things and to this day, I still don't know what that was.
What's up Nate?
SHAAAAAANNNNNE! DUUUUUUUDE! FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!
THE GOLF CLUBS!!!!!!!!!!!!
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO!!!!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WE WERE GOING TO GOLF. WE MISSED EACH OTHER!
FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK!
This went on for two minutes without interruption with a basic sentence construction consisting of my name, "golf", "clubs" and "fuck" used in various parts of speech. I guess it made no difference that Nate wasn't letting me speak because I was speechless. We had talked about this twenty minutes before and Nate was calm, understood the plan, and seemed to have only a nice buzz going.
The person who called back was obliterated and in the throes of an alcohol-fueled multi-directional rage. Needless to say it took quite a bit longer to both calm him and yet again explain the solution as it was interrupted several times as Nate bellowed SHANE...DUDE....FUCK...GOLF...FUCK. Even when it was settled, I took nothing for granted. I waited several hours and called back. As I knew it would, the call went straight to voicemail
"OK Nate, you are getting this information for the third time in the last 6 hours but..."
I drove to Iowa City the first night. As I walked around the campus, I tried to ignore the heavy dull pain that was creeping into my chest.
I woke up the next morning and instantly knew I was sick and had a feeling this was something different. As I drove through the heartland, the weight increased in my lungs and within 24 hours I was battling a fever and a crackle emanating from somewhere deep in my chest.
The knock against Republicans is simple. They don't care. They take uncaring to unprecedented new levels on a monthly basis. While I believe in this fully, I must admit that surrounded by thousands of Democrats one of whom I married, I could not find one that gave a shit about me and my ever worsening upper respiratory infection
As I stood in a bar in Denver wheezing and delirious from fever because my wife insisted I stay so I could drive her drunken friends home from the bar.
"You came here for free. It's the least you could do. Its not like you can drink,You're sick."
She said this with equal parts derision and accusation. As if I had launched some elaborate ruse to come to Denver and get as sick as I had been in my life so I could go to some st rangers house and go to sleep so as to avoid having any fun. She added the "You'rrrrrre Sick" in such a tone as to suggest that despite it sounding like my lungs were made of bubble wrap and that I was shaking like I had malaria, I could in fact be faking.
Nate, having recovered from his Bonham-esque bender promptly arrived in Denver and began drinking. For his part he believed I was sick which was a small consolation. He did however take a Typhoid Mary approach to my illness and began to try and humiliate me into feeling better. It was at this time that Nate began a tactic he repeated several times throughout this hellish vacation.
"HEY MAN, WHAT THE FUCK YOU GET INTO?!"
I began to try and explain that I wasn't a dog that had gotten into the neighbors garbage and traipsed it through the living room but Nate wasn't buying.
YOU SOUND TERRIBLE. WHAT DID YOU GET INTO.!?
Dr. Nate did his quick diagnosis and surmised that I had in fact contracted "Guatemalan Dick-Worm." (There is some dispute to the origin of the dick-worm. I maintain said dick-worm hailed from Peru while Nate maintains it's native to Guatemala and since its a figment of his imagination, I'll defer to him.)
At any rate, it turns out the cure for Guatemalan Dick Worm is not standing in a smoky bar watching your wife and her friends get plastered while being berated by a drunken madman. Maybe that's the cure for Peruvian Dick Worm.
Needless to say my conditioned worsened but I dare say I didn't let it dampen my mood. I was into the electricity of Candidate Obama and was making the most of my time. I visited The Columbine Memorial. I drove to Boulder and walked around the beautiful CU campus. I became friends with a morbidly obese septuagenarian bus driver named Skip who didn't like anyone else in The Michigan Delegation but me and liked to loudly accuse people of "taking a dump" in the bathroom of his bus. His most notable victim being my friend Jordy-who would would sooner die than defecate on a bus. Jordy would leave the floor of
the office where he worked if he felt the need to move his bowels. It was a great time.
However, by the time the convention had ended, my condition further downgraded. At one point in the at-capacity football stadium where Obama accepted the nomination, I seriously wondered if I would perish. Work had ended and we were slated to spend the last two days of the week in a rented cabin in Breckenridge. I had officially lost my battle and wanted nothing more than to sleep but considering the collective compassion of my friends had been left back in Michigan, they weren't having it. Nate continued to inquire as to what the fuck I had gotten into. Not to be outdone, my wife insisted we go for a walk . This wasn't a stroll through a park but through the mountains at high altitude while I had pneumonia so why the fuck wouldn't I go. I had no choice but to go and my wife made it clear. At one point we had descended to the bottom of a very large hill and stood at the foot of another one. I was bent over and laboring with every breath, my lungs literally crackling with each exhale but I clearly could pick up the tone in my wife's voice.
"Do you need me to get the car?"
"No," I croaked, "but I think we should cut this short."
"Fine." My wife had no problem exhaling at this point and did so to convey her irritation. Show off
The rest of that night went by in a blur. Nate loudly talked of the porn viewing habits at his home and was immediately placed into figurative and had there been one, literal dog house. Aside from that, the night was tame.
I awoke the next morning and felt somehow worse. Nate and I engaged in a stand off of sorts. Considering our respective hangover and pneumonia, it was abundantly clear that neither of us wanted to golf at 830 in the morning. We reached a stalemate of "do you want to go?" "I'll go. but it doesnt sound like you want to" and hauled our sorry asses to the golf course,
The one saving grace was the start of the Michigan football season and a brand new era under spread-offense guru Rich Rodriguez. We had no idea the extent that my illness was a harbinger for said era but suffice to say Nate hated it immediately.
"This sucks. Three yards and a cloud of dust asshole!"
"Nate, you have to give it more than a quarter."
"Bullshit. Bo is rolling over in his grave."
Rich Rod and his anemic offense did at least limit the "What did you get into?!" accusations to one per quarter. Then it happened. Maybe it was karmic. Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was the fact that I had a culture in my lungs equivalent to a micro-biological Jonestown but Nate turned to bitch about the offense or ask me what the fuck I got into or to wax philosophically about the Guatamalan Dick-Worm and I sneezed violently, wetly, and directly into the side of his face and neck.
Nate's face froze in horror for a half a second. "BLEGGGGGCKKKKKFUUUUUUCK WHAT THE FUCK? JESUS CHRIST. ."
I tried to apologize sincerely but the fact I was gasping for breath from the combination of hilarity and lung-disease probably made the words ring hollow.
"Fuck Next time I'd rather you jizz on my back."
"Really?" I became suddenly serious at this question of what's worse horrific scenarios
Nate paused, still irritated but now considering his own question at lleast half serious while the spots of sputum dried on his cheek.
"All right no, but fuck man, come on.," he begrudgingly admitted what happened was better, albeit so slightly.
The game ended in a frustrating and very telling Michigan loss and we went back to the cottage. Despite my violent shaking Nate insisted I get into the hot tub as a chlorinated human frapuccino was the cure for what ailed me. I was in the tub for 3 minutes when Nate inquired again what the fuck I had gotten into and I decided I had been a good enough sport.
"Fuck this. I'm going to bed."
It was 5 o'clock at night and apparently this conveyed the gravity of how I felt. Nate relented. My wife came in to check on me several times and brought me cool wash cloths. This happened just in time for me to leave and start my 18 hour drive back to Michigan.
The next morning I woke and stared at the ceiling for an hour trying to figure out how I could tele-port back to my home. I packed my bags and stood at the car and said goodbye to my wife.
"How bad do you feel."
Dead serious I looked at her
.
"If I could take the car back to the airport and leave it, I would fly home."
She was shocked.
"Oh my God. You are dreading the drive that much?"
"No but I think I'd rather die in a plane crash then feel like this anymore."
I got in the car and drove slowly and painfully East
