Saturday, June 13
When I awoke Saturday morning, I had no suspicion of the giddy horrors that were in store for me. The day started off benignly enough: we were given our staff shirts, lined up for pictures, and got paid, and were released. I planned to make my getaway after lunch, only so that there was one less meal I had to pay for.
Plenty of people showed up to mess with bathing suits on under their clothes, so I decided to stick around and swim awhile, and increase my odds of riding in a car with A/C. I conversed with my compadre Keith while floating around, and he told me of a Target/Wal-Mart plot. I declared that I would join the venture, and went about looking for a ride. At 1:25, Keith and I left to go change, and the girls did the same. I’m all right with the perfume of chlorine and sunscreen on my body, so I decided to shower later.
For the nest hour and a half, we were at the mercy of the feminine hygiene complex. We waited in the pavilion. We waited in the gym. We waited and sent plenty of texts that mirrored our mounting uneasiness: “We’re rdy, where r u?” “Omg, did u leave us?” (Keith’s spelling, not mine). They finally came around at 3. At that point, we were scouting for girls coming out of the cabin area to seize and send in after our straggles.
The next six or seven hours was a dragged-out bickering feud, the kind that reaches epic proportions and often ends in bloodshed. I clambered into the back seat of Jessica and Anna’s Rav 4 as we set off. I don’t think the car could function without both of them. The animated girls, who hail from St. Petersburg, have an established system. Jess drives and chatters with Anna. Attention isn’t paid as much to the road as it is to the conversation at end, which jumps from one thing to the next like hot grease on a stove.
The car itself was a lot like my first Toyota: held together with duct tape and lots of love. Half the air vents are missing, and the floor has archaeological layers dating back to the mid-90s. The only parts that operate with any reliability are the radio and speakers. Control of those is Anna’s job, and she does it justice. The volume was up so loud by the time we cleared the gates that the tiny car shakes even more than usual. Most conversation other than singing along is pointless. Although they have a GPS system (that was given to them by parents anxious about the general driving ability of the pair), anytime they want to get somewhere, Anna finds an innocent bystander to yell at for directions. BFF? Certainly. Scary beyond all reason on the road? I’m convinced. Was it fun anyway? You better believe it.
We hit the roadside thrift stores first, the ones across from the orange juice plant on the road out of town. The girls fell upon the clothing racks like vultures on fresh carrion, while I inspected the antique coins section. (Jeff Davis’ hair looks like a bird’s nest) We left the thrift stores belatedly, mostly because the staff kept offering us free armchairs, cigar store Indians, children, etc., and headed off for Target.
Seven of us spread out through two enormous department stores, so naturally some confusion ensued as everyone pursued their own shopping lists. I knew that I could Keith near the water guns, because it was the only thing on his list. I was in the market for either Risk or Axis and Allies, but struck out on both counts.
After we cleared though both stores, I was getting hungry enough to loudly insist that we go to Chick-fil-a for dinner. Nikki was having other thoughts, and she was louder than I was. So, after a few frantic conference calls between cars, we only decided to pull into a parking lot for further deliberation. Following my win in our four-way game of Rock, Paper, Scissors (By far the best way of solving both international and domestic disputes), I declared that we would eat at Chillis, but the wait was 45 minutes. And we were on the road again. Bah.
We scouted out the surrounding area, roving as far on 441 till it hits U.S. 19. Next came the Checkers roadside conference, which was a bit like the U.N. General Assembly, but with more scenery. At the Checkers, we decided on Frogger’s. I was skeptical at first. Frogger’s was entirely, well, frog green on the exterior, with neon lights and bubbly lettering on the sign, and “Adventure Golf” in the back. I thought it looked like one step above Chuck E. Cheese, and said so. But after a quick look around at the waitresses, apparently they were attempting to appeal to the Hooters demographic. As a thinking man I must say I approved of the decorations, but I did not appreciate it more than I was meant to. I indulged in a Sam Adams instead of the carnal appetites.
The Grand Council met again outside the restaurant after everybody had settled their checks inside. I petitioned the Most Exalted Supreme Mugwump for a motion to return to our quarters. The results were not pretty. I was vetoed, cannonaded, and cashiered of my position in favor of Roller Skating. I did not wish to go roller-skating. Chelsea absolutely did not want to go roller-skating. Keith and Henry did not want to go roller-skating. The drivers wanted to go roller-skating. We went roller-skating.
Argument Number Five occurred in the parking lot of the Roller Rink, after Nikki’s car got themselves unlost. I said that the place looked like only eighth graders would frequent it, that at $8.50 it was overpriced, and that with only an hour till closing, it wasn’t worth our time anyway. They told me it was either roller-skating or a club called “Rodeo.” I surrendered with a huff.
The girl at the register, who had heard most of the altercation through the open doorway, was still cowering under the counter when we arrived, and had to be coaxed out with a kind word and a guarantee that any further violence would occur on the rink. After that consolation she was most accommodating, and even let Chelsea and I in on no charge. We were he last of the holdouts, and, for the duration of our time there, were the “parents,” according to the loophole that got us in. We absconded to the snack counter.
I was not a witness to the proceedings on the dance floor myself, and thus the following comments cannot match the reliability and honesty of my earlier reports. However, I did hear that Keith ran over a kid’s fingers, Nikki was felt up by a black kid, Henry got hit on by a 13-year-old, and Anna kept crashing into things in order to stop. What Jessica was up to, I have no idea. Chelsea and I chatted in our booth, watched everybody’s shoes, and drank the Dr. Pepper that Henry’s new squeeze had given him.
Getting back in the cars later, I thought to myself that although it wasn’t how I had pictured my night going, I don’t think I would’ve traded it for anything. Life off-base on the weekends certainly is an adventure.
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