It was a beautiful Friday evening in the spring of 1989, and Anthrax had cancelled on us.
Not on us, personally, but on the whole city of Memphis. Anthrax (along with - I think - Helloween and Exodus) had been scheduled to play the Auditorium North Hall, right downtown. My friends Jon and Eric and I had tickets, front row center.
The show was called off because of low ticket sales. That's why we got such good seats, I guess.
So I was angry. Jon and Eric were righteously pissed. And I was running an errand for my mom.
For a reason long since forgotten I had to go to Dillard's in the Mall of Memphis and buy a fancy men's umbrella. Why? I honestly can't remember, but that was my assignment. Eric, I guess, chose not to go on this trip. So Jon drove me to the mall in his flesh-colored Celica. On the way, we stopped at the Hamburger Express (a truly frightening little burger stand) just up the street from my house and I got a cheeseburger with everything. I ate it on the way, and I would see it again later.
So I got the umbrella, and it was fancy. Did John and I walk around pretending to be Little Alex and at least one of his droogs? We almost certainly did. We must have been insufferable.
I distinctly remember driving up the ramp to the new bridge, windows down, Van Halen's first album absolutely detonating out of Jon's stereo. We decided we'd get drunk. That would show Anthrax! They'd be sorry they cancelled on us.
Somewhere between the bridge and Jon's house we ran into Donnie, who was riding around with Lori and Kim in Lori's....Camaro? Trans Am? Something totally overpowered for a teenager, anyway.
Somehow, we got booze. I was all of sixteen. They were all seventeen or maybe eighteen. Not legal, for sure. Maybe Jon's mom got us the booze, or Jon's brother, who was almost always patient with our teenage shenanigans. On Donnie's sister. It probably wasn't even illegal to buy a teenager some booze, back then.
They were all drinking Purple Passion, a vile fruity-sweet alcopop with a grain alcohol base. Or maybe wine coolers. Seagram's Lime Mist was the preferred flavor of the little group.
Not me, though. I had to have beer. Moosehead beer. I'm not sure where the fixation on Moosehead came from, but my friend James and I had been drinking it every chance we got.
I distinctly remember one night. James drove right up to the liquor store drive-thru and got a six-pack of Moosehead like he was a grown man. Then we drove around, drinking beer. At one point, we both had a beer sitting on the dashboard of his truck. The windows were down. He took a hard right turn and - zing! - both beers leaped out of the truck through the open passenger window.
Anyway, Moosehead. Nowadays, a six pack of anything wouldn't get me through a hard day of football watching or gumbo cooking. Twentysome years ago, though, and a six pack - consumed in a little under an hour - would have a pretty dramatic effect on me.
I remember drinking the beer. And I remember some videos - a whole string of videos! - coming on MTV and me declaring them "totally fucking awesome." There was some spirited grab-ass. Somehow I ended up on the floor. And then, for some reason, we decided to go riding around.
(Now, of course, I realize how horrifyingly stupid this all was. Five drunk teenagers in a muscular American car can lead to the kind of a front page story that begins with "An entire town mourns today..." But it didn't happen. We made it and we're just a damn little bit smarter. Kids, don't drink and drive. It's wrong.)
For some reason, Donnie and I were in the back seat. Jon was wedged in the front with Kim and Lori. Why? I don't know. So me and Donnie made out a little bit.
Kidding!
So I was in the back seat, and fine as long as the car was moving and the cool night air could wash around me. I remember feeling a little funny at every stoplight, though.
Someone decided they wanted some french fries, so we pulled into Central Park - another vile little burger stand. Donnie wanted something to eat, too, so he leaned against me. Sweaty, drunken, Drakkar Noir scented Donnie pressed against me to yell his order at the same moment the girl inside opened the window and unleashed a solid torrent of hot, greasy air right into my lap.
I was lucky to get my head out the window. Lori, who was driving, screamed.
The next thing I remember was retching into the toilet at the KFC. I don't know how we got there.
I went out into the parking lot. Lori and Kim and Jon and Donnie were laughing like loons, trying to figure out how to open the driver's door which was liberally coated with puke.
"Get a stick, get a stick," Kim yelled, "we'll pry it open!"
Then back to Jon's. More puking in his toilet. At one point I staggered out into the living room, where there was much laughter and music and cigarette smoke. I went back to the toilet. I came back out and hours had passed. The lights were off and everyone was gone.
The next morning I woke up with the sourest stomach and bone-crunching headache. I had never had that much to drink before. At sixteen, my first hangover. Hooray!
Of course now I know there are treatments. Lots of water. Advil. A big ol' cheeseburger. Then, though? I just laid on the couch and watched music videos until I felt well enough to drive across town.
My mom said the umbrella was perfect; exactly what she wanted me to buy.
At that time, in that town, this was considered a pretty great Friday night.
As Biggie said, if you don't know, now you know.
