Will has been a bad, bad man.
He causes much trouble for The Sauce with all of his support and his many, many trade offers. Plus, he always thinks it is funny to add a bunch of "extras" to his trade packages. For this, he must be punished. So, this time his punishment is that he has to "ghost write" six stories for Tim & Victoria -- who are moving and don't have time to write six stories for The Sauce right now.
So here we are. Will's story for Tim & Victoria. Well, Part I (he thinks he's being tricky by splitting one story up into several so he has to write less -- he's so tricky that one.)
I have this friend from college. We're still great friends but we met the first week of college. When we graduated from college we decided to take a few days and go to the beach, specifically we went to Wilmington, NC which is a combination of beach town and college town thanks to the huge community college and UNC-Wilmington. We drove into town on the tail of a kite and hit the local beach. I got a horrible sunburn and looked like a raccoon in red and white negative because of my sunglasses. We toured the town and then landed at the local downtown Hilton, we were doing it up right, and then started the drinking. My buddy made a drink that was part Sun Drop, part bourbon, and part hell. He called it Tom Collins' asshole and that's what it tasted like.
One of the reasons we went to Wilmington was our raving fanboy love of Dawson's Creek which was shot almost entirely in the Wilmington area. We walked the streets of downtown Wilmington, drunk on Tom Collins' asshole and pointed out places where pivotal scenes of the creek had been shot. It was like being in the show. The draw of the show Katie Holmes and, to a lesser extent, the fun we had in calling Dawson a douche or worse for being such a naive pussy. It was a kind of perfect storm of young male lust and hate thrown up on the screen and backdropped by a place that was easily accessible and a little bit perfect in itself.
We went to this place called the Firebelly Lounge and listened to a funk band. I remember them being loud, but not necessarily good. My buddy is creepy in general and very creepy when he's drunk off hell booze. He scared a couple of girls away from their appetizer by being strange and lots of staring at their boobs. The nachos were good, the girls weren't that great to begin with, so we didn't worry about them leaving. From there we started getting really hammered, buying shots and beers and we ended up at a local pub trying desperately to sober up. My buddy was so drunk he could barely stand. The girls ignored us and the men hated us. This one guy tried to start a fight with my buddy because he was staring at his girl. He was really just staring off into space, but the gorilla at the bar couldn't figure that out and wanted to fight. We stumbled back to the Hilton and fell into the kind of alcoholic coma that can only be broken by the need to pee or puke and sometimes not even those can wake you up.
The next day we went to a 50's style diner called Whitey's for breakfast. It was 50's style because it had been opened in 1954 and never redecorated. The weight of going home was falling heavy around my head. We had to go back, graduate, go to work at my new job, and college life would be done. I was so depressed by the whole thought that everything was going to change that one of the waitresses, a cute plucky little college girl, actually asked me if I was alright and that made me tear up. I ate grits and just told her I was hung over.
From there we set out for home. I was a smoker back then and needed one bad. I put the car on cruise control and steered with my knees. Next to me, my friend was half-asleep. We drifted off the road and I grabbed the wheel, over-corrected, and sent us into a spin right there on a 4 lane highway, 10 AM on a Friday. We spun one way, then the other. Time slowed and ground down to a halt. I felt a strange calm come over me. The seconds turned to milliseconds and then to microseconds as our car spun from one side of road toward the other. I looked at my friend who looked as calm as I felt.
"The brakes. Hit the brakes." He said, so I did and we spun onto the side of the road and stopped, facing forward again and about 20 feet off to the side of the road. Traffic had been light and the side of the road was flat. I turned the car off and we got out. A girl, total stranger, stopped. She'd been behind us and saw the whole thing. She was shaken up and so was I. My buddy was in shock. The car was fine and after a few seconds, it was as if we just pulled off to the side of the road. The girl was a young college girl. She said she needed a hug. I was shaking and smoking, my friend didn't move. We all needed a hug, but didn't know about how to get one or give one.
We got into the car and drove home. I'm sunburned in all my graduation pictures, but when I look at the pictures now my eyes, surrounded by a white mask and then a red face, reveal the spark of seeing reality for the first time, spun into me going 70 at 10 AM one Friday morning in May.