There were four of us that early Monday morn, four sad bastards facing futures without certainty. There was Redding, the erstwhile philosophy student from Georgia who owned one too many scarves. There was Mike, a sexual deviant from Arizona with a quick wit and a goatee. There was Katie, also from Georgia, whose penchant for Ren and Stimpy extended far beyond recitations of “Log.” And there was I, the man who wore too much denim in middle school. We had bad breath, vague notions of romantic liberalism and a 1991 Buick Riviera with no side mirror and unreliable brakes. This is our story.
12:49 a.m.
Redding, Mike, Katie and I concluded watching Porn ‘n Chicken on Comedy Central about an hour ago. Marginal comedy at best. However, we resolve to do something meaningful with our dwindling college years and to do it right now. We walk to Au Pied du Cochon to ponder this notion.
1:42 a.m.
After I pound one Beck’s and a plate of fries in 15 minutes, we decide to go on a minor road trip. Suggestions include: driving to five states in five hours, looking for the northern-most Waffle House, pissing off bridges, raiding Maryland pumpkin patches, seeking the Beltway Sniper, going to Virginia Beach, singing Dixie somewhere in Pennsylvania. Mike says, “Wanna go to Manassas and do a Civil War re-enactment?” The answer is a resounding “Yes.”
2:04 a.m.
We raid our apartment for one 12-pack of Vanilla Coke, a book of CDs and one crappy camera with black-and-white film. The weather is cold, and we should have gone to bed an hour ago. My sweatshirt is comfortable. My demeanor is not.
2:07 a.m.
We drive off into Virginia. The sound of Pearl Jam fights off my burgeoning regret. Junk food is needed.
2:57 a.m.
Arrive at rest stop in Reston, Va. for gas and junk food. Pulling into a 24-hour Mobil Station, the four of us mutter “Oh my god” in unison. There, in the parking lot of a Northern Virginia gas station, is a parked white Astro Van. Katie and Mike want to keep driving. But no, Redding wants to make a vainglorious stand against terrorism. We decide to challenge death. Mike, Katie and I sprint into the station for beef jerky and Doritos, Redding stays outside to pump gas. The sniper lurks.
3:03 a.m.
I realize teriyaki-flavored Slim Jims are difficult to open and taste like baby throw-up. I know this, for I often drink baby throw-up. We leave.
3:32 a.m.
The Buick arrives in Manassas. The visitor center for the battlefield is surprisingly closed. We look for a place to park and find one on the side of a highway. Redding hops the fence and wanders into the hills of the park. We follow, looking up at the stars which are bright and apparent outside of the city.
“What if the cops come? This is probably trespassing,” says Katie.
“Well, I’ll say what I always say,” Mike replies. “I did it for America.”
4:07 a.m.
We’re still standing in the middle of a Civil War battlefield. Someone once died here. Many people did. But tonight it was our playground.
“This is great,” I say.
“It’s good, Hamby,” says Mike. “But is it Delta in-flight magazine good?”
“Nothing is that good, my friend.”
4:15 a.m.
Our feet are cold and wet from the battlefield dew, and we decide to flee. We didn’t re-enact the battle for/against slavery, but that’s okay.
4:23 a.m.
Mike is driving nowhere in particular. The playlist during this indiscriminate journey includes: selections from Puff Daddy and the Family (edited version); Weird Al, “Amish Paradise”; Hall and Oates, “Maneater”; Toto, “Roseanna”; Axel F, “Theme from Beverly Hills Cop”; and Kylie Minogue, “Can’t Get You Out of My Head.” We are lame.
5:02 a.m.
We begin to see cars coming into Washington on their early morning commute.
“Where are you taking us, Mike?” I ask.
“Oh, you’ll see.” Yeah, sure. The only place Mike is going is Arizona State University College of Law.
5:28 a.m.
The Buick pulls into Bob and Edith’s Diner on the Columbia Pike somewhere in Virginia. It’s apparently legendary, and there’s a signed picture of Al Gore on the wall. We sit down. The waitress overhears us talking about Georgetown, and she tells us that she, too, goes to Georgetown and is also a senior. We don’t recognize her.
“Oh, well that’s probably because I’m working my way through college, and I’ve been there since 1995,” she explains.
Our white middle-class guilt sets in for 15-20 minutes. Meanwhile, I order grits, Katie orders scrapple, Redding orders eggs, and Mike orders corn beef hash with eggs and grits. Mike doesn’t want his grits, so Redding takes them off Mike’s messy plate.
“I don’t want the placenta,” he tells Mike, “just the grits.” These are words to live by.
6:05 a.m.
The adrenaline rush is coming to an end. The four of us stumble to the car, visions of slumber passing through our spinning heads. Mike and I need a shave, Katie needs a toothbrush, and Redding needs an attitude adjustment. But I think, after tonight, there’s one thing that none of us need. We already have it. That thing? A false sense of entitlement.
6:30 a.m.
Bed. The South will rise again. I, however, may not.
Peter Hamby is a senior in the College and contributing editor of The Georgetown Voice. His friend’s dad has a bulletproof car.
What?