Last Saturday morning, I boarded a GMC Denali with Free Press Managing Editor Bryan Hanks and headed to New Jersey. Our mission: Retrieve 10 cases of CDs, a guitar, an amp, go to a Yankees game — and try to avoid murdering one another in a Denny’s parking lot.
I’ve got several musical irons in the fire, but the main gig is still Third Of Never — a New Jersey-based endeavor. Having just wrapped up our second album (details available at www.thirdofnever.com), it was time to pick up the discs from the pressing plant as the label wanted the discs in a week.
While up there, I wanted to bring home a guitar and an amplifier to use in a local endeavor, and Hanks wanted to hook up with his old buddy and former Free Presser Drew Loftis for a Yankees game.
To accomplish these tasks, we determined it would require the rental of a vehicle. Being a seasoned deal-maker, Hanks jumped at the opportunity to display his scheisterly prowess. After all, I once witnessed this man spend 40 minutes talking a Girl Scout down to $1.25 on a box of Thin Mints, so I knew he’d show up to play.
After a bit of research we huddled around his computer to bask in the glow of the deal he’d put together. According to the terms of the rental agreement, we could save $10 on the additional driver fee if he listed me as his “domestic partner.” To me, $10 is $10 so I told him to put us down as a couple and I’d go register at Belk just to make it look authentic, but Mr. Ethical wussed out.
The rental agreement also stipulated that if the car was driven outside of North or South Carolina, there would be an additional fee. I leapt into action and showed Hanks that a fictional route to Asheville, Charlotte, Columbia, Charleston and back would be about the same mileage as our real trip to New Jersey and back. This little white lie would save $80, which, to anyone making all or even part of their living writing for a newspaper, equals (before taxes) roughly a month’s salary.
Hanks never really got on board with my idea to re-stage the Lufthansa heist of ’78. After reading about the GPS devices these paranoid, non-trusting car rental companies install in all their vehicles, I gave up as well. All that being said, when Hanks showed up at my house with a nicer car than we’d signed up for at a smaller price, I realized I was a mere mortal traveling with a bargain hunting deity.
Hanks showed up at my compound at 9 a.m. sporting a Ralph Sampson muumuu and a Washington Redskins cap. He already had his iPhone plugged into the car stereo, so I shuddered a bit wondering what infernal Drake ditty was headed our way.
To my credit, I was on my best behavior, even though I really wanted to pummel the L.L. Cool J track coming out of the speakers with my James Brown box set. Eventually, Hanks requested to hear a podcast from my iPod and for some reason, we couldn’t find his iPhone for the rest of the trip.
I have no idea how it ended up under my seat, duct taped to a spring.
Once on the road, Hanks decided to sync his phone up to the vehicle’s Bluetooth system. To me, Bluetooth is what you get after eating too many Smurf sammiches, but apparently, it’s a service that allows you to talk on the phone without having to use the phone. Once it was hooked up, Hanks was able to talk to Siri — the woman who lives in his phone. Here’s an excerpt from one of their conversations;
Hanks: Where is the nearest Starbucks?
Siri: Redd Foxx was born in St. Louis in 1922.
Hanks: No, Siri, where is the nearest Starbucks?
Siri: “Buck Rogers” was first published by Amazing Stories in 1928.
Hanks: NO! You stupid (censored)! I’m trying to find a Starbucks!
Siri: You ain’t gonna come up in here talking to me like that. I make my own money.
A few seconds later, a Virginia State Trooper pulled us over; Siri apparently reported Hanks for making a threatening phone call. Thankfully, the trooper was a University of Virginia grad; after seeing Hanks’ Ralph Sampson muumuu, he let him off with a warning.
Eventually, Hanks found his Starbucks. When he pulled into the parking lot, I informed him that I’ve never set foot in a Starbucks and had no intention to do so. My lovely wife had packed a small cooler for me that was packed with ice and plenty of fruit and carbonated refreshment.
I pointed out that if any of my dearly departed ancestors who’d gone through the Depression got wind of me paying $8 for a cup of bean water, they would rise from their graves to smite us both.
Hanks pleaded for me to go in, eventually offering to pay for whatever I ordered. Apparently he really wanted me to experience Starbucks, so I ordered a cup of iced coffee, which came to $2. Hanks ordered a triple venti caffeine-free, no foam, extra caramel, with whipped caramel macchiato, a sliver of soap used by the Dalai Lama, three pumps basil, one pump Mountain Dew, an inch of non-fat milk, with a strand of Lindsey Lohan’s mustache hair on the side, which cost $36.
I did a little research, and for the amount of money spent on our two cups of coffee, you could buy a barrel of Sanka or the Charlotte Hornets.
Once we made it to New Jersey Saturday afternoon, my business went smoothly and we motored over to the home of Loftis, who, after securing his valuables, graciously agreed to let us crash in his basement.
On Sunday, Hanks and Loftis took in a Yankees game while I opted to lay on the couch in a cool, dark basement and do absolutely nothing … and it was glorious.
On our way home, we hit some road construction in Richmond at 3 a.m., moving only about 1 foot per minute for 45 minutes. When the logjam finally broke, I put the hammer down, intent on making it to my bed before sunrise.
At 5 a.m., after an Iliad-like journey that spanned hundreds of miles, gallons of soda and two Kasabian albums, I made it back home. Hanks helped me stack my gear on a couch in my office and I bid him adieu.
I tippy-toed into the house with the intention of becoming one with my Serta mattress, only to discover Tax Deduction No. 1 was in my spot. The Wife told me TD No. 1 woke up with a stomach issue about an hour earlier, but with the storm now passed couldn’t get back to sleep in her own bed.
Not having the strength to slam the bedroom door on my head repeatedly, I walked down to TD No. 1’s room and attempted to catch some sleep in her empty bed. This would have been fine if not for the fact that everything from my knees down hung off the end of the mattress. Dikembe Mutombo could use this mattress as a napkin.
My last option was the ancient couch in my outside office. It’s a durable piece of furniture that allegedly once sat in the living room of Mussolini’s summer house in Rome.
In all my agony, I took all the stuff I’d just stacked on the couch and piled it on the floor. I collapsed into a drooling, snoring heap and awoke two hours later to take TD No. 2 to preschool. I took one step away from the couch and tripped over four boxes I’d moved the night before. Thankfully, the guitar amp I fell face-first onto broke my fall.
Having been up for 24 hours straight with only two hours of sleep didn’t affect me all that much, although my wife was perplexed when a woman from the post office called to say a disoriented man had just dropped off his daughter thinking it was a day care. Thankfully, they gently placed her in our mailbox with the Piggly Wiggly circular that afternoon.
Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase books, music and antique WWII furniture at jondawson.com.