Holidays Are Over, Back To Work

Dear Loyal Reader/s,

Sorry for the hiatus. I temporarily of ran out of ideas, and was distracted by Ms. Demosthenes' move to California.

Nevertheless, I'm back, and having ingested nearly four-dozen Christmas cookies, I am too bigger to fail than ever before.

I hope your holiday season was splendid. Mine sure was - besides having a white Christmas for the first time in ages, and getting some really swell gifts, I finally got a job. As it turns out, this is something of a trend with me. This is the third straight year I have gotten a job over the holidays. Next year I'm asking Santa for winning lotto tickets instead. For the time being, however, the holidays are over. Back to work. And that reminds me of a story:

In May of 2002, me and my friends Pipes and Boy Kelly took a week-long road trip from Boston to North Jersey. Normally, it doesn't take a week to get from Boston to Jersey, but when you only have about a half-hour of sobriety per day, you don't make such good time on the road.

As I mentioned, we began our journey in Boston. At the time, all three members of our intrepid trio were in the Army, and didn't have much money to throw around on hotel accommodations. Throughout our journey, therefore, we were staying with friends or friends of friends. In Boston, that meant we stayed Saturday night at Pipes' little brother's roommate's family. They were a working class family of 6 living in a tiny apartment in South Boston, but they were happy to let us use their floor as accommodations for Saturday night.

So, Saturday night in downtown Boston. Pipes, Boy Kelly and I donned our finest party pants and shirts, hailed a cab, and headed for Faneuil "Tourist Trap" Hall. The cab pulled up outside the Purple Shamrock, we hopped out and peered into the Shamrock's windows. Inside were a hundred college girls. "Looks good to me," Boy Kelly said, and in we went.

On stage was a cover band. These guys were incredible, and right out of central casting. Sully was on lead vocals, Murph on guitar, and Frankie played drums. I didn't know that people actually talked like they did in "Good Will Hunting," but these guys couldn't pronounce an r to save their lives. Except when they sang, because their covers were dead-on matches to the originals. Happy enough with our selection of venue, the three of us bought drinks, downed them, bought more drinks, downed them, bought more drinks and went out to mingle with the ladies.

The rest of the evening is blurry to me now, except that I distinctly remember the closing song. Sully introduced the last number, saying, "Nahmally, we wouldn't covah a sawng like this, but we think it's pretty wicked awesome. Heah goes," and they launched into a spot-on rendition of Enrique Iglesias' "Can't Escape My Love." I remember this because for the rest of the trip, we could run, we could hide, but we couldn't escape that song - it played everywhere, including the car radio and bars in Boston, Long Island, New York City, New Brunswick, and Hoboken. It was the unofficial anthem of our road trip.

Anyway, the band wrapped up, we waved good-bye to the ladies of Boston University, and caught a cab back to Southie.

I woke the next morning entangled in a massive afghan blanket on the apartment floor. Pipes was already sitting up on the couch watching Sports Center, and Boy Kelly was asleep on the floor in front of the television. I was still wearing my party pants and shirt, and felt a little sore and a lot hungover. Pipes looked at his watch and said, "It's 6:45. We've got to go." We had to be at the Boardy Barn - an outdoor bar on Long Island - by noon for our next rendezvous with East Coast friends, so we did have to get on the road quickly. I stood up, checked to make sure I still had my wallet, and walked over to nudge Boy Kelly with my foot. Our host family was asleep, and our luggage was in the SUV outside, so we folded our blankets and quietly slipped out.

It was very quiet on the street at 6:55 on Sunday morning. The row-houses were still dark, and there was no traffic. We decided to change clothes before getting back on the road, and since there was no one around, we thought we could do it quickly out on the street. I dug a sweatshirt and some jeans out of my bag in the trunk. I pulled the sweatshirt on then slipped my shoes off. No sooner had I removed my pants than a beat-up old Ford came around the corner.

In the front seat was an old man and his wife. Based on the Irish flag hanging from the mirror and the Knights of Columbus sticker, I assume the couple were named Mr. and Mrs. Clem F.X. O'Malley, and they were going to church. Clem glided to a stop next to us. Pipes was in the car, but Boy Kelly was shirtless and standing by the open passenger door. I was wearing socks, underpants, and a sweatshirt, and standing by the trunk.

Clem rolled down the window and leaned his fedora-ed head out toward us. A cigarette between his lips, he took in our state of undress, and said, "Boys, weekend's ovah. Back to wahk." Then he rolled up the window and continued down the street. Good advice. Weekend's over, boys, back to work.

The end.