Goldie Fingered
Part I: Guns Falling Out of Cars

:: HUNTER MOUNTAIN, NY - Sept. 19, 2003 ::

All big weekends start off with high expectations. Ours started off in a Secaucus parking lot. Expectations obliterated. But that didn't stop us from the obligatory "two dorks with other dork pretending to be a monster coming out of Volkswagen Passat trunk" photo. Fukendoorken. I slept the most of the drive up to Hunter Mountain as Randy and JTB waxed moronic on all things politics and Ninentdo. When I awoke, we were in a Grand Union grocery parking lot. Randy dropped off $126 of change, according to Coinstar anyway, and we picked up some groceries. Superfluous details? Not really. Randy's change bought us the beef that would fortify us for a night of the ages. After grilling up and devouring about eight lbs. of cow, we greeted Andy and Danielle (they drove Dens' 'Big Red'). All things pointed to a quiet night. Maybe some Jenga, a Simpsons' DVD and some light banter. Nope. We started getting crank calls to the house phone. Keep in mind, cellphones don't work on Hunter Mountain. Nobody knew the number to the house phone, so we figured it was some local kids. But the final call was a doozy. Said pranker left a message on the machine, "Blah Blah Blah...WHO'S A SPANK NOW!" IT WAS THE GUY WHO SOLD ANDY GOLDIE!! Not five seconds after the message, we hear glass shatter and tires squealing.

We were under attack apparently. But we responded in a way that would have made George W. blush. We rounded up a posse (pussy?) - Andy, JTB, Randy and I - and went after the axles of evil. Of course, our war chariot wasn't exactly on the side of good. Goldie had been rendered undriveable by the DMV, but we threw caution and some PBR cans to the wind and made chase. Giddee up Goldie!

At a breakneck 24-mph clip, we tailed down the suspected Suzuki Sidekick to a gravel parking lot. (Note: from this point until further notice, I am making this up. I had my face in my lap scared sh$@)_$@! for most of the chase). We were doing wheelies, figure 8s, you name it in the gravel parking lot chase. Andy was like one part Angela Lansbury, two parts Darrell Waltrip, three parts drunk.

At one point, we started racing parallel to each other, trading paint at a low speed. It was only a matter of time before I broke out the Days of Thunder "Rubbing is racing!" line. The groans were audible from the Sidekick and Goldie. Soon after, the Suzuki hit a concrete pylon, Goldie t-boned a mature sapling.

The Sidekick's flesh contents (two dudes in jean shorts, and what looked like Big Johnson t-shirts) spilled out. We made chase. (Further notice: I finally decided to take my face out of my lap.) Ok, here's where it got hardcore. Unbeknownst to me, we were packing HEAT!!! I mean, I've always called Randy 'Dough Boy' (see: his gut), but this time it was for real. Boy in the Skillz. He whipped out his piece (his word, not mine), and fired a 'cap at hiz azz' (again, his words). He missed completely, so we kept chase. (Random, but in my mind, I was running to Devo's 'Whip It'. I don't know why, but ever since I was a wee one, I've felt can really haul ass to that song.)

We left the gravel lot and were in the woods, all horror-movie style. Running fast through brush, light in the distance, hot girl in front of me...no nevermind. All I could do was think, man this is crazy. I'm getting poison ivy for a DODGE DART!!! Somewhere in all this confusion, we reversed direction and hauled ass back to Goldie. Why? Randy had the gun taken from him. Not sure how, but they did. They now had our gun!!! Pathetic. But as we reached Goldie, I had a moment. Sponsored by bad beer, my idea was that we had run enough. We needed to fight. The rest of the yellow bellies piled into Goldie, screaming for me to join. I wanted none of Goldie, and plenty of the guys in jean shorts. I didn't spend the better part of my high school Friday nights listening to the Smiths alone in my bedroom to back down now.

BAM! They burst through the woods, HEAT in their hands, British Knights on their feet. I made like a white Billy Banks and broke out some crunked up Wu Tang Bo stuff. I don't remember much after that. It was a swirl of denim, knuckles and moustaches. When I came to, JTB - much like the ape in 2001 Space Odyssey discovered the bone - had recovered our lost HEAT. The dudes seeing this, retreated back to the woods.

We were over the moon. We'd seen our enemy, taken on that enemy and had a draw. It was all a undersexed, overnurished group of dudes could ask for. It set off a celebration much like what I would imagine would happen in Boston if the Red Sox ever won the World Series - minus the awful accents. Nothing, not even his still unpaid insurance payments, could stop Andy from jumping for joy on top of Goldie like a methed-up Richard Simmons.

Randy grabbed his Veriflex, slammed it against the trunk and let out a majestic "Who wants some!!!" Then promptly fell into a self-reflective stupor. "Hey man, is this how Gator went wrong? Am I am the next Gator!??! AM I!?!?!?! Oh Sweet Jesus!"

Me? I just basked in the neon glow of the light we were about to shoot out with our reacquired HEAT. It was how I always I dreamt it would be. To win a fight, or least tie, that is. Arms folded, leaning back against your wheels, just waiting for all the girls from the field hockey team to come over and make sweet, greedy small talk. Never happened. Check back for Part II...