2/24/2006
An Apology
Yesterday afternoon, I hopped into the old man's truck and began that familiar drive around the city of Peoria, onto I-155, and, eventually, onto I-55 Southbound. This is a route which I have taken countless times in the past while going in between my parent's place and the city of Saint Louis. If needed, I could probably do it with my eyes closed.
I was having a pleasant little journey. The sweet smell of Avanti's Gondolas were wafting through the cab of the Dakota and Phish's Rift was making me long for more simpler times. Times when all I did was drive around the Midwest, get drunk, and watch baseball. Wait...that's kind of...um...exactly...um...what I still do. Whatever.
About twenty miles south of Springfield, somewhere around mile marker 70, I came upon a rest stop. Now, for years I had heard the old saying that today's rest stops are nothing but modern day homosexual brothels. Balderdash, I say.
In my early 20's it was not uncommon for me to put upwards of 2,500 miles on the odometer of my '93 LeBaron over a 96 hour span. And quite often, I would do the 1,100 mile drive from Jacksonville, NC to Peoria, IL only stopping for gas, yellowjackets, and fritos chili-cheese chips. I've learned this great nation of our's interstate system. I know that if you're traveling on I-95, you need to do yourself a favor and stop at the Wawa in Fredericksburg, VA (just trust me on this.) And I have learned that rest stops are highly underrated.
Crap. I'm off-track. Back to the story: I pulled into the rest stop in Coalfield, IL and made a leisurely stroll into the bathroom to deposit a monster poo into the state's septic tank. Mission accomplished.
I exited the rest stop through the back, and walked around for a minute, admiring a pretty little winter sunset over some barren corn fields. "Where else can you play with your dog, swing on some monkey bars, and, if you play your cards right, get a handi from a trucker for $20?" I wondered to myself. "Only at a rest stop!"
After taking in all the beauty one can at a rest stop (in Coalfield at that!) I began making my way back to the truck, when I felt a burp coming on. "No problem with that, " I thought. "What's more American than having a burp before getting in your truck at the ol' rest stop! USA! USA!"
So, I let 'er rip.
Bad idea. Out of nowhere, the burp turned into vomit. And I began puking all over the side of the rest stop. And I did not see that coming.
In the five minutes I was throwing up against the building, I made two hipsters laugh, one child cry, and countless old people pretend that there wasn't a 25 year old puking ten feet away from them.
Ten minutes after the barf-o-rama, Puke-o-honos (me) was driving back down I-55, jamming out to some Ryan Adams, and I had never felt better. I honestly do not know what happened back at that rest stop. I was not hungover, and I didn't eat anything other than a big salad earlier in the day. I really have no idea where that pukey came from.
But, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, Coalfield, IL. I'm sorry for puking all over your rest stop, and I hope you can forgive me.
With regret,
Alex Fritz
[PS. Happy Gras Weekend, everyone.]
I was having a pleasant little journey. The sweet smell of Avanti's Gondolas were wafting through the cab of the Dakota and Phish's Rift was making me long for more simpler times. Times when all I did was drive around the Midwest, get drunk, and watch baseball. Wait...that's kind of...um...exactly...um...what I still do. Whatever.
About twenty miles south of Springfield, somewhere around mile marker 70, I came upon a rest stop. Now, for years I had heard the old saying that today's rest stops are nothing but modern day homosexual brothels. Balderdash, I say.
In my early 20's it was not uncommon for me to put upwards of 2,500 miles on the odometer of my '93 LeBaron over a 96 hour span. And quite often, I would do the 1,100 mile drive from Jacksonville, NC to Peoria, IL only stopping for gas, yellowjackets, and fritos chili-cheese chips. I've learned this great nation of our's interstate system. I know that if you're traveling on I-95, you need to do yourself a favor and stop at the Wawa in Fredericksburg, VA (just trust me on this.) And I have learned that rest stops are highly underrated.
Crap. I'm off-track. Back to the story: I pulled into the rest stop in Coalfield, IL and made a leisurely stroll into the bathroom to deposit a monster poo into the state's septic tank. Mission accomplished.
I exited the rest stop through the back, and walked around for a minute, admiring a pretty little winter sunset over some barren corn fields. "Where else can you play with your dog, swing on some monkey bars, and, if you play your cards right, get a handi from a trucker for $20?" I wondered to myself. "Only at a rest stop!"
After taking in all the beauty one can at a rest stop (in Coalfield at that!) I began making my way back to the truck, when I felt a burp coming on. "No problem with that, " I thought. "What's more American than having a burp before getting in your truck at the ol' rest stop! USA! USA!"
So, I let 'er rip.
Bad idea. Out of nowhere, the burp turned into vomit. And I began puking all over the side of the rest stop. And I did not see that coming.
In the five minutes I was throwing up against the building, I made two hipsters laugh, one child cry, and countless old people pretend that there wasn't a 25 year old puking ten feet away from them.
Ten minutes after the barf-o-rama, Puke-o-honos (me) was driving back down I-55, jamming out to some Ryan Adams, and I had never felt better. I honestly do not know what happened back at that rest stop. I was not hungover, and I didn't eat anything other than a big salad earlier in the day. I really have no idea where that pukey came from.
But, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, Coalfield, IL. I'm sorry for puking all over your rest stop, and I hope you can forgive me.
With regret,
Alex Fritz
[PS. Happy Gras Weekend, everyone.]
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