(This somewhat long-winded blog was originally posted on myspace about two years ago, but since it seems most of my peeps have gone over to facebook, I figured it needed to be reposted.)
So over the last couple years I've received a few requests to blog on past exploits...ahem...events in my life that I've shared with my peeps. Why? Well, rumor has it because I have a relatively colorful way of describing things that people seem to enjoy. I guess that could also be construed to mean—in other words—that I'm a pretty damn good salesman. So I can't be too discomfited by that; it's kind of an endorsement of the fact that I'm good at what I do for a living. If that's my cross to bear than, so be it. (Okay, all humility aside, it's pretty fucking fitting because I am a rockstar salesman. I mean, if rockstars were salesmen, than I would be fucking Elvis.)
This particular story was suggested by my good friend Jere Heartman*. This is somewhat ironic in the fact that everyone involved comes out of this story smelling of roses, except for Jere himself. However, I guess it makes sense if one actually knows my good friend Heartman. He and I met when we were both 20 years old in Savannah, Georgia and stationed at the 1st Ranger Battalion. (Meaning we were taxpayer-sanctioned, armed and armored killing machines that were extraordinarily good at three things: drinking beer, fucking dudes up and pulling ass.)
Do you know anyone that makes everything look easy? Yep, Heartman's that guy. And I know it ain't his fault, but every single time he does it, it makes me want to kill the fucker. Swim two miles? Sure. Run 10 miles? No problem. The only difference is that when we're done, I'm the guy drenched in sweat and my lungs are heaving in and out like a forge bellows. Fucking Heartman looks like he's ready to throw on some gel and go hit the bar. (Grrrrr. But I am digressing and you get the point by now. He is what those of us in the Special Ops world refer to as a Natural, where as I am—by comparison—an Avis; I have to
try harder.)
Getting down to brass tacks, this started out a night much like any other back then. It was a Saturday evening in late October. Heartman, myself and our buddy Seamus from Alpha Company (they were the Bike and Jeep Geeks from across the compound) all went out in search of mischief and mayhem. October in Savannah means misty and in the 60s-70s at night, with a nice tropical breeze coming off the ocean and swaying through the Spanish moss above cobblestone streets.
We started out at a place call The Zoo, which was, at the time, one of the only real "clubs" in the city of Savannah. This place was three stories of 18-And-Up debauchery with a different theme on every floor. As time goes by and I see more of the world, it becomes less impressive, but at the time it was the shizznit. I mean, I had owned a fake ID for the better part of two years, but only been able to use it in Monterey, San Angelo, Texas and, to a very limited extent, San Francisco. So I was rather sheltered.
More importantly, it was absolutely teeming with hot Southern girls. All of whom were prim and proper debutantes, of course. But in the manner of Southern gals—and this is something you can only appreciate if you've been there, people—they were also just absolutely reeking of closet sluttiness. And while Jere, Seamus and I had nothing against wallowing in that particular aroma, tonight we had something of more pressing urgency on our minds. Beer.
But not just any beer. Or should I say not just any amount of beer. I'm talking about wretched, orgiastic quantities of beer. Frank the Tank quantities of beer. Make you want to shoot yourself with an IV to hydrate yourself and then keep drinking quantities of beer. (Pay attention, kids; you will see this material later) And beer like that could only be found at Hip Huggers.
Hip Huggers was—at the time—the swankiest place in Savannah. If all the college kids hung out at The Zoo and all the military punks were at Malone's, then all the older college kids and young professionals hung out at Hip Huggers. Wednesday night was Ladies Night, which meant 70's and 80's music. Ever been to a Polly Esther's? Same theme. It also meant that chicks got in free but guys paid a $6 cover. But that was of no matter, because it was 25 cent bottles between 10pm and 1am.
Yes, I said twenty-five cent bottles. The beer of choice that night was Michelob Light, for a variety of reasons. First, we were drinking light beer as to not get too incredibly fucked up; after all, the bars closed at 3am and we had to be awake at 5:45am and working by 6:15am. The second is that my tastes were a bit less refined back then and I had not discovered the glory that is Labatt Blue Light…but that's another story.
FUN FACT 1—I can drink beer. Drink it like it's my job. I don't know why, particularly. I can't chug for shit and after three or four shots of hard liquor, I'm ready to pass out. But if you give me a plain ol' bottle of beer (or a glass; I despise cans) I can drink from sunup to sundown. Kinda weird, but there it is. END FUN FACT 1.
So we walk in, grab a rail by the dance floor and I proceed to the bar. First round is on me and intend to get this party started. $3, please! Two minutes later, the bartender has 12 beers on a tray in front of me. I drop her eight bucks and head over to our little FOB (that means "Forward Operations Base" for all you cake-eating civilians) by the dance floor.
We proceed to drink copiously and make fun of each other, which is what most military guys do in situations like that; just being asses in general and having a great time. Of course, we're also eying the local talent, as well as making friends and influencing people. Seamus gets the next round ($3, please!) and by the time Hartman gets to his round ($4, please!) we've downed about 30 beers and have 10 more lined up on the rail next to us.
By this time, we've attracted a crowd of about six attractive local females from the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) and the beer is going down quickly. Seamus sneaks off to the bathroom and I yell at him to grab another round on his way back. He does his business and then hits the bar ($3, please!) only to get back to an empty rail. Jere and I are out on the dance floor with the girls, two of whom decide to make a B2K sandwich, making out with me—and each other—at the same time. The song (I think it was something by Nine Inch Nails) ends and as we head back to the rail, I see that Heartman is equally "occupied."
We get back to the FOB and we're all just bullshitting and having a great time. Seamus starts getting his swerve on with one of the available ladies and then reality hits me like a fucking freight train; it's 12:45!
Shit! The special ends at 1am and we still have over two hours of bar time!
Being the Man of Action that I am, I mention this fact to the guys. Not to worry, I say. I've got this shit handled. 90 seconds later I am at the bar with a wide-ass, shit-eating grin. $12 please! Oh, yeah! The bartender looks at me for a second, but she's cute and I've been flirting with her all night, so it wasn't too big of a deal. Next thing I know, she's lining up 48 bottles of beer on the bar for me. I grab a bar tray—hey, I'd been working in restaurants since I was 16; shooting people was a relatively new profession for me—and start loading up. She has one of the cocktail waitresses grab a tray with the remainder and follow me over to our FOB.
So now we have the entire bar rail lined with beers, a full six-foot span that's two beers abreast. We are instantly the coolest guys at Hip Huggers. (Not that we weren't already…it's just that some of the patrons were somehow unaware of this obvious fact) We've got chicks swinging by just to randomly talk to us
("Omigosh! How many did you get? Can I have one?") and guys coming up with looks of bewilderment on their faces
("Dude! How many did you guys order?") It was priceless and totally worth the investment.
The next two hours was more of the same. Drinking, dancing, and carousing. Needless to say, we did indeed polish off all 100 beers that evening. It was about closing time that things started to get weird. Seamus heads off with one of the girls he met. Heartman rode with me, but he's heading home with two of the girls we met as well. (And yes, for those of you that were wondering, I was a complete gentleman that night and--after getting my tonsils boxed in--settled for a phone number. I'm sure somewhere on earth the sun was shining on a dog's ass at that moment…)
So I hop in the trusty Eclipse and reach under the front seat to grab myself an IV. I pop the needle into my arm and hydrate myself for the ride home. It's about a 7-9 minute drive from downtown Savannah to the gate the guards the base at Hunter Army Airfield and I know from experience that I should be relatively sober by the time I say hi to the Air Force pansies guarding the gate. I get home no problem and rack out almost instantly.
I am awakened about two hours later by a ruckus in the room next door. Heartman's roomie, a goodhearted, fast-talking hillbilly from Tennessee named Scott, is up and cussing up a storm in his Deep South vernacular that is difficult to understand at the best of times. Right then, with my head somewhat woozy, it was like listening to a cross between Larry the Cable guy and a furious Alvin the Chipmunk. Fearing the worst, I get up and head over.
It appears that Scott just received a call from Jere. He is downtown. On Montgomery Boulevard, in fact, which is NOT one of the nicer parts of Savannah. Oh, and he doesn't have any clothes. What the fuck?
At this point all I can do is chuckle and head back to sleep as Scott grabs the keys to Heartman's jeep and heads downtown to go pick him up. I got the rest of the story at 5:45 wakeup call.
*****
It appears that Jere went home with said seductress from the bar and her friend. I never really got the story to what happened to the second girl, but apparently she left. Back at her trailer (yes, there are a lot of trailers in South Georgia, and Hartman and I spent some time in most of them) things got hot and heavy. Apparently, right in n the midst of shagging, the door burst open behind Jere and two guys rushed in on him mid-stroke. (Yes, I'm laughing at this point as he's telling us) Apparently he turns around and clocks one dude pretty good, but between the two of them they manage to ball him up in the sheets and proceeded to pummel the crap out of him. Then—still wrapped up in said bed sheet—they carried him outside and deposited him swiftly in the trunk of the car. (I am now in tears, I'm laughing so hard.)
So the vehicle starts driving and Jere thinks he's dead. Piecing two and two together we later surmised that the temptress from the bar was obviously either married or very heavily involved, and her beau didn't take kindly to Heartman banging her brains out. A few miles later, the car stops and the trunk opens. The guys punch him a few more times for sport and deposit his sorry ass on some railroad track in the middle of nowhere.
Heartman finds himself on a set of railroad track in what appears to be South Carolina in the dead of night, with no clothes and only a bed sheet. Unconcerned, he starts walking. After about twenty minutes of walking the wrong way, he gets his bearings and turns around. Another 45 minutes of walking brings him to the Savannah Bridge (which of course is the bridge between South Carolina and Georgia) where he crosses over on foot. Apparently 4:30 in the morning is prime time for teamsters driving their rigs along the coast of Georgia and South Carolina and, to add insult to injury, they all decide to honk at Hartman's quasi-naked ass as he's strolling over the bridge on foot.Finally arriving in Savannah, Jere tracks down a bum and talks the bum into leading him to a payphone so he can make a collect call to the barracks.*****
I should note that his story became somewhat of a local legend for a time in Savannah. For over a year afterwards, people would occasionally come up to us when we were out on the town.
"Hey! Are you the 100 Beer Guys?" All of which made for great fun of course. Not nearly the amount of fun we had laughing at Hartman, but still good fun.
So I guess the moral of the story is this, kids: If you go out and drink a crapload of beer and then go home with a married woman to screw her brains out in a South Georgia trailer,
make sure you lock the door behind you.
Cheers.
*It should be noted for the record that Jere's last name is not
precisely "Heartman," but rather something similar (but not exact) thus making him un-Googleable. Those of you that know him can find him
HERE
