Our last few days would prove to be filled with
misadventure, drunken laughter, and endless miles of walking with all of our
belongings. We were only half way through our vacation when the urge for our
favorite pastime became strong. We liked to smoke weed, but we were under the
impression at the time that it was a felony to possess any amount in Florida.
Now I know we were wrong, as any amount under 20 grams is simply a misdemeanor.
Anyhow, we happened upon a gentleman on our way back from a
game that appeared to be exactly a drug dealer. We worked up a small amount of
courage to talk to him and he said he could help us out. He walked back to our
hotel with us and that’s where things started to get a little fishy. He started
using the hard stuff right in front of us. I say hard stuff because I can’t
remember what it was, only that it seemed like an odd way to do whatever it
was. Something like smoking OxyContin off of tin foil. He began making a series
of calls which we would later discover didn’t exist, and he worked out a deal
to get us some grass. He left with our money and never returned. Fuck.
Later that night, while we were at the bar, I slipped out
and went on a mission to find some. It took me, alone, about fifteen minutes to
come back with a $20 bag of what the guy called the “Crippie”, which is
supposed to be the best weed in Florida. Well, it was your standard Mexican
schwag, but it was good enough for me so I went and informed Seth. We realized
that we didn’t have the means to smoke so we had to get creative. I believe the
apple came from the free breakfasts we’d been hoarding and we carved a couple
ill-placed holes and it worked. We had found our happiness. Every night after
smoking, Seth would take a small bite out of the apple to quell his munchies.
By the last night, the apple looks as if it suffered from leprosy. End scene.
We waited outside the players exit after game two, hoping to
get a ball filled with autographs. We waited, and waited, and we waited. Either
the players had slipped out a more discreet exit, or they weren’t coming out.
Until, a small man who would become legend to us came shyly out, carrying too
much to handle in his hands, and quite happily began signing various wares. Ben
Revere was with the Twins for only a short while but he made quite an
impression with us with his outfield acrobatics and speed on the base paths.
Me holding the ball in anticipation of the only autograph we would get on the trip.
I don’t recall exactly how it happened, but the last few
days while at the hotel, we spent a lot of our time with some guys that were
staying there from Philly. They weren’t there for baseball, but for
construction. They were vile, quick-tempered, dirty, and we loved them right
away. It seemed as if every conversation would push them to the periphery of
fighting. They loved drinking and getting high as much as we did, and they
seemed to like our Minnesota nice, I’m sure a big change from their friends
back home. We partied every night. We left our doors open to each other’s, and
we wandered back and forth and enjoyed the company. I don’t remember their
names, but I will always remember their hospitality.
If you can't quite see it, the shirt says, "This shirt is only blue when I'm thinking about dwarves."
Our last day should have killed us. We packed our belongings
and headed out to return our bicycles and walk to the stadium for the last game
of our trip. They were playing the Cardinals, our rivals from the ’97 Series.
So we began our adventure. We walked, and walked, and we walked some more… in
the wrong direction. A small mistake that wouldn’t make us exactly late for the
game, but our seats were, to say the least, obstructed. Behind a wall,
actually. To be even more specific, it was standing room only, and our view was
of a concession stand. We could hear the game. But I was so exhausted from a
three hour walk with all of our possessions, that I didn’t care. I found a
stool to sit on and I didn’t move for the entirety of the game. We lost and I
didn’t care. I wanted to go home.
Our plan, to save some money, was to sleep at the airport
like you see in movies, because airports don’t close, right? Well, sort of. We
checked in for our flight 13 hours ahead of schedule. We sat at the bar and had
a couple drinks, but didn’t buy any duty free liquor to get us through the
night because for some reason we thought we might have a good night’s sleep.
Looking back, I can see the blue plastic chairs, something I
would get accustomed to later in life. We tried all night to find comfort in
different locations and positions, but sleep would not come. We were alone in
the airport except for the night cleaning crew, and a lone security officer on
a Segway. In principle, that airport didn’t close, but it was a long, lonely
night, that I have since put out of my mind because it was a terrible end to an
otherwise incredible vacation.
