All Along the Watchtower

When I was a teenager, I ran with a pretty rough crowd; I was a rocker and a stoner who loved to chase girls and mastermind mischief. Our group never had anything in the way of a leader, but some of us could always be counted on to come up with brilliant ideas to occupy our time. At least they seemed like brilliant ideas at the time, but that's probably because we were young and stupid. Seriously stupid. Most of these brilliant ideas seemed to center around a common theme like, "Hey, let's go find some pussy," or "Hey, let's get fucked up," both of which are, of course, absolutely brilliant ideas, but my personal favorite one was, "Hey, let's get fucked up and find some pussy!"  Unfortunately, the reality of it was that we would rarely find any girls or only some of us did and if you didn't get a girl, you were stuck going Han Solo, but even if we did or we didn't get a girl, you could always count on getting wasted. Some things are just reliable like that and just as reliably, I still can't get a girl...

Occasionally, I would put forth some sort of minimal thought and effort into my critical thinking and come up with some brilliant ideas of my own; a master plan, if you will. Let me give you a tiny tidbit of advice here. If you ever hear me say the words, "I have a plan," run. Just fucking run. Don't look back, just keep running. Trust me, it's for the best, not to mention your own safety. More importantly, if my mention of said plan is followed by the words, "What could possibly go wrong?" forget running, you should probably Duck and Cover.

On second thought, you should probably just go ahead and bend over, stick your head between your legs and kiss your sweet fucking ass goodbye. Yeah, it's that bad.

It was late one Halloween night, when I was a wee lad of just sixteen, or so. We'd been busy scaring trick or treaters, punting pumpkins and festively decorating homes with eggs and toilet paper tinsel ('twas the season and all that shit). The hour had grown late, the streets were deserted and the town was dark, One of us had a brilliant idea which had something to do with getting wasted (it was a pretty popular theme). We had managed to accumulate mass quantities of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a large bag of some very low quality weed. We were drunk, stoned, bored and stupid; a recipe for disaster if ever there was one. Idle hands and minds being the devil's playground and all that shit. We had the will and the means, what we didn't have was common sense and a place to chill. We were trying to figure out where we could go to guzzle down our favorite alcoholic beverages and smoke our wacky weed unmolested. 

There were eight of us, my car and a trunkful of party favors.

That was when it happened; like a bolt out of the blue, I had a sudden epiphany. It seemed as if the heavens opened up and a solitary moonbeam shone upon me like a halo. It was like a lightbulb turning on over my head' Unfortunately, the lightbulb popped and no one noticed.

"Let's go to the water tower," I blurted out.

"And do what?" my friend Dave asked.

"Climb it, dipshit," I responded. "Climb that bitch and get fucked up."

Heads nodded and glory was imagined in the alcoholic fog of our underperforming brains. Everyone agreed that it was indeed a brilliant idea. I honestly believe that we were so messed up that if I had suggested playing tag in traffic, everyone would have agreed that it was a brilliant idea too. Morons. They had the power, they could have stopped the insanity at any time, but nooooo... they just had to listen to me. Who in their right mind listens to me? Sweet jumping baby Jesus.

Dave called shotgun, I closed the trunk and we all piled into my car. I miss that car, it was such a sweet ride. A 1972 LeMans with a big ass 350 and it was cherry as shit.

Dave, Doug and I were in the front seat and when I turned my head, I saw the other five guys were crammed into the back seat like some sort of sausage factory. If that last sentence didn't contain any overtly homoerotic overtones, I don't know what the hell would, but it just wasn't like that, okay? Fuck. I'll tell you when to put your mind in the gutter and it's not going to be in this story.

I cranked up the stereo and we peeled out of the parking lot; nitwits on wheels. It took maybe three minutes of breaking various traffic laws and possibly a misdemeanor or two as we weaved our way to our destination. Miraculously, we arrived at our destination unscathed and without harming anyone else. Property damage was pretty minimal, depending upon your definition of minimal. Your definition, mine and that of law enforcement may tend to differ somewhat. Remember kids, it's only illegal if you get caught.

I hopped out of the car and I watched as the sausage unlinked itself from the back seat and exited the vehicle. Yeah, I know that was a really bad pun. They can't be fucking zingers every fucking time. Work with me here, people.

I walked around to the back of the car and I popped the trunk. I turned around to see all of my friends staring up at the water tower with their mouths hanging open. Idiots. This is why I'm the evil genius.

"Are we really going to climb that?" Doug asked.

"Of course we are,"  I answered.

"B-but what if someone falls or gets hurt?" he stammered.

I looked at Doug as if he were a particularly slow member of Congress and I said, "D-don't be such a pussy. We're going to climb it, we're going to hang out and we're going to get wasted. Grab some beer and get going."

"How are we supposed to get the beer up there?" Dave asked me.

Fucking assholes and their obvious asshole questions get obvious answers from other fucking assholes. Now say that shit three times fast.

"We're going to carry it. How the fuck did you think we we're going to get it up there? It's not like your mom's here and we could use her pussy. Hell, we'd even have room to spare."

"Fuck you, dickhead," Dave shot back.

A witty retort if ever I've heard one. The sting of butthurt was strong in his tone.

"What I meant was," he contined, "How are we supposed to carry everything up there? I know we have to carry it up there, I'm not fucking stupid."

"Yes, you are," I told him. "You're just in denial about it."

Sometimes, it's tough being an evil genius. Like a demented fucking Einstein on meth or crack, or meth and crack, or crack, meth and just a little bit of heroin thrown into the mix for fun (whatthefuckever, you get the picture), I laid out my carefully crafted plan.

"I have a backpack and a gym bag in my car. We can fill them both up with beer. We can stuff more bottles in our pockets, along with the booze and we can just climb on up."

Everyone agreed that it was a brilliant idea and it was. That's why I'm the fucking mastermind, bitches.

We packed up the beer and I went to lift the backpack. Holy shit, it was heavy, but I didn't dare look like a wuss; the pack would atack any weakness. I picked up the backpack and put it on my shoulders, adjusting the straps. The bottles of beer clinked together, making a cheerful little sound. I liked that sound, but I'm a very easily amused idiot.

I was just about to start climbing the ladder when Dave's voice stopped me.

"Wait," he said, "How am I supposed to carry this gym bag up there? I can't climb the ladder with just one hand."

I turned around and I looked at Dave as if he were something that I had just scraped off of the bottom of my shoe.

"Do I have to think of everything for you?" I asked him. "Take off your belt and loop it through the handles of the gym bag, Buckle it up and wrap it around your neck while you're climbing up. That should solve everything."

"I can't do that." Dave squealed like a little girl. "I'll break my neck."

"I know," I said and then I smiled.

I'm such a dick.

"Look, dude. Throw the belt over your shoulder and climb up. The weight will be fine and you shouldn't have any problems."

And there you have it, yet another brilliant idea from yours truly. It's not always easy being an evil genius. It's sort of like a curse, really, You know, like the kind of curse that a really pissed off, batshit crazy Gypsy lady would put on you. I did that once, you know. I actually pissed off and I mean really pissed off, a batshit crazy old Gypsy woman. She actually cursed me, too. I laughed at her. I thought she was going to have a stroke. She was wild-eyed and the spittle was flying. Her voice grew louder and more shrill as she continued to curse me and all my future generations (sorry, boys). Or, maybe she was just asking me if I liked pizza. I don't know, I couldn't understand a single fucking word she said. I'll tell you this, though, I'm still here and she's long dead. Who's the one that's laughing now, bitch? And I'll still be laughing, all the way to Hell.

Gypsies...

Gypsies, tramps and thieves, At least that's what all the people in the town would call them.

Look, this was a fairly simple and easy to accomplish plan. It only had two steps.

Step 1 - Climb the water tower.

Step 2- Get wasted.

How fucking hard could it be? Why did these knuckleheads have to keep trying to screw up the execution of my painstakingly crafted master plan?

I looked up at the water tower. The top of it seemed to be a long, long way off. I took a deep breath, released a long sigh and I started to climb the ladder. The backpack full of beer pulled at my shoulders, weighing me down and making my climb an arduous one, but I was determined to reach the top and I was damn sure going to do it. I can be one stubborn son of a bitch when the mood strikes me.

We were all strangely quiet as we started our ascent, but we were soon back to our normal rapport of insults and stories about the dubious virtue of our mothers. I was about halfway up when I heard a shouted, "Oh, fuck!" followed by a loud crash. The sound of breaking glass shattered the stillness of the night.

"I dropped the beer," Dave yelled.

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious.

"It slipped. It wasn't my fault."

The fuck it wasn't. Everyone yelled obscenities at Dave, but we continued our climb. By my reckoning, we still had well over a case of beer with us, plus the whiskey and the weed, It would have to do. I told everyone to be quiet and to stop making so much noise. I hoped that no one had heard us and called the cops. We'd be shit out of luck and trapped if they showed up.

After what seemed like forever, I made it to the top, which was a good thing because my arms felt so numb, I thought I was going to fall off. I pushed open the grate and I climbed onto the catwalk, with the other guys following shortly thereafter. It had been a hell of a climb and my arms hurt like a bitch, but I acted as is it had been nothing. I cracked open a beer and chugged it down. Nectar of the gods. I think it was Bud, or Mickey's, or some other nasty shit like that. It's not my fault; I didn't know better, I was young and stupid. Now, I'm older and just as stupid, if not more, but at least I know what good beer is and it sure as shit wasn't the swill that we drank that night or any other, to be honest. You know what, though? It worked; it did the trick, it brought the buzz and in the end, that was all that really mattered. Besides, without any girls around, there was no need to go all out and spend our beer money on fancy pants high-brow crap like wine coolers or Boone's Farm Berry Hill. Sometimes, quantity has a quality all its own.

We looked out over the town and beyond, to the bay; it was a beautiful sight and then it was over and done. Time to party.

We had just finished our first round of beer when one of the guys lost his fucking mind and chucked his empty bottle over the railing, where it then followed the laws of gravity by landing below in an explosion of glass. This was quickly followed by several more bottles and subsequent explosions before I was able to put a halt to this particular brand of madness.

"Stop that shit, you fucking imbeciles!" I hissed "People will hear it, if they haven't already, get pissed off, if they aren't already and call the fucking cops, if they haven't already. I really don't feel like getting busted right now, so please stop throwing the bottles and calling attention to us, you stupid fucks,"

Sometimes, it's like I'm The Brain and everyone else around me is a fucking Pinky.

It seems that in the land of the fuckheads, any imbecile can be king. You know what? It's good to be king.

We drank and we smoked, we laughed and we joked; trading gossip and insults and telling stories about all of the girls that we weren't having sex with. We had a really great time for all of about the next twenty minutes, or so.

That's when the first cop showed up. We watched as he got out of his car and looked up at us. He shook his head, walked back to his car, turned his spotlight on and shined the light at us. The light was blinding.

Personally, I thought it was pretty rude. Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me.

The cop looked back up at us and then he yelled, "What in the hell are you boys doing up there? Get your asses down here, right now!"

Crickets. We didn't say a word.

"I ain't fuckin' wit' you boys," the cop yelled. "I said to get down here right now and I meant every goddamn word."

"No! Fuck you!" my buddy Mike yelled back. "I ain't coming down until I finish my beer."

You know, that might not have been the best thing for him to say, you know, given our current situation and all.

The cop yelled again, "I'm gonna' kick yer ass when I get my hands on you, boy,"

The cop then picked up his radio and called in the situation just as a second squad car pulled up. About a minute later, they were joined by a supervisor,

We were pretty fucked.

Whose brilliant fucking idea was this, anyway? It really wasn't my idea that was at fault, though, it was the  fault of the idiots who botched the execution of my perfect plan that were at fault. So.... not it.

We quietly discussed our options and we didn't have too many. Okay, we only had one. We were trapped and we knew it, but we didnt think that the cops would climb the water tower to come after us. In for a penny, in for a pound, we decide to stay up there and party until we finished off all of our consumables. Since we were getting busted, we might as well go out with a bang and Fuck The Police! Damn, I'm so fucking gangsta.

Two more spotlights were now trained on us, joining the first. More squad cars arrived. The shit that we were in was getting deeper by the moment.

The police continued to order us to come down and we continued to ignore them. We kept our eyes on the prize, which was becoming incoherently intoxicated and we were winning. Burnouts 1, Cops 0. We kept drinking our beer and passing the bottle of Jack Daniels back and forth, while snoking bowl after bowl of whatever that nasty shit was that was trying to pass itself off as marijuana.

I should have expected it, but I wasn't all that long before empty bottles started sailing over the railing again. For some reason, that seemed to really get the cops all agitated and shit. We heard the squelch of a PA.

"You boys probably think that you're pretty funny right about now and y'all probably think that you're pretty screwed. Let's all be reasonable here. You'd best do the smart thing. the wise thing and climb on down, right now. We'll get this all sorted out and talk it over some. Y'all be home before the night is over. Do the right thing, fellas and come on down." said the artificially amplified Voice of Reason and Authority.

This completely reasonable offer was met with a ragged chorus of, "Fuck yous." I must confess that the harmonizing wasn't all that it could have been, but we were a tad tipsy, so I blame the alcohol for our lackluster acapella performance.

Doug suddenly stood up, said, "I have to pee," walked over to the railing, whipped it out and just let it fly. Literally. Doug was treating the cops to a golden shower. 

I really hoped that the police appreciated a little kink. I mean, they're cops, after all and what cop doesn't appreciate a little kink? Pleas, pleas and please, do not leave any stories about kinky cops in the comments section. On second thought, if you have kinky cop stories, go ahead and leave them in the comments section. I really want to read that shit. Btw, I didn't misspell please, it's pleas, as in pleading or begging, so who's smirking now, you smug motherfucker?

Doug was pissing on the cops. Holy fuck! We were doomed. We were fucked. We were doomfucked. I couldn't go to jail, I was way too pretty for prison. It was weird, but a strange sort of calm descended over us and one by one we all stood up and walked over to the railing, where we all joined Doug in showing our appreciation for the boys in blue. Our eight gun salute did not go unnoticed. We watched and laughed as the cops scattered like cockroaches, panicking and running about. You'd have thought we were hitting them with mortars, for fuck's sake.

We didn't actually hit any of the cops, but we did clean the dust off of a couple of their cruisers. Needless to say, they weren't very appreciative of our efforts. Honestly, common courtesy just seems to have gone by the wayside. We then hunkered back down, ignoring the police and their blah, blah, blah chatter over the PA. We finished off the alcohol and the pot, talking about what we were going to do once we got out of jail and wondering if we would be able to escape from the country before our parents could catch us and kill us. Our prospects weren't looking very good. We knew we'd have to come down eventually and as soon as we sobered up enough, we would make the long climb down to face the axeman. Do be careful with that axe, Eugene.

After we had sobered up some, we did manage to climb back down without losing anyone; I wasn't able to get close enough to my target, which is a good thing. I guess. Que sera, sera.

When we hit the ground, the cops roughed us up a little bit, before tossing us into squad cars and taking us down to the police station. We weren't handcuffed or anything, just thrown into the back of the police cars with a 'thump'. 

"Ouch!"

"Watch your head."

When we arrived at the police station, we were bitched at, yelled at, screamed at (spittle flying from the mouth and everything) and alternately, we were pushed, shoved, tripped, slapped and smacked upside our respective heads. I remember a couple of those hits had me seeing stars. Talk about a fucking buzzkill.

In the end, nothing serious happened to us. The police called our parents and allowed them to decide our fate, They did this with a particular relish in my case, as most of the police officers involved knew my father personally and they knew exactly what he would do to me, once I was released. I would have been safer in jail. The police knew as well as I did that my father would be angry that I had embarassed my family and pissed off the cops. He thanked the officers for their discretion and shook hands with each of them, assuring them that I would get what was coming to me. The cops laughed and told me to have a good time when I got home. Fuckers.

And it really sucked when I got home. My father kicked my ass ten ways from Sunday and my mother cheered him on, wading in every now and then to smack me with her wooden spoon. If you're Italian, you know exactly what I'm talking about. They're a staple in every Italian household except mine, I hate the fucking things. I got to play with one of those more than any other toy during my childhood. The fun factor really sucks.

At the end of the day, I considered it a learning experience; indeed, I learned a valuable lesson, that night.

Always have an escape route.

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