It was New Year’s Eve and I had a beard and it made me mean. It was New Year’s eve and I was drunk and it made me reckless.
We’d gone through all of the beer, all of the hard alcohol at Stuyvie’s house, and were in need of more; it wasn’t even midnight yet, the drugs were kicking in and without alcohol as a steadying influence, there was no telling what debauchery might take place. I had a car, all I needed was a target. Someone said Charles was having a party with a keg. I grabbed a few people, loaded up my ’72 Monte and headed over at 90 per.
Charles was perfectly nice. But Charles wasn’t a coked-up raging badger in need of booze, so when we showed up and were refused, things went south.
I explained that we had more people, better people, and would need to take their beer. This technique had worked for me just that past summer; my running buddy and I came across a party in the dunes filled with young people.
“We’re taking your beer,” we said, and simply took their keg back home to finish by ourselves.
Charles was less of a push-over. Regardless of what we said or threatened, the kid wasn’t giving it up without a call to the cops. My condition was not conducive to dealing with cops, so we left empty handed, but not before running over the cable junction box in Charles’ front yard.
“That fuck is not watching TV on New Year’s Day,” I told my friends, who couldn’t hear a word over the pissed-off growl of the Chevy 350 bleeding from the hole I’d just ripped in my exhaust system.