Stupid Bucket

Editor's Note: At the behest of John Arvai III, I'm adding this story to the page. I don't necessarily think it's quite as classic as some others, but what the people want: they get. - Gabe Rostorfer

I had lost the cooler. Not just any cooler, mind you, but the Old Milwaukee's Best Light AM/FM radio cooler that Beretta loaned to me earlier in the month for time trials. I'd promised him that nothing would happen to it, and here I was looking all over creation for it with only minutes left before the group departed for our destination.

The destination? None other than the infamous Skoal Tent. I knew that if I rolled up there without any booze, or tried to cram my drinks into someone else's cooler, I was only setting myself up for defeat. My only hope was to find an alternate vessel for my 16 oz cans of Miller Lite.

My roaming eyes settled on a dull, white object beyond the smoke of the bonfire. It was a small bucket, no bigger than two gallons, and sat underneath the camper adjacent to ours. I deducted that it must belong to one of the Turkelson clan and felt optimistic that nobody would miss it, should I continue on my current path of luck regarding others' posessions.

As I picked up the bucket and felt its potential in my hand, I noticed some magic marker writing on the side of it: "Stupid Bucket". This would be perfect for about eight 16-ouncers and some ice. Perfect for my state of mind and where I was headed. Perfect.

After loading up my booze and grabbing some ice (that also probably wasn't mine), I was approached by Buck and had to reassure him that I would not lose the bucket, sarcastically recognizing the fact that it must be held in such high esteem sitting under the camper. Buck said "Just make sure you bring it back, ok"? Fair enough.

The Skoal Tent showcased its usual debauchery: the traditional vocal and visual threatening towards Dusty and his band, follwed by the traditional "on stage for Hang On Sloopy / everyone change hats / drink the keyboard player's booze" dance about half way through the show. Later on as we gathered up to leave, the now empty Stupid Bucket and I set off to seek bladderly relief and essentially lost contact with the rest of the group.

"No big deal", I thought. "I know exactly where I'm going and how to get there. C'mon, Bucket".

Cruising down the packed and closed-off Georgetown Street, I gleefully swung him to and fro in an attempt to dry up some of the leftover moisture from the ice. No matter how stupid he was, I had grown attached to Bucket over the course of the evening and felt he deserved a little fun before getting back to the campsite, where he was sure to be kicked around and spat in. I walked slowly, trying to make the trip (and my last 16-ouncer) last as long as possible.

About twenty yards before our camping lot's turnoff road, it happened. A hand shot out of the crowd, grabbing Stupid Bucket by the flimsy plastic handle. My reaction was one of surprise and laughter, knowing that nobody would have any reason to take Stupid Bucket away from me. They were just kidding, right?

Wrong. Seconds after the hand touched Stupid Bucket, the hand's good friend (the fist) touched my mouth extremely hard ... and was followed immediately by another friend to my temple. I dropped to the ground.

I was in vertigo. "What had just happened?", I wondered. "Why would anyone hit me and try to steal a bucket?... especially one that actually says Stupid - wait! What happened to Bucket?!!"

My eyes shot open to take in the Indiana sky and the towering streetlights above me. The beatdown had sent me t|ts-up as I could now feel the warm, dirty asphalt of Georgetown Street on my back. The bitter taste of blood in my mouth and the sharp pain in my head were enough to let me know I'd gotten a haymaker from Kansas, but all I cared about was Bucket and whether or not he'd survived.

I sent the signals to my brain: "Lift up the right arm... lift it NOW!" The brain resisted, so I followed up with a retort: "I don't care if you're temporarily in a state of disfunction due to extreme physical trauma, lift the arm. 'Lift that f*cking wing' I said!!"

As my shaking head gained altitude, I forced my eyes open and directed them towards my raised right hand - the hand which contained a plastic handle. At the end of the handle was Stupid Bucket.

I hugged, no I embraced Stupid Bucket for what felt like an eternity. My plastic friend had weathered the storm without so much as a scratch on its cheaply-manufactured surface. With this newly found joy, I rose up from the billows of motorcycle exhaust and crushed aluminum cans, refusing to dust myself off. We'd made it. Nobody else, just Bucket and I.

Once back at the camp site, I gently lowered Stupid Bucket to the ground. I didn't want him to be part of the feeding frenzy of questions and camera flashes that was soon to errupt. In fact, I didn't want any part of it either. I grabbed another cold one, lowered my head, and sulked past my friends without saying so much as a word. Up to the front of the camper where I could pull the curtain and try to quell the pain and embarrassment. I grabbed some Wet Wipes, folded them up, and jutted them into my bottom lip to soak up the blood.

Thanks to the newly-formed lip, the Miller Lite I was attempting to chug trickled out of my mouth and on to my bloody shirt. It made the white tshirt look like it had been washed with a load of red clothes. Just then, the curtain flew open to reveal Arvai and several other of my Indy commrades. John looked puzzled, inquiring "Dude ... what the f*ck happened?"

"Someone tried to take the Stupid Bucket", I answered.

I laid it all down for them: The pee break, the empty bucket, the hitting, how SkyNet would take over our defense grid and start a nuclear holocaust... everything. Eventually my lip began to close its wound and my drinking powers returned to normal, albeit with a little discomfort and 'supposed' brain damage. Fire hydrants. Funnel cake. I managed to hold off my peers and secured another Drinking Championship, crashing around 4:00am (or 'exactly one minute after whenever the hell Andy said he was done').

And so the next morning, with the bright Indiana sunshine breaking through and the Championship belt slung around my waist, I enjoyed a fine Bloody Mary with my new lip and looked forward to the day's events.

Along side of me, basking in the same Indiana sunshine, sat the Stupid Bucket: the real champion of that weekend.