The annual Friday night "Turn Captain Morgan Into An Admiral" party was rampaging. It was loud, raucous and wasn't going to stop any time soon (or at least until people started passing out). Other campers wandered by with a look that seemed to say "if I wanted to kill myself, I'd go party with those guys".
As the music blared, the group evaded the rain by cramming together underneath the main tent. Equal amounts of booze were consumed and spilled by everyone, especially by those who had just arrived and were playing 'catch-up'. My brother, Jeremy "Cowboy" Rostorfer, and I were casually discussing how many drinks it would take before he declared "No Pride Night" (a level of intoxication which usually involves conversing and/or engaging in sexual congress with undesirable females).
Needless to say, we were all pretty banged up and well on our way to Indy bliss. In fact, I'm quite amazed that I can recall any details about this particular episode. Nobody could have imagined the terror that would soon strike. Terror in the shape of an old man.
During one of our conversations about solving the world's problems, a low end rumble emerged ... which quickly evolved into a high pitched symphony of screams and terror. Something or someone had plowed into the main tent and taken out a couple of people, knocking them down into lawn chairs and spilling even more of their drinks. Cries of "What the f*ck?" and "Who the f*ck is that guy?" sprouted up from the crowd.
I looked over to my left into the eye of the chaos, expecting to see a miniature tornado. What I found was an older man in a hooded sweatshirt being helped up from a broken chair. It was Tyrone, our neighbor from across the street.
Eventually, Tyrone made it to his feet and helped himself to one of his cigars. After a few minutes he opted for a draft beer, drinking it slow and precisely like a surgeon making an incision. He looked at Cowboy with his half-opened eyes. "Welp, time for me to get out of your guys' way", he slurred. I was impressed with the discipline it must have taken him to cut off his own fun, so I offered to help "guide" him across the vast and mysterious ten foot road leading to his place of slumber. Cowboy grabbed his other arm.
Earlier in the night, the observation was made that Tyrone's grandchild was playing a nice game of cards in their tent with some girls their age. We guessed they were about ten or twelve years old, and commented that in a few years they would be taking part in the raging madness that was now in front of their very eyes. Fortunately for everyone, the door to their card playing tent was not facing us and they did not witness some of the more lewd acts from our group. Unfortunately for them, that also meant they couldn't see Tyrone being walked across the street.
Somewhere near the half-way mark of the gravel road, Tyrone spoke again. "Man I tell you fellas sumthin... *hic*... there ain't nothing in this world that'd make me want to get f*cking married again". We weren't sure where he was going with this line of thought, but we acted interested and moved him closer to the van he was sleeping in. We were now in front of the tent and loosened our grip on him.
"... I'll tell you something else... my wife ... *hic*... never made me peanut butter cookies!" And with that memorable declaration, the mighty Tyrone fell.
It was a smooth, almost graceful fall... similar to the dive a synchronized swimmer might execute when entering a pool. His shoulder blade slammed into the tent frame pole, causing him to let out a muffled "ughhhhh" sound and breaking down the frame's structure immediately. The tent canvas gently slid down the remaining poles, hiding Tyrone in its thick darkness. A whimpering voice from inside the tent cried "Grandpa! Are you okay?!"
Tyrone responded. "Ughhhhhhhhh..."
To call it laughter would be a crime. Cowboy and I were crying with hysterical fits of stomping feet, switching from resting our hands on our knees to holding the other up by the arm. Tyrone rolled around in his canvas blanket while the children frantically fought their way out into the open air. They quickly made their way over to assist the large black bump with tennis shoes sticking out from under it.
After the power of basic motor skills returned to our bodies, we wiped the joyous tears from our aching cheekbones and helped Tyrone up. His eyes were now completely closed, although fluttering and allowing small amounts of light from the bonfire to enter. Just enough to have a general idea of large objects and light or dark shapes.
Cowboy helped Tyrone into the back of the van, closing the door quickly to keep him from spilling back out on to the wet grass. As the door slammed shut, a large *thud* sound that could have only been part of Tyrone's body slammed into the door. We busted out laughing again, hoping at the same time that he hadn't suffered a massive head wound.
So there went us two brothers, walking down to the Port-O-Lets together to relieve our bodies from the trauma that just occurred. The laughter would continue on for hours, nay, days and years afterward.
After the next year at Indy, we hardly saw Tyrone. Every now and then you might see him walking down the street and convince him to have a drink or two. If you're lucky, that is. But he once did drink ... a LOT. And it's because of his willingness to get loaded that others benefited. Sure, he may have made an a$$ out of himself, but who hasn't?
I'll forever be in debt to him for giving birth to the phrase "Tyrone drunk", and the night he made me laugh so hard I swore I'd pee myself.
The night Tyrone became a wrecking ball
No comments:
Post a Comment