Randy was the best friend I’ve ever had. Way back in time, at Ft. Campbell Kentucky it was Thursday afternoon.
“Hey Blum,” Randy said in his deep southern accent. “Let’s go fishing.” He shelved the box of printer paper he had carried in from his Jeep. We worked in Administrative Services, where they type, reproduce and distribute orders for just about anything that went on at Ft. Campbell. I was the Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge, (NCOIC). Randy was our driver. He had a jeep from the Motor Pool and would keep us supplied with just about everything.
“Saturday or Sunday?” I asked looking up from my desk.
“All weekend I suppose,” Randy said.
“That’s a lot of fishing. I don’t know. And I don’t think I’m up for a load of catfish or gar. Or are you thinking a stream or something?”
“No stream, river or even Kentucky. I’m thinking the pike you always talk about up at your parent’s cabin.”
“What, Brainard?” I said. “That’s a two day drive up and another two back. That’s a week if we fish for two days. Are you crazy?”
“We pack up and leave before dark. We can drive straight through, taking turns driving. We fish; we come back. Three days total. Go ask Mr. Walker if we can take a couple days leave.”
Mr. Walker was the department boss. He was a civilian GS12 comparable to a Major and had an office next-door. “This is crazy, like all of your other ideas. I don’t think Walker will give us the time off.”
“Life is an adventure. We’re lucky to be assigned stateside and not some swamp in Viet Nam. So, okay we fish. We just need to figure out where. I’ve only ever been to places by our farm in Georga and here. I won’t to see where you Yankies come from.”
I gave out an exaggerated groan and shoved back in my chair, away from my desk.
In Walker’s office he leaned back in his chair, put his pen down and said, “Brainard? Brainard Minnesota? Isn’t that about 750 to 800 miles away? So, what would you need? A week? Do either of you have that much leave left for the year?”
“Well, no. Not me,” I said.
“A day up. A day back. Two days to fish,” Randy said. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Weekends are free, Mondy’s a drive day. We only need two days.”
Randy grinned, Walker tapped his pen, I shook my head.
“Okay, on one condition,” Mr. Walker said. “Bring me back a Northern Pike. Not a picture. You could fake one. I want a real fish. I want something I can hold up and show my fishing buddies. You bring me a pike, and I won’t even mark you on leave. The trip is free. No Fish and I’ll mark a whole week of leave for both of you.”
I looked at Mr. Walker, then Randy, then back to Mr. Walker. I opened my mouth, but Randy spoke first.
“Done!” He said. “Come on Blum,” he said and grabbed my arm. “We need to pack and hit the road. We’re burning daylight.”
We were supposed to work for another two hours. I made up an excuse that Randy was driving me to Self-Serve, where we got our supplies. We practically ran out of the office, parked the jeep and got in my car. At home I didn’t change, I just shoved jeans, a coupe shirts and underwear in a bag. My wife, Phyllis and daughter, Tara, were in North Carolina for a week. At Randy’s house, he packed the same but thought to grab a box of crackers and a couple beers. Back in my car we headed for the highway.
We drove, staying close to the speed limit. We had a long way to go, but the military sticker on my bumper made us a target whenever close to a military facility. Away from one, the sticker helped police look the other way. The Viet Nam war had a funny effect. Some people were against it and anyone in uniform. Other people treated us special. It was all very confusing. At one stop for gas, it was hard to get service. At another stop, they gassed my car and gave us free sodas and chips.
We didn’t stop to change drivers. The current driver would hold the wheel and stand on the seat. The new driver would get his feet on the pedals. The driver would hold the wheel with one hand and back over the car seat. The new driver would grab the wheel and slide into place. One of us drove. The other one slept in the back seat.
I was sleeping but a loud, thump and bump woke me. Randy was laughing.
“Sorry, Blum. I think your car’s alright.”
I looked out the window. We were on a section of freeway and lights were everywhere.
“Where are we? And what happened?” I asked.
“We’re in Chicago. That’s a slaughter place, I think. That must be the livestock unloading yard over there. We hit a pig. It wasn’t big. I think I just grazed it.
“A pig. In Chicago,” I said quietly. “Only with you, Johnson. Only; no-- always, with you.”
The sun was coming up. I drove but Randy wasn’t sleeping. He’d only ever been in Georgia where he grew up on a farm, and Ft. Campbell in Kentucky.
We were on a bridge where Wisconsin ended and Minnesota. Randy looked down at the St. Croix River. “What’s that? He asked. “Why is it blue?”
I cucked. “I know all the water is brown down where you live, but up here water is blue. I’m getting nervous,” I said. “We’re only about 45 minutes from my parent’s house.”
At my parent’s house, mom and dad had fishing gear, a cooler and jug of lemon aid for us. I had called them before we left Kentucky, so they weren’t too shocked. They wanted Randy and me to stay for a while, have some lunch and visit. Dad understood more than mom. He helped with the new supplies, wished us good luck and gave me the key to the cabin. Off we went again on our adventure.
The cabin overlooked Upper South Long Lake about five miles out of Brainard. The cabin was fairly rustic. There was a pump-well outside the kitchen door and an outhouse out bac. I did have electricity, a stove, refrigerator and oil heater. We didn’t have any food and had been snacking in the car. Down at the lake, the aluminum fishing boat was upside down on the beach. We flipped it over and rowed a couple hundred yards to a spot full of lily pads. I usually had good luck there. After half an hour I hooked a bass but lost it.
Randy hooked something and was shouting and hooting as he reeled it in. “Ya, Ya YA!” he yelled and held up his catch. “It’s one, isn’t it?”
Dangling at the end of his line was a small northern pike. It was barely a little more than a foot long and probably weighed less than a pound.
“It’s too small,” I said. “Throw it back.”
“No way. This is our fee week of leave ticket.”
“All right. All right.”
Randy put it in the otherwise empty Styrofoam minnow bucket. We fished for another hour but both of us were yawning. We rowed back to the cabin and turned the boat upside down. We transferred the fish to the empty cooler in my car.
“Let’s go find some dinner and get some ice for my fish,” Randy said.
“I’m changing first,” I said and went into the cabin. Both of us changed into jeans, tennis and polo shirts. We tossed our army fatigues in the back seat.
“Hey, where’s that dance club you talked about,” Randy asked.
“Oh, it’s called Litle Point. All the camp counselors and local college kids hand out there. I have a vague idea where it is. I do know where there’s a good rib joint.
We filled up on ribs and Randy flirted with a couple girls. They giggled a little but wouldn’t give Randy a phone number. I wasn’t surprised. What was he doing to do? Call them from Kentucky. When we paid our bill, I put down a good tip and asked the waitress if she could direct us to Little Point. She drew a map on a napkin along with a phone number.
“I bet that’s not the club’s number,” Randy teased.
We had left my car unlocked and the windows open. Someone had been in the car. Both of our uniform baseball caps were on my windshield. “My camera,” I said and looked in the back seat. “It’s gone. Somebody took it.”
“It’s there, on the dashboard,” Randy said when he got in the car. “Doesn’t look like anything’s missing.”
I shrugged, got in, and drove us to Little Point.
The club was a big parking lot with a big white one-story building with no windows. The lot was filled with cars, vans, pickup trucks and motorcycles. We could hear rock and roll music coming from the building. I parked my car, and we went inside. About a third of the inside was filled with picnic tables. Almost all the patrons were like us, in their twenties. About five older guys, dressed in white shirts and black pants, stood behind a long bar. The five men wore white aprons, that tied around their waists. Shelves behind them didn’t have any liquor bottles we could see. They held juices and mixers. Below the shelves big metal coolers held ice.
At the bar, Randy ordered a beer and I ordered a mixed drink.
“We don’t have those,” the bartender told us. “You must be new. No liquor. Just setups. You bring your own alcohol and can rent a locker to store the bottle here if you want. We have mixers, glasses and ice. So, what’ll you have?”
We both got a glass of ginger ale and found a table. The dance floor was crowded, and the music loud. I just sat, doing some people watching. Randy headed for a table of all girls. I couldn’t hear what Randy was telling them but could hear their laughter. Randy was the center of attention. He waved for me to join him.
One of the girls asked if I was an actor too. I said, “No. I’m a writer.” I silently had to laugh. Randy was being Randy. During our drive, I had told Randy all about Minnesota and the Twin Cities. Using what I had told him, he told the girls he was an actor at the Minneapolis Guthrey Theater. He said for his part, he needed a southern accent. He asked the girls to critique him as he tried to be in character and sound southern.
What the girls didn’t know was Randy couldn’t talk without his southern drawl. He was born and raised in the hill country close to Atlanta. The girls shared their liquor. We drank and danced.
At midnight someone using a microphone announced closing time. Randy and I headed for the door. I parked against the building. Both of us leaned against my car and Randy waived and shouted goodbye to nearly everyone.
The crowd seemed to fit into two groups. One group I’ll call the motorcycle group even though they didn’t all have bikes. They wore lots of black leather with shiny silver studs fastened everywhere. Some had silver chains looped from pocket to pocket. The other group I’ll call the preppies. They had V-neck sweaters, button down shirts and khaki slacks. The motorcycle girls wore leather pants or denim miniskirts. The preppie girls favored pleated skirts or colored shorts. A few people were like Randy and me wearing jeans.
As the groups filled their vehicles the dust cloud grew and a line of cars and vans choked the exit driveway. A white Plumer’s van waited its turn in line near us. One of the preppie kids, in a Ford Mustang Convertible backed up. His bumper, at an angle, hit the chrome hubcap of the van.
Randy went over to the Mustang driver and pointed to the van’s hubcap. “Ah, it’s not bad. About a nickel dent in your bumper and a nickel dent in the van. Even Steven, call’er a tossup.”
“Thanks, dude,” the Mustang driver said and climbed back into his convertible.
One of the motorcycle crowds ran over and yelled, “Hey where ya going. You hit my van!”
The Mustang guy said, “Bug off, dude. It’s none of your business!
Randy came back over by me and leaned against my car. He folded his arms and watched the preppie and motorcycle guys argument climb. More bodies joined both sides. Shouts and yelling got louder just before pushing and shoving.
One of the motorcycle guys put a preppie in a headlock, bent him over and rammed the preppie’s head into my car door, making a big dent.
Sirens sounded and two cop cars pulled in the lot. One of the preppie guys reached under the seat of his car. As loud as he could, Randy yelled, “Look out! He’s going for his shotgun!”
The cops drew their firearms and yelled, “FREEZE! Hands in the air. Everyone!”
The preppie guy was shaking. He held up the set of car keys he had under his seat.
“All right, everyone out of here. Party’s over. Anyone still here in five minutes spends the night in jail.”’
Cars, trucks, vans, motorcycles, jammed the exits. The dust they kicked made it look like fog. Randy and I moved from the side of my car and sat on the hood. The men who had been bartenders came out and spoke with the four policemen while the parking lot emptied.
All the vehicles, except mine, were gone and a slight breeze cleared away the dust. The police and the bartenders turned and stared at us. “You two are going to jail,” one of the policemen said.
Randy slid off my hood. “Wow, I commend and applaud you guys.” Randy gestured his hand toward me. “That’s Michael. I’m Randy. We’re two MP’s on leave from Fort Campbell Kentucky. See,” he said and pointed to my bumper. “That’s our military sticker. I’m from Georga. Mike’s from here. He convinced me to come up here to go fishing. I am so impressed by how well you officers managed this crowd. Back on base we have similar challenges. Most of the soldiers are about the same age as what you had here, tonight.”
“Ft. Campbell? One of the officers said. “My dad went to basic training there. So, you boys are on leave?”
“Just for the weekend,” I said. “I showed Randy, my parent’s cabin. It’s over on Upper South Long. So are we going to jail?”
“HA. No one of the bartenders said. “George, Andy, Phil, Tony, I’m guessing you were all off at midnight. I think Little Point can afford to give you guys a nightcap. You two boys too. Thanks for serving our country. Military service would do a few of these kids good. Come on in.” He held the door, and we all moved inside.
We spent about an hour drinking and swapping stories. The police we a little disappointed, neither Randy nor I had been on deployment.
I wasn’t sure I should drive, but I knew Randy had drunk a lot more than me and the cops didn’t say anything.
Randy climbed in the back. I headed for the highway.
The next thing I remember was waking up. We were both in the back seat and my car was parked on the shoulder. I had no idea where we were. From the fields, I knew it was rural. From the sun, barely above the horizon, I knew which way was south. I drove a quarter mile and saw a sign for St. Cloud. I had no idea how we got there. I woke Randy. We found a waffle house for breakfast and made it to White Bear Lake. I said a quick hello, goodbye to mom and Randy and I were on the road again.
On the back end of the marathon, no adventure, just lots of yawning. When I got home, my family was still out of town. We lived in a trailer park and had a small washer and dryer in the bathroom. I dumped my wad of fatigues in the washer along with all the clothes I was wearing. The hot water in my shower nearly lulled me to sleep. Cold water jolted me awake. I had used all the hot. I dried off and flopped into bed.
The next morning, I put on a crisply starched set of fatigues and headed for the office. Randy was sitting on the steps. He looked at me and laughed. I will not… I will never forget that fishing trip.”
I grinned. “Do you… Do we ever do anything that isn’t an adventure?”
We both laughed and headed inside. Mr. Walker was already there. He spotted us when we walked past his office. “Blumer, Johnson, report!” he called.
We stopped, turned and headed back down the hall. He met us at his doorway. “Your uniforms look great but you two look like… you look like…”
“…we had a fantastic time,” Randy said, finishing Walker’s sentence.
“I never doubted that,” Walker said. So, where’s my pike or do I put down a week of leave on each of your records?”
“I smacked my hand against my forehead. The pike.”
“It’s in a cooler in Mike’s trunk. I’ll get it,” he said and stuck out his hand. “Gimme your keys.”
“I tried not to wince. “We should just go outside and look.”
“No. Bring it in.”
Randy took my keys. Walker went into his office; I rolled my eyes then followed.
Walker sat on the edge of his desk. When Randy came back, he put the blue cooler at Walker’s feet and stepped back by me at the doorway. The second Walker grabbed the cooler’s lid, Randy and I both practically ran down the hall.
From Walker’s office we heard. “What the hell! You too! Back here now.” Walker, holding his nose backed into the hall.
We put the cooler and Northern outside in the shade. We iced it. Walker still wanted to show his buddies. Because of that, when he calmed down he marked us present for duty.
When my wife got home, she made me air out the trailer and scrub the washing machine tub. I had forgotten about the clothes. The camera belonged to me but thankfully Randy took the film in for developing. When the pictures came back. He gave me half. The half he kept were photos of two girls posing in various positions on and in my car. They both wore Randy’s and my army caps. We both saw the humor in it, but were thankful we were able to keep them private. Our only regrets were the dent in my car door and that we never took a picture of that fish.
