We use to meet under the bridge where the dead-end road met the storm drain. We were all young and didn’t have places of our own. So on Friday nights we would meet by the water and drink. The canal was smaller where we were, but a few miles up it widened. They used it as Thunder Road in the movie Grease. We would swig on whiskey and warm beer until someone sent word of a party or something else going on. More times than not that bridge was our night. Many sunrises were watched from that concrete.
One night there must have been six of us down there. A bottle of Canadian Club and some King Cobra. One of my friends brought this guy he knew from the lumber yard where he worked with him. We were drinking and having a good time. When this new guys started telling us about this girl he had met the night before at some party. He said they made out for a long time and things got pretty heated. I wasn’t really paying attention. He said that she wrote her number down on the back of her high school senior picture and gave it to him. He pulled the wallet size photo from his jacket pocket and handed it to one of my buddies. I saw his face just go blank. A laugh and a smile one second, then just nothing. He looked at me and reached his arm out to hand me the picture.
“She’s pretty cute” I said as the rest of the whiskey poured into my mouth. “Hey we need to go on a pants walk, where are out of booze”. The new guy looked up and said “What’s a pants walk?”. I said “Well it’s when one person distracts the guy behind the counter at the liquor store while another person grabs a bottle, slips it down his pants and walks out”. “Well what if we get caught?” He asked.
“We do it all the time, we’ve never even come close to getting caught. You come with me and I’ll take care of the distraction, you grab the bottle.” I said and the kid agreed. He wanted to fit in with us. I knew he wouldn’t say no.
So we took my truck over to the store just down the road. We got out and walked inside. I walked over to the counter and made sure the guy working would have his back to the shelves as he talked to me. “Hey how’s it going? I have no idea where I am. Do you know where Mimosa Lane is?” I asked the very large Italian owner. I have been in this place before and knew the owner worked on Friday nights and he was a mean son of a bitch.
“Sure” he said, “It’s two streets up on the left”. he told me as I looked over to see if the kid had snatched the bottle yet. He had it in his pants and was trying to hide his shirt over the bulge.
I then looked up at the very large, hairy man and said…”Thanks” and as I turned to walk away I paused for a moment and said….”oh and that guy behind you just stuck a bottle of whiskey down his pants”.