John Tinseth looks back on a road trip in a hunk of fat Detroit steel with four buddies and a can full of piss.
Originally appeared at The Trad
In 1982, GM was a word. “Geeyem.” Like someone from Georgia says, “Jim.” This one was a Buick deuce and a quarter. A white hunk of fat Detroit steel that made a trip one Spring Break from St Augustine to Daytona Beach with four friends.
Troyer drove the chariot. Golden haired and Aryan, none of us in the car that night knew he was gay. Some of us still don’t. A cold case of canned Schaffer shared the back seat with Fusco and Beaudoin. None of us knew Fusco would wind up a screenwriter and producer — although none of us would’ve bet against him. Movie star looks but amazingly cheap…he was pre-ordained for Hollywood success.
Beaudoin sat next to Fusco chasing raisins from a generic one pound box with beer. Brillo headed and bearded, the war in El Salvador was excuse for six hours of his indignant Boston accented argument that the Monroe Doctrine was the ultimate evil.
I’m riding shotgun and have to take a leak. Troyer offers to pull over on a stretch of darker-than-the-inside-of-a-goat, I-95. “No need.” I say. Wise old man of the car, I explain how I pissed in cans during Army convoys while, “you fuckers were starting ninth grade.” I open a beer can with a P38 on my key chain and pull down the fly on 30/30 khakis. I stick my dick in the can careful to avoid the sharp edges.
Success as I fill the can but seconds later feel warm pee cover my khakis. “No problem unless you piss more than 12 ounces,” I say and fling the can out the window not knowing the back window is down. Not remembering all the windows are down in the white Detroit slab-o-steel Troyer’s mom should be driving.
“Fuck, Tinseth!” Fusco screams as my nephron unit (thanks, Dr. Lardner) formation strikes him head and chest. Beaudoin, slow to catch on, thinks its raining for at least five seconds before a handful of piss-misted raisins are digested. Troyer, of course, laughs.
I spend the rest of the trip holding khakis out the car window at 70mph in an attempt to dry the large stain on my crotch. My friends. And they have remained friends… are tolerant. Like friends who get pissed on always are.
About John Tinseth
I liked this. It was like Hunter Thompson without the loathing.
The pissing in the can is not likely. Truckers use milk jugs. Pissing on yourself is hardly dignified. And pissing on you friends is grounds for an everlasting “divorce.” Just imagine sticking your weiner anywhere near that little opening. That’s drunk.
Oh, and heres an idea if you can’t find a place to pee while in town driving around.
Go to a self car wash stand in front of your car and pee in the drain. Of course now there are cameras everywhere, so piss fast.
reg- Thanks for the comment. I used the P-38, which is an Army can opener carried on a key chain, to open the top of the beer can. That gave me the entire circumference of the can, less the jagged edges, which were covered with cotton at the fulcrum of my fly. I’m in NYC now so I usually pee in dumpsters