Three Strikes and We’re Out

STRIKE ONE

“Hey there…how you boys doin’?” asked a Highway Patrolman.

“We’re alright, officer…how ‘bout y’all?” Meanwhile, Chad was flushing drugs down the toilet in a nearby diner.

“Oooh, we’re fine… juuust fine. How polite of you to ask. You boys from Jaw-Jah?”

“Yes, sir. We left Atlanta a few days ago. We’re headin’ to Jackson for the summer.”

“Oh, is that right? A bunch of good ol’ boys from Jaw-Jah, gonna spend the summer in my state.”

When a cop starts referring to the area he patrols as “his,” it’s safe to say you’re in trouble. Meanwhile, Mike, Tim, my brother, and I were praying to God that Chad got rid of the drugs.

“Well, I hope you booooys (heavy on the demeaning Southern accent) have yourselves a luv-lee summer in this here state of mine, but before I let you go, I have a question (not waiting for an answer): y’all ain’t happenin’ to be smokin’ dope on my highway, now are ya?”

“Oh no, not us. No sir. You must have us mixed up with someone else.”

“Well, let me ask you a question, shit-for-brains—how many black Jeeps with Jaw-Jah plates do you reckon are around here?”

Silence, as all of us stared down at our shoes, knowing good and well we were busted.

“Because I’ve been gettin’ calls about a black Jeep full of assholes smokin’ dope. Now I’ll ask you again, how many black Jeeps with Jaw-Jah plates do you reckon are around here? That’s what I thought. Now I’m gonna have to search yo’ vee-hick-ole.”

By this time, Chad had come out of the restaurant with a sense of relief on his face because he successfully flushed the rest of our grass down the toilet. Not everyone would consider that a win, but at the time it was the right move.

Then the shit really hit the fan when Johnny Law found a packet of Goody’s Headache Powder. And do you think he thought it was anything other than cocaine? Because if you do, you’d be sorely mistaken. This county mountie tore up our Jeep and wasn’t going to stop until he found some real drugs (once his sidekick convinced him the Goody’s wasn’t coke).

Lo and behold, he found a single nug of marijuana—about the size of a marble—that must have rolled out of the freezer bag of grass that was now in the sewers of Sweetwater County, Wyoming.

“Well-hell…look what we have here, boys.”

When all was said and done, he was going to take two of us to jail: the owner of the car, Chad, was going no matter what, and it made no difference to him who the other person was. So, my younger brother Jeff, being Jeff, stepped forward and said, 'F*ck it.' And off they went.

How we bailed them out is a story for another day, but later that night, we threw a party in a motel room while trying to scrounge up bail. We had a grand old time. Before we got them out the following day, we bought “Missed You” balloons and confetti and had a celebration on the steps of the jail as Chad and Jeff got their freedom back, much to the chagrin of the cops: “YOU GET THAT DAMN SHIT OFF MY STEPS!”

We swore that we’d keep our noses clean for the rest of the summer. Which we tried like hell to do. Honestly, we did, but that’s a tall order for a bunch of knuckleheads.

STRIKE TWO

Three weeks later, Chad and I spent the evening drinking bottles of Budweiser at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in downtown Jackson. A glass ashtray full of Marlboro butts and a stack of quarters for the jukebox sat in front of us as we got good and drunk. We spent the night dancing with girls while Gladys sang "Midnight Train to Georgia." One beer led to a dozen or so, with a few whiskeys thrown in, before we headed back to the lodge. We didn’t get past the Dairy Queen on Cache Street before blue lights were flashing behind us. Chad spent the night in Teton County Jail while I hitchhiked back to the lodge.

A week later, Chad was still stressed about his arrest. And for good reason. We had barely been in Wyoming for a month, and Chad had been in the pokey twice, Jeff once, and the rest of us knew our time was coming if we didn’t straighten up. We all agreed to no more crazy shit. Just act like normal humans for the rest of the summer. But that’s a tall order for a bunch of knuckleheads.

STRIKE THREE

Halfway through the summer, it became obvious that we weren’t seeing eye to eye with management at the lodge. The new owner was a ball-buster who managed to anger every employee—not just the Georgia boys—so we staged a coup. We rounded up a few dozen waiters and house cleaners to go on strike. And by strike, I mean spend the day skinny-dipping in the hot springs and not working until our needs were recognized—all of which were unclear. As the day drew closer, it became obvious that no one but the morons from Atlanta would actually be walking out.

To make another long story short, we quit our jobs and moved into the backcountry. In no time, we had beards and too many hours to kill. Our days were filled with drinking beer for breakfast, reading used paperbacks, and taking baths in the Snake River every three or four days. Luckily, the girls at the lodge supplied us with canned food, booze, and cigarettes because money was in short supply.

If it wasn’t obvious enough, this particular group of idiots did NOT need to be unemployed and drunk for days on end. It all came to a head when a Park Ranger swung by our campground unannounced. He came upon a few 55-gallon bags of trash and offered to help by throwing them in the bed of his truck, but when one ripped open, hundreds of empty beer cans fell out.

“What in God’s name are you boys doing? Ain’t anyone eating food around here?”

“Those aren’t ours. They ah, must’ve been here before we got here.”

“And when was that?”

“A few weeks ago.”

He laughed, “Really? Dare I ask how old you are?”

“We’re in our twenties,” I said, speaking on behalf of all of us. I didn’t lie. We were in our twenties, just not twenty-one.

“Twenties, huh? Let’s see some ID. And why are those two so quiet?”

Mike and Tim were quiet because they had dropped acid a few hours before. What tipped the Park Ranger off was when he was driving by, he noticed two space cadets playing frisbee in the river without a frisbee. Frick and Frack were stoned out of their minds. Their pupils were the size of dinner plates.

After he saw our IDs, he noticed something on the Jeep. Since it hadn’t been washed in weeks and was covered with dust and mud, someone jokingly used their finger to write “Dope Ride” on it.

“You boys got dope in that ride?”

“No sir. We’re drug-free.” Meanwhile, Mike and Tim were in another galaxy watching the universe expand.

He rolled his eyes and asked, “Then why does it say ‘Dope Ride’?”

“Oh, that’s a joke ’cause it’s such a piece of shit.”

“Watch your language, boy. Now I’m gonna need all of you to put your hands behind your back.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The funny thing is, Chad wasn’t at the campsite when this was going on. Hours earlier, we swore we wouldn’t get into trouble while he was gone. The fact that this had to be reiterated while he left to go fishing says a lot. Mike, Tim, and I were sitting on a log in handcuffs while Chad happened to drive by in the back of a pickup with my brother. Jeff was laughing his ass off while Chad shook his head with that “I left you idiots alone and this is what you did?” look in his eyes.

Eventually, we all got off with a Minor in Possession and an Open Container ticket. One was a fifty-dollar fine, and the other was twenty-five. But by this time, Chad had had enough. Three arrests and six tickets were more than he could take, so he decided to leave Wyoming. I decided it was best for me too.

The next morning, Chad and I drove to Denver, where I hopped on a Greyhound to Atlanta. Chad had family stuff to take care of in Colorado and would end up driving back by himself a few weeks later through Texas.

I look back on it now and can laugh about it, but it wore me thin at the time. Spending a summer bailing guys out of jail in Wyoming isn’t fun. And it wasn’t cheap. The three other guys eventually went to Montana to work. Mike and my brother ended up staying in Big Sky for the winter, and Tim came back to the University of Georgia in the fall.

Tim, Mike, Chad, and I all ended up graduating from college, got married, and had kids. My brother has since passed away.

Somewhere in a closet is a shoebox, and in that worn-out box is a photograph I took of Jeff walking out of jail, covered in confetti, and holding a string of balloons with a huge smile on his face.