Chapter 6: Fourteen Hours to Foreman

“Could you turn that off?” the girl asked.

“Sure, we’ll turn it down,” I replied.

“NO. OFF!!!” she loudly rebuked.

Ok. Fine. Off. And we turned the iPod speakers off.

Gabby, Foreman, and I had been on the roof of Gabby’s Beacon Hill apartment in Boston jamming out to tunes until 12:30 in the morning. We’d just listened to a monologue on my iPod by Jean Shepherd (writer, narrator of A Christmas Story), which we had to turn way up because of its soft-spoken nature. Immediately following on shuffle was Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re an American Band” which came through the speakers admittedly way too loud for that setting at that time of night. It was like unleashing an air-horn in the middle of church. And the reaction we got was the same.

So we turned the music off and turned in ourselves for the night. It was the right call. I had another 400 miles to go in my trek.

The previous 700 miles were a trip. That’s not an error in tense; each and every mile was memorable.

I pulled out of Detroit rolling toward that eastern seaboard. I had an extra-large Tim Horton’s coffee and my eyes were open wide. I put away the iPod for a while, since I knew as long as I was in range, Detroit signals would properly propel me to the only state who’s drive-through is more boring than Indiana: Ohio.

The Ohio turnpike was easily the least inspiring portion of my journey. I passed Sandusky, which has at least twenty years before anyone can say the town’s name without a slight thought of disgust. Then a lot of nothing, and then the birthplace of the real-life Buffalo Bob, and Drew Carey: Cleveland. Shortly after that was the highlight, passing the town of Ashtabula. I laughed from the bottom of my belly when I passed the sign marking Ashtabula, because for so long I had thought Ashtabula to be a fictional, meaningless word.

Well I’ll be, it does exist…

You see, my mother has these phrases. Phrases that commonly come out as expletives or taking the Lord’s name in vain, into which she would make clean alternatives. “Son of a .. dog!!!” she would say. Or “God!… bless America!” Or the one that gave me so much trouble understanding as a kid, “No skin off my Ass..shtabula!”

I began to hunger throughout the 4 hour drive through the state. But sadly, the dining choices were routinely sub-par. It seemed to be nothing but Long John Silver’s, A&W, Hardee’s, Big Boy and a slew of other diarrhea inducing slop-joints. What’s a guy gotta do to get an Arby’s around here? From there, it was a mere half hour until I reached Presque Isle… ,Pennsylvania. Turns out there’s a Presque Isle, Pennsylvania. That’s almost interesting.

I decided to wait until New York to eat. So on the recommendation of my favorite journalism professor Jason Martin and my old pal Will Wilson who was a native of the Nickel City, I waited until Buffalo for lunch. Boy was that a great move.

Presque Isle, PA

I stopped at Duff’s, who I will go on record saying is the greatest wing joint I’ve ever eaten at. Not only were the wings reflective of where the delicacy got its start, but the atmosphere created at Duff’s was second to none.

On the walls hung jerseys, knickknacks and signs that made your local Applebee’s look like a trash-plastered soup kitchen. The game room rivaled that of any bar I’ve ever been to, complete with skee-ball and Streetfighter. And the best part, oh the best part, was the televisions. Not only did they have 30 of them, but their content was unparalleled.

They have this station called Duff’s TV that plays nothing but old Bills and Sabres highlights, which is more specifically touchdowns, hard hits, and hockey fights. But not only that, they splice it with 80’s music videos and Bud Light’s Real Men of Genius commercials. I was in heaven.

And in heaven, it was happy hour. I ordered a Labatt draft, and without asking the waitress brought me two. I needed a pinch. And more napkins.

Duff’s ain’t messing around

The drive through New York was aggravating, yet scenic. The rolling hills and funny town names were remarkable. It sure beat the hell out of the flat repetitive plains of Indiana and Ohio. But the drivers were not too considerate or polite. I used my horn for the first time on the trip outside of Schenectady on a lane-changing grand-am with the license plate “GO GETER”. I’ll go get ’er alright. Right off a cliff.

As you can see, by this point in the drive I’d lost some patience and gained some angst as all I wanted to do was be in Boston with an old pal and a Budweiser, safely knowing I had but 6 hours left until my final destination.

As the sun fell and “Radar Love” by Golden Earring became the theme, I longed for Boston. I just had to leg out the Massachusetts Turnpike to get there. It was a smooth ride, and in a few hours I approached the western edge of Beantown.

When you grow up in the neatly oriented utopia that is the Chicago street system, you inadvertently take the grid for granted. My unfamiliarity with Boston streets set my arrival time back at least a half hour. I inadvertently crisscrossed the Charles River a few times before I reached my final destination in Beacon Hill.

I was finally reunited with my old high school partner in crime Matthias Connelly, or Foreman as I call him, because of his striking resemblance to Topher Grace from That 70’s Show.

So Foreplay and I stayed up and caught up and reminisced and were hooting and hollering like we’d just turned sixteen. We listened to what we both believed the saddest song ever written, a song called “Patches” by Clarence Carter. It’s about a boy who was born and raised down in Alabama, way back up in the woods. His clothes were so ragged, folks used to call him Patches…

Then we danced our hearts out on a Boston rooftop until the fat lady sang. And the fat lady that night happened to be a very disgruntled building tenant who reminded us it was 12:30 am on a Wednesday and normal people had to be up for work in a six hours.

The next morning Forethought showed me around some historical sights in Boston and then it was time to leave. It was six and a half hours to the Northern Maine finish line.