Marty was looking forward to his first summer vacation as the pilot of a truly interstellar vehicle. That old, cracked VW bus had been more like a cheap satellite. Now, he felt like he had 20,000 tons of rocket power underneath his ass every time he hit the accelerator on his truck. He never got the urge to work on cars much, so he didn’t really understand the mechanics of the powerful Corvette engine under the hood. All he knew was that he virtually blasted off every time he stomped on the gas pedal! NASA was launching their Pioneer probe to Venus, but for Marty this would be the summer of Apollo. He couldn’t wait to take his muscle truck on road trips to the beaches, lakes, or mountains. He’d gotten those stiff steering pins replaced, and it cost a pretty penny, too. It seemed like something always needed fixing on the older parts of the truck. By contrast, Mike’s Stanger was in excellent condition, and all it needed was gas. Both vehicles needed lots of gas. Marty’s Chevy pickup weighed twice as much as the Mustang, and its huge intake valves inhaled gasoline the way an elephant drinks water. Detroit made big, thirsty cars at that time, as the oil companies grew sleek and fat off the stored energy of creatures that had lived millions of years ago.
Marty and his friends needed steady jobs to fund their preferred lifestyle: driving around and partying. The verb “party” was a somewhat playful euphemism at the time for underage drug and alcohol abuse. The teenage economy consisted of beer, cigarettes, cheap gas, and black-market trading in several illegal substances… and more beer. But only the reckless partiers drank hard liquor, and they were usually considered the “rowdy crowd.” To fuel their adventures in better living through chemistry, teenagers needed cash. As a result, they shackled themselves to their paychecks way too early, and traded one half of their lives so they could get wasted during the other half, and not remember anything about it. The only time they were sober was when they were at work.
The philosophy of “party like there’s no tomorrow” became the official credo of the new Rusty Bucket Federation, of which Mike, Marty, and Boobers were the founding members. Their manifesto was clear: live life to the max by getting as wasted as possible; by any means necessary. Their nightly mission: to explore strange new drugs, seek out new highs and hallucinations, and boldly go where no partiers had gone before! On the platform in the redwood grove that was formerly the site of Otter’s teepee, they built a crude, 8-foot cube of plywood and 2 by 4s to serve as the bridge of their starship, “Innerprize.” They decorated this dubious command center with an extensive collection of beer bottles and bottle caps, and the only furniture was a folding card table and three plastic chairs. The three party members stayed up late in the pitch dark forest, blasting AC/DC on a beat-up Emerson boom box, guzzling beer, boasting heavily on bongs, and experimenting with new highs and thrills. “Fascinating,” as Marty often said, with one arched eyebrow.
In one of their innovative “research studies,” they investigated how much a subject could hyperventilate into a paper bag before he stopped breathing. This inconvenience only lasted a few seconds, but it produced the most marvelous side effects. The participant basically went into temporary, respiratory shock. To the mirthful observers of the experiment, the guinea pig twitched and jerked on the floor as if in the final stages of drowning. However, instead of trying to rescue the helpless “bag-head,” the attending investigators just laughed. When it was Marty’s turn, his body went numb, briefly allowing an exuberant flood of pure soul ecstasy to fill all the emptiness he had created in his life, and then, like water down the drain, it was gone. He woke up surprised, on the floor in a sweaty fog, and needed a few uncertain seconds to recuperate. It was very disappointing to discover he was still trapped inside a body! The windowless cube of plywood was dense with smoke and laughter. Eventually, they took off part of the roof in order to see the stars. The three teenage adventurers weren’t even old enough to die for their country, but they were working hard to save the Army the trouble.
Marty reasoned that every generation of teenagers had probably done its share of partying. During his youth, the long, strange trip of the Sixties staggered right on into the Seventies. After children grew up watching nothing but older kids and adults getting wasted, it was inevitable how widespread partying would become. Nearly every teenager followed the lead of the older kids in order to “fit in.” Marty and his friends hung out many times with party veterans who had somehow survived into their twenties, or even thirties. The age differences never bothered anybody, because they all adhered to their club’s charter. When a kegger appeared at someone’s house, or a trash bag full of buds came down out of the hills, the party people would converge like ants at a picnic. Word appeared to spread telepathically; faster than physical space-time. Party people quickly arrived, and multiplied like viruses, and before you knew it, a widespread sex, drugs, and rock & roll infestation had broken out. Beer and pot were everywhere, and folks naturally brought their own special “pot-luck” contributions, so there was little competition for refreshments – just lots of well-lubricated camaraderie. As all animals share the waterhole in times of plenty, party people happily co-mingled to enjoy the bodacious bounty.
Mike conveniently worked at a bar, which made it ridiculously easy to get a hold of alcohol. He was just a bucket monkey, but in between hauling ice cubes and mopping out bathrooms, he made friends with a young bartender who agreed to order extra keggers for him, wholesale (plus a bag of weed for his trouble). The members of The Federation thought this new arrangement would make them the most popular party dudes in the history of intoxication, and fantasized that the Rusty Bucket Ranch would became a kind of Disneyland for party people. They decided to have their first big kegger bash on Memorial Day weekend, and told a few of their closest friends to come. By the Friday before the event, the entire school was talking about it.
“Dude, did you hear Mike is having a party on Saturday with six keggers? It’s out by the Inkwells!”
“No way, that’s totally awesome, dude! I’m stoked!”
“I hear they’re having a band, too!”
“Party, party, party!!”
Although it was officially the White family’s house, Mike was already part of the family, and his free-wheeling popularity became a trademark. Besides, he was needed to score two more kegs of Heineken! The bleacher creatures were growing restless by the end of classes on Friday, and couldn’t wait for the big event the next day. A few of the hardcore keg-heads asked if they could come out the night before, and “get a head start.” Marty informed them his mom wouldn’t allow that (which wasn’t true), because they needed some time to prepare. They had already seen what happens to houses that host a kegger party!
It must be understood that party people are temporarily subhuman. They move and speak in a convincing human manner – no doubt from long practice – but when engaged in their favorite pastime, they quickly regress to a lower evolutionary level. The more alcohol they consume, the less they care about their surroundings. The higher functions of their brains completely shut down – except for the parts that are looking for more beer and drugs! When pushed to the extreme, their bodies will convulse and attempt to expel the toxins, but experienced party people handle those spasms the way surfers ride waves. It was always the beginners who wound up praying to the porcelain gods, or blowing chunks on somebody’s couch. Floors got trashed. Windows got smashed. Eventually, even flushing the toilet became too complicated for the lower life forms, as they fulfilled their instinctive human destiny to foul their nest.
Marty wondered, what have we gotten ourselves into?
