A Road Trip With Ike
Destination: Holden Missouri
Reason: 100% Grain Fed American Beef
by Ike Hill
Like all good red-blooded Americans, I like beef. Not a huge fan of eating it raw like
some beautiful editors I know, but if it's hot on the outside, the inside is just as damn
tasty.
Recently a deal fell my way to acquire 239 pounds of the best grain fed organic Maine
Anjou beef that resides on this little planet of ours. Off to Holden Missouri I went.
Now the trip there is only a little over an hour. Not much of a road trip really. What
actually made this worthy of printing were the circumstances. The start of one's day can
really bring out some never-before thought of observances.
It was a Saturday morning around ten. Birds were singing, dogs were barking at the cats
eating the singing birds, and old Ike was firing his pellet gun at all of them so they
would shut the HELL UP!
Four beers later the hangover was at least tolerable, and this made finding the keys
from the night before almost easy. As usual, they were frozen in a Tupperware tub full of
orange juice and free floating canned peas.
Ten whacks with a hammer later the car was pointed in the right direction, and a few
longnecks were strategically placed throughout the vehicle.
Getting out of the city was easy, especially driving that close to sober. Didn't really
even have to look up from picking out the CDs for the voyage. All inner city routes have
been preprogrammed in over the years. You do have to avoid the ever-potential head-on
collision with the bastard trying to reprogram his mobile phone to play Funky Town. But
this is all part of the game in the urban jungles of Kansas City. (Yeah, that does sound
funny.)
Let's try "but this is all part of the game in the sprawling, strip mall-filled
wastelands of Midwestern cities. (Much better.)
It was going as smooth as a cheap shot, and then the inevitable detour off of I-70
finally happened. A strange land referred to as Odessa was the protecting gateway to rural
hell. First, their roadway engineers are blind, ignorant and, I imagine, smell bad. (Sober
too, most likely.) At least that is what has to be surmised the first time you try to
negotiate that poor excuse of an off ramp. Four kids with trained monkeys carrying the
Ebola virus could have come up with a better plan in a sand box laced with matchbox cars
and cat shit.
Shortly after this, the helicopter was identified. It was a Saturday remember? It was
no damn traffic copter! No they were following someone, and the only damn non-truck for
miles was carrying loads of hidden longnecks. The mission now was to eliminate all
evidence. Every beer must be polished off and the bottle destroyed. You don't want to make
it easy for them with fingerprints on the glass. They have amazing tools.
The worst problem here is remembering how many beers one can load into their pockets
for transfer to a vehicle. It was a warm morning, so the jacket was limited to a spring
afternoons' worth of beer. Limited pocket space has ruined many days, but not this one.
Seven was the maximum count, and four had already been dealt with. Those poor soldiers all
heroically gave their empty lives to mailboxes along the desolate half highway. The next
two were easy enough to locate and dispose of, but what of the seventh?
As you benignly coast down the highway, cruise control on at four mph over the speed
limit, driving with your feet as your ass is wedged between the valley separating the
front and backseats, something under the passenger side seat has caught your ring as you
hunt for mystery beer number seven.
Once the ring is free, you find that cold sleek feeling you were hunting for. Of course
now you also see the cherry-top cruising behind you.
If you have never been in this predicament before, slow movements are the best option.
The lights aren't on, so they haven't noticed anything wrong.
If you rise up now and slouch back down in the drivers seat, the law enforcement
officer will surely make you feel like a woman. (Ladies, this is not a good thing even if
you are a woman.)
Ride it out where you are. You have managed to stay in between the lines; that means
you are already driving 99% better than most of the locals.
If it's night and you are driving with your right foot, turn out the lights with your
left foot. They will believe you are a ghost car and lock up their brakes immediately.
Ghost cars are known amongst local sheriffs and deputies to frequent these little used
highways, and are highly feared, not unlike the pygmies fear cameras stealing their souls.
Unfortunately for me, it was daytime. I had to maintain control, open and finish the
last incriminating beer, and steer true down the long curving roadway.
It wasn't long before the roller turned off on a dusty road, and the day let itself
open up for better times.
Unfortunately, all the beer was gone. Paranoia makes the suds slide down too easy, too
fast.
Looking for a liquor store, you realize how those little highways through the country
are strange places. There are definitely more churches than houses along the squirreling
back routes. Every five miles yields at least two or three churches for every one house,
must make for lonely Sundays. A flock of one, how lame. Most likely it's due to great tax
breaks for starting a commune or cult in the nether regions of the desolate Midwest
plains. Sure it's only a farmer leading his wife, 3.8 children and two cows into the Holy
Land of tax-free abatements. We should all be so lucky as to place a crucifix on top of
the doublewide just to get cheaper diesel prices.
Churches and cults aside, there were no damn liquor stores anywhere. At least that damn
Sheriff was probably on the way to his still, but this does little good for parched
strangers passing through. No, it was clear I would have to pack more emergency beers in
the trunk next time.
A thinner car would be nice too. Ever try passing one of those damn Duelly trucks going
90 miles an hour using only half a lane of an inadequate highway to begin with? Well, it's
a white-knuckle ride on the edge of a ditch leading to being trapped outside all night
waiting for the wolves to come sample your bloodied and drunken carcass.
After avoiding the helicopters, city slicker-beating sheriffs, numerous cults, and
various crash derby monster trucks, Holden was located.
I was thrilled. I had made it to the Old West with no portal opening and stealing away
years of my life. The next challenge was to get the meat or go have a beer at the only
place to get one for at least an hour or more until I made it back to the comfortable
wasteland of KCMO.
As you may have guessed, I went for the beer. That was a week ago today. I still
haven't left Holden. This entire story has been text messaged, one line at a time via my
mobile phone, to the KCD editor. I just can't stomach the idea of traversing those gravel
death trails again.
I made good friends with the beer delivery guy last Wednesday; maybe he'll give me a
ride home later.
Reporting from Holden. Missouri to pick up some meat, this has been Eisenhower Hill.
- www.KCDrinker.com - 2003 ©
