Fear and Loathing at Savanahh's St. Patrick's Day Parade

Conventional wisdom might have been against going for a jog through Beautiful Historic Downtown Macon at 2 AM with a head full of cheap cocaine wearing cutoff shorts and dollar store sunglasses, but if I trusted in conventional wisdom I probably would have gotten the hell out of the stagnant cesspool that is middle Georgia a long time ago. While it had never been a conscious decision, I realized that jog started off my week to build in a twisted goddamned crescendo to bring me to this awful place at a time when in any normal city, normal people would be eating normal breakfasts with their families.
I feel a need to emphasize the importance and impact of the situation, reader. Imagine preparing yourself to deal with a relatively busy early morning McDonald’s while being pulled from somewhere left of center by the fucking acid worm. Now imagine that this McDonald’s is not full of people heading to work, or even college students waking up from a bender, but full of genuine retards, meth addicts and prostitutes. You can imagine my complete sense of panic, quickly compounded by the presence of a couple of law enforcement officers who entered directly after me. “Keep it cool, damn it,” I reminded myself as I shouted something like “BACON, CHEESE, WATER. … FIVE DOLLARS… THANKS GOOD MORNING,” hoping I sounded less fucked up than the dude outside making the noise of a duck jumping on a bullfrog. As I was picking apart the sandwich they gave me, a large toothless black woman wearing her brain up in a sack began shouting at me a series of grunts and numbers followed by what I heard as “Break my sausage.” I managed to get out a meek reply of “I’m sorry,” (to which I got a quite genuine “Da OK, Mama forgive ya, son”) as I ran the hell out of the door. As I was collecting myself in the parking lot, I was almost run over by a grinning idiot on a bicycle who announced his deadly intentions with a mild “Beep-beep!” After some strained small talk I was able to extract directions back to E Broad St. from him. When I told him I was staying there he looked very genuinely surprised and asked me what I was doing there. Of course, I couldn’t answer what I was doing on this side of town at the goddamned McDonald’s, but the greater implications of his question paralyzed me where I stood.
What was I doing? What was my purpose in Savannah this weekend? It hit me like an empty bottle of cheap gin thrown by a drunken frat boy: St. Patrick’s Day! My greater purpose here this weekend had to be to cover this huge decadent celebration of Irish drunkenness and lechery. The people I was with were obviously not concerned with the cultural significance of thousands of people converging on this coastal Mecca with the sole purpose of becoming drunk out of their skulls and engaging in risky anonymous sex. (Well, guys, one out of two ain’t bad.) I had been concerned in the past with why Macon seems to violently reject any attempt to infuse it with new culture despite its long history of art and blues. Why do some cities succeed while others degenerate into culturally vacant slums where conservatism is the rampantly growing status-quo and any bright young minds are driven out of town on a rail by a veritable mob with pitchforks and torches? This is what I intended to find out during my experience in Savannah.
Unfortunately, by the time I arrived in town I had already missed the parade and the guys I was to be staying with were in various stages of unconsciousness around the apartment. I took a few more whacks of blow to alleviate the awful headache I had been developing from my almost three hour non-stop drive from Macon. The normally excruciatingly boring drive down I-16 became excruciatingly stressful due to the amount of highway patrol officers swarming on and off the highway. The nefarious pigs set up a giant sign for a non-existent police checkpoint (complete with a crude clip-art drawing of a German shepherd and the simple ominous warning “K-9”) just to stress out people like me who were making the trip with a cooler full of liquor and the remnants of an eight ball of dirty cocaine hydrochloride secreted away in my hatband. What law abiding citizen wears a hat in 2006? Clearly, I had reason to be worried.
I arrived to the den of licentiousness to find the dream of American youth: seven people under the age of twenty-five, all stone cold unconscious at seven o’clock in the afternoon. A small, cheap water pipe was bubbling as I walked in; the sole survivor of the drink-a-thon earlier that morning, who would later turn out to be the only sane person there besides myself, the only one I could trust after really getting elbow deep into the heart of things. The word “gonzo” is a Boston Irish slang term referring to the last man standing in a drinking contest. If anyone that that was there already when I arrived deserved that designation, it was Shawn. We spent the next several hours attempting to wake everyone up while Shawn filled in some of the details of their day up until my arrival. They had walked to and from River Street, where the parade was going on, already shit-faced. At least two of the party had passed out in a tunnel and were left there for a significant period of time in full view of police and passers-by. Another intrepid drunk passed his time by knocking bottles off of a low wall until he swung at one that was already broken and opened his hand up to the gooey cream filling. Much of the detail was missing, as not only was Shawn still drunk while telling me his version of the story, but even when everyone was awake, no one remembered the events clearly enough to maintain a narrative.
Once everyone was awake and eating the pizza I ordered as bait to rouse them from their alcoholic dreams they began debating as to whether Jesse had actually bought acid or just a shiny ripped up piece of paper. I settled that argument on the drive back to River Street by asking to look at it and just popping it right in my mouth. It was really the only way to verify, anything else was just conjecture. It would be a while before the argument was settled.
The only actual experience I had with the St Patrick’s Day festivities was walking down River Street with the guys, long after the parade was over but the street was still packed shoulder to shoulder. For some reason, despite how uneventful the street itself was (the only highlight was a set of three story high tits) the guys decided to walk the long way back to the fucking car. Somehow we ended up in a gazebo in the nice part of downtown Savannah discussing what we were going to do with the rest of our night. Keith was worried about where the hell he left his car, Jessie was contributing nothing but witty insults, and Brian was fiddling with a cheap, fat cigar in a plastic bag, trying to remember when and how he got it. We started walking back towards Keith’s car and about three good sized blocks away we realized that Brian has to be still at the gazebo. We took what amounted to a silent vote and decided that we were not going back for him. We realized once we got back to the apartment and Shawn’s sister was asking about him that abandoning him probably was not a good idea. It didn’t matter all that much, because as soon as we decided we were going to look for him, he walked in the door.
It was about this time that the guys began the fucking Spanish Inquisition about whether I was tripping yet or not. Interestingly enough, it was in the middle of their questioning that I felt the worm take full hold of my testicles. The next few minutes are still a bit fuzzy, which is troubling because I remember the rest of the night so well. What is more troubling is that the few images I can recall involve at least three of the guys in various stages of undress touching each other and speaking in tongues.
The first onrush of acid was the most white-knuckle experience of my life, just getting water from the scariest kitchen I’ve ever seen. The wheel turned around after most of the guys had gone to bed when Shawn and I watched the NASA Channel, just shot after shot of the shuttle taking off. It was the most beautiful television program I have ever seen. But, I could tell Shawn wanted to go to bed and get this goddamned acid freak off of his back, so I shut myself in the least frightening room with Mitch, who had already claimed all of the blankets and most of the mattress space. Not that I was going to be doing any sleeping. Very shortly after the apartment became completely silent other than Mitch’s troubled snoring I became aware of violent arguing in Russian just outside the (second story) window. It was the fucking Russian mafia. I knew now why the police presence had been so lazy around town. They were on the payroll to the goddamned Russkies. I began to panic. I could not gauge their intentions because, even enhanced by chemicals, I can not speak Russian. I had to base my assumptions on tone of voice and any other sounds I could still process and make sense of. The only conclusion I could come to was that the Red bastards were attempting to tear the wooden stairs away from the house by pulling them with a god damned monster truck. I was paralyzed with the fear. How was I getting out of this one? Eighteen more hours of this? I kept reminding myself of my socialist leanings and profitable drug connections. Could I have information they want? When they put us up against the wall, will I have to turn State’s Evidence? Whatever it takes, man. I managed to crawl to the bathroom at some point in the night to collect myself. Bright light. Running water. A toilet. A mirror. Gah, the mirror was a bad idea. My face was coming in blurry, like the mirror had bad reception. Static fuzzed across my image as I tried to wash my face. Stay cool. Lay down on the floor awhile. Dawn will come soon enough.
The rest of the night has come in and out of my memory in the past nine months or so since, shaded by an ever darkening veil of burned out synapses. However, after a week that reminds me so much of the one that led to this Savannah escapade—and with plans to visit Atlanta tomorrow—I figured I’d get jacked from one ear to the other again and finish the damn story. Dawn did come, and not as soon as I would have liked: the long cold night spent laying next to Mitch who refused to share the giant comforter he was wrapped in, claiming that “the room is filled with fucking blankets, dude.” It was not. Even while hallucinating midget rappers pimping out very small imported cars between the baseboards, I knew there were no more fucking blankets in the entire city of Savannah. Shivering became pleasurable after awhile, though. Try it sometime—eat acid and shovel the snow out of your driveway…with your tongue…naked… Enough of these goddamn psychedelic reveries, man, tell the fucking story!
Yes, in the bright, crisp March morning I arose to attempt to awaken Joe and Mitch, as they had to work that afternoon back in Warner Robins. We did a half-assed trash run and discussed whether or not I was sober enough to drive. Or I should say Joe and I discussed this. Mitch took the first trash bag he carried from the apartment directly into Joe’s backseat and fell back asleep. Anyway, I came to the conclusion that the worst was over and that I was settled into the quiet head of the trip, but that I needed to follow Joe back to the interstate. So it was decided. Well… it was a good idea, but I was on fucking acid, of course it was an impossible plan. What actually happened was that I followed him for about three turns, at which point the sea air through my windows and lack of traffic convinced me I was sailing a small craft over calm canals. I don’t know how long this hallucination had me hooked, but I remember seeing a haggard clown smoking a cigarette on his porch: make-up smeared, vomit stains on the clown shirt worn with old blue jeans. I think it was this sight that snapped me back to the realization that I had been driving across Savannah for probably a good fifteen minutes without regard for traffic or the rules of the road. As the smell of the salt air and the morning fog faded together, I realized I was in the worst looking ghetto slum I have ever seen. Panic set in but was almost immediately pushed aside as I saw familiar icon of comfort: two slightly-less-golden-than-normal arches, rising above boarded up service stations and gnarled concrete has-beens. Thus I arrived at the scene described in my introduction, which was written while still deep into the acid and with the memory fresh on my mind. As a matter of fact, it was only written about three hours after I ended up at the McDonalds; about an hour of which I spent wandering on foot in the general direction of the apartment, not wanting to risk attempting to drive my dinghy-in-disguise.
It was quite awhile before I felt safe enough and sane enough to begin the trek. Fortunately, as I was crossing the first intersection (after waiting patiently for the “walk” signal) I came across two well dressed guys a little bit older than myself, looking just about as sketched out by the situation as I felt (although I’m sure I looked far more sketchy myself—I’m what they were afraid of, most likely). We struck up vague conversation about our situations, neither they nor I actually giving any reason for our presence in this slum that stinks of tweak in the pink dawn. The only information I got from them was their hometown (I’ve since forgotten it), and that they were looking for a Sherwin Williams paint store on “something like a scavenger hunt.” When I looked understandably confused, their explanation was simply, “Bachelor party last night, you know how it is.” I didn’t. One thing I suspected, though, was that their red noses and wide eyes explained enough for me and I relaxed a bit in the silent confusion of three anonymous drug users wandering aimlessly together, sped up beyond belief, lost in the awakening ghetto of Savannah and refusing to admit their complicity in the situation. Our paths soon diverged…I can’t recall the circumstances. Either way, I found myself talking to an elderly black owner of a taxi service; from whom I acquired better directions to E. Broad and a precious cigarette (I had polished my pack off somewhere toward the beginning of my journey, to my utter panic). Well equipped and with assurance that I was getting closer, I set back off. After passing a make-shift memorial to dead slaves consisting of papier mache lynchings and painted wooden signs in someone’s front yard as well as a old gas station that had been repurposed as an apostolic church (in the parking lot of which I unfortunately ended up taking the most panicked and relieving piss ever), I arrived back at the apartment. Still no real sign of life. Déjà vu. So I began to type the introduction to this story, not knowing what it would turn into. The acid was still working, but mostly just in a speedy euphoric way—I was long past true hallucination and serious cognitive dysfunction.