Assholes Finish First (21 page)

Soylent was a former recon Marine. The man looked like a bowling ball of compressed muscle and restrained violence with a head glued on top. His quiet and intimidating intensity when sober was matched only by his raucous gregariousness when drunk. The first night I hung out with him, he played the perfect wingman and jumped on the grenade for me. What I would learn later on was that he did this because actually LIKED grenades; dude wasn’t so much a chubby chaser, he was just a relentless pussy hound. He didn’t care what girl he fucked, as long as she was warm and wet. Typical fucking Marine, gotta love ’em.

We hung out a few more times, and those three expressed interest in going to TuckerFest. There were a few problems, though. The first was that, even though I was a good enough writer to have fans, and they were all traveling to meet me, I still wasn’t making any money from my site (this was before internet advertising had any traction), so that meant I was too poor to travel to NYC for an event… which was being thrown for me… because of my fame. Ironic, I know.

They came up with the perfect solution: They would rent an RV and we’d all drive to NYC together. Are you kidding? Free trip to NYC? I began to think maybe this having-fans-thing might work out after all.

Part 2: The Education of Stydie

The day of the trip arrived, and Stydie drove to the rental place in Aurora, Illinois, to meet TheGinger and Soylent. Stydie was super-excited, driving at least 95mph most of the way, and at one point an old lady—doing a healthy 75mph herself—made the ghastly mistake of staying in the left
lane as Stydie flew up behind her. He pulled up on her right side, screaming curses at her as he flipped her off, and then cut her off in an attempt to run her into the median. And she was OLD.

Tucker “DUDE! I’m not even this excited to drink with me, and I’m in love with myself. Relax!”

By the grace of the drinking gods, we arrived at Westmark RV Rental alive and without a vehicular homicide indictment. We went through the rental procedure and were signing the papers (everything in TheGinger’s name, of course, God forbid I take responsibility for my actions), when I made what was probably the best decision of the weekend.

Clerk “Would you like insurance? It’s $25.99 per day for full coverage.”

TheGinger “No, that’s too much.”

Tucker “Are you fucking stupid? Have you ever driven a rental car before?”

TheGinger “Yeah.”

Tucker “How did you treat it?”

TheGinger “Oh…”

Tucker “That RV is 10,000 pounds of speeding metal and twisted death. This thing is like three rental cars in one. THINK! WE HAVE A FULL KEG WITH US! Do you really think this is going to end well?”

Did I mention the keg? Stydie brought a full keg of beer, put it in the RV shower, and we hooked the tap up to the showerhead. I was holding a red Solo cup of beer that had been filled out of said shower at the precise moment we had that conversation.

TheGinger “We want coverage. We want your BEST coverage. Walkaway insurance, please.”

By the time we got everything squared away, Soylent showed up. His car was so loaded with stuff it looked like he’d been looting a Walmart. Not satisfied with just a keg, Soylent had brought at least ten cases of beer and enough bottles of assorted liquor to stock a bar. Only four
people, but enough alcohol for an Irish wake. THAT is how you start a party.

As we started packing everything away, Stydie spilled his first beer.

Stydie “Shit, sorry.”

Tucker “Everyone makes mistakes. Don’t do it again, dumbass.”

TheGinger “Oh man, we have to clean this up, I had to leave a cleaning deposit!”

We finished packing, and Stydie spilled his second beer.

Stydie “Crap, sorry.”

Tucker “You are a spastic fucking moron.”

TheGinger “Stydie, the cleaning deposit was like $250!!”

The RV pulled out of the parking lot, and as we got on to the highway on-ramp, Stydie spilled his third beer.

Stydie “Fuck. Sorry guys.”

Tucker “YOU IDIOT! FROM NOW ON, YOU CAN ONLY FILL YOUR BEER HALFWAY UP. DO YOU UNDERSTAND??”

TheGinger “Stydie, help me clean this up good, the lady was very clear about what it takes to get the deposit back!!”

An hour later, driving smoothly along the highway, Stydie was telling us how he is—this is a real quote—the “Prince of Cleveland” and explaining how it’s one of the awesomest cities in America. As he wildly gesticulated to make a point, he knocked his beer out of his own hand, sloshing it all over the RV.

Stydie “Oh no.”

Tucker “WHAT THE FUCK! DO YOU HAVE PALSY OR ARE YOU JUST FUCKING RETARDED??”

TheGinger “I’M GOING TO LOSE MY CLEANING DEPOSIT!!”

Soylent “Get off at the next exit. I’ll solve this problem.”

Five minutes later, Soylent came jogging out of a convenience store with a travel mug.

Soylent “This is a sippy cup. Use it.”

Tucker “Awesome! You MUST drink from that sippy cup for the rest of the trip. At bars, hotel rooms, everywhere.”

Stydie “Guys, come on…”

TheGinger “ARE YOU GOING TO PAY FOR MY CLEANING DEPOSIT??”

Tucker “More importantly, until you can drink beer like a man, we’re going to call you Sippy and treat you like a baby. Now sip your beer.”

Sippy [
hangs head in shame
] “Fine.”

An hour later, driving smoothly along the highway, he dropped the sippy cup, the lid popped off, and beer spilled everywhere.

Sippy “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I don’t know how this happened!”

TheGinger began weeping openly. I was too angry to speak. I didn’t punch Sippy in the mouth, but only because I was driving.

Soylent “At this point, I’m kinda impressed. It takes talent to suck this much.”

Soylent went into his bag, pulled out a lanyard he had with him, and a huge knife. He poked a hole in the sippy cup lid, tied the lanyard through it, and put it around Sippy’s neck. He was, for the rest of the weekend, referred to as SippyCup and did all drinking from a travel mug hanging from his neck. It took only five dropped beers, two equipment upgrades, and a redheaded computer nerd reduced to tears, but Sippy didn’t spill again.

As night fell, we were on track to be in Cleveland around 10, giving us a solid three to four hours of drinking time at the bars. Soylent was driving and I was in the passenger seat with the map, when Sippy—two hours removed from his last spill and brimming with confidence—snatched the map from me and threw it in the back of the RV:

Sippy “Dude, I’ve got it from here. I grew up in Columbus and used to party in Cleveland all the time. I know this town backward and forward. I AM THE FUCKING PRINCE OF CLEVELAND!”

Want to guess what happened next?

He proceeded to take us on a three-hour tour of the Cleveland suburbs. Had he been skippering the S.S.
Minnow
with Gilligan as his first mate, SippyCup could not have gotten us more lost. And we couldn’t even use the map, because dumbass Sippy had thrown it in the beer he spilled, and it shredded to pieces.

We FINALLY pulled up to the bar at 1am, just as they made last call. Did I mention that Cleveland is a 1am drinking town? Fuck you, Prince of Cleveland, and fuck your shitty city.

Tucker “I seriously want to fight you right now.”

Sippy “I’m so sorry, guys. I want to fight myself.”

Soylent “Sippy, I think if the drunk you fought the sober you, they’d both lose.”

Part 3: The Case Western Dorks

We’d decided to stop in Cleveland for two reasons: It’s the obvious stopping point between Chicago and NYC, and there was a board member there, PigPen, who we were giving a ride to.

PigPen met us at the bar with two friends, undergrads at Case Western Reserve University. The two undergrads, TweedleDoofus and TweedleDork could not believe our RV setup. Case Western is legendary for being a nerd school, on par with my alma mater. These guys, though they were probably studs in their Calc 320 class, were not used to being around people who had lives that didn’t involve doing regressions.

TDork “Holy shit, look at this thing. You guys are so cool!”

Tucker “No dude, it’s not us, it’s you. We’re not that cool; you’re just that much of a fucking nerd.”

They went on and on, gushing about how cool the RV was, how awesome we must be just being on this road trip, etc. The highlight was when Sippy confidently gave them drinking advice… as he slurped beer from the sippy cup tied around his neck.

We only had 5 people in an RV that could fit 7, and we could use two more people paying for shit, so TheGinger invited them to come with us. They gave each other a shocked, wide-eyed look, like they couldn’t believe we’d allow them to hang out with us, almost like the first time you take training wheels off a kid’s bike and he rides without falling down. I poured two more shots for each.

TDoofus “I’m not sure. I promised my girlfriend I’d drive her somewhere tomorrow.”

Tucker “Girlfriend? You’re only 21, you’re not going to marry her.”

TDoofus “Yeah, but I really like her. She’s even not an engineer. I want to go… but I think I need to ask her.”

Tucker “ASK HER??? You gonna ask her to hold your dick for you when you piss too? Grow a fucking sack. I thought PigPen told me his friends were men! I don’t see any tits on you, so if you’re a man, WHY AREN’T YOU ACTING LIKE ONE?”

TDoofus “You don’t think I need to ask her?”

Tucker “Let me give you the maxim I guide my life with, the one that’s led me to greatness: ‘Ask forgiveness, not permission.’”

TweedleDoofus paused. I could almost see testosterone rushing through him for the first time in his life. I handed him a beer.

Tucker “The Dark Side is a lot more fun. Join us.”

He turned to TweedleDork:

TDoofus “Dude, let’s do it! This is so crazy!”

Their only request was that we stop at their frat so they could pick up some clothes for the trip. They’re in a frat? I had to see it. And mock it ruthlessly.

We stormed that frat house like Saxons raiding the English coast, screaming and banging into things. When we hit their TV room, girls began huddling next to guys and screaming. I was expecting we’d be welcomed as long-lost brothers. Instead, we were hushed by a handful of sober nerds because “some guys have midterms tomorrow.”

Soylent “I think the Tweedles are the cool guys in this frat.”

Tucker “Wow. Time to teach them what cool means.”

I went off to cause trouble, Sippy and the two nerds packed their bags, and Soylent went to go find supplies. Even though he’d bought out a Walmart, he’d forgotten a few things. He broke into their janitor’s closet and came back to the RV with garbage bags, toilet paper, a bottle of bleach, and a mop handle. Not a full mop, just the handle.

Tucker “Dude, why do we need a mop handle?”

Soylent [
in all seriousness
] “In case we have to kill someone quietly.”

Tucker “Doesn’t hitting someone with a mop handle make a lot of noise?”

Soylent “I’m not going to hit them with it. If the need arises, I take this,” [
He whips a seriously scary knife from his pocket
] “and tie it to one end of the handle, cover it with a condom, and stab them with it.”

Tucker “Why tie a knife to the end of a mop? And a condom??”

Soylent “Do you understand how modern forensics works?”

Tucker “HOLY SHIT!”

Aren’t military guys fun? We all pile back in the RV.

Sippy “Well, I guess we should find a hotel room.”

Tucker “Dude, it’s 2am. We got here too late to pick up any girls at bars. Fuck getting a hotel room, we’re rolling to NYC.”

TheGinger “We can’t drive through the night! That’s insane.”

Tucker “It won’t hurt your deposit if we drive through the night.”

Soylent “Pretend your parents are fighting and go hide in the back. I’ll handle it from here.”

Soylent chugged two Red Bulls and pulled us out of Cleveland. Everyone stayed up drinking for the first hour, having fun and bullshitting. Then TweedleDork got a phone call. He looked kinda mortified, hung up, and then summoned the courage to ask a question:

TDork “Yeah, uh… I don’t want to make any accusations… but did one of you, umm… take a shit on a table in the frat cafeteria?”

TheGinger spit out his beer, he was laughing so hard. Without even breaking stride, I calmly assured them:

Tucker “I can’t imagine any of us would do something like that.”

The Tweedles kinda looked at me weird and laughed nervously. It’s not a lie if you believe it.

Everyone hit a wall at 3am, especially TweedleDoofus. He passed out. Mid-sentence. We were laughing at him and mocking him… until he started vomiting everywhere. It was this awful mixture of energy drink, beer, tequila, and Cheetos. We took his sweatshirt off him and used it to wipe most of it up, but it didn’t get rid of the stench. The whole RV smelled like nerd death.

Everyone else went to bed. I wanted to sleep, but by the time I was tired, Soylent had been behind the wheel for about 14 hours (he had the shift coming into Cleveland also), and I couldn’t leave him by himself. Friends don’t let friends drive an RV alone all night while wired on Red Bull, so I drank one and rode shotgun with him.

Around 9, everyone woke up and we stopped for breakfast. Afterward, Sippy took the wheel so Soylent and I could sleep for the rest of the drive. I climbed into the space above the driver’s cab and went right out.

I woke up about three hours later. It was hard to sleep with DMX blasting on the radio and the RV shaking like Michael J. Fox. I looked over the edge of the bed and witnessed a scene I will never forget.

Soylent was sitting directly behind Sippy, hands gripping the back of his seat so tight his knuckles were chalk white and his fingers nearly tearing into the fabric. Every muscle in his body was fully flexed, veins popping out of strange places in his neck and head, nostrils flared to their limits, eyes wide with the type of fear and terror you see on the face of someone staring at their own mortality.

Tucker “Dude, have you gotten any sleep?”

[
Soylent, not taking his eyes off the road, barely shakes his head
]