RANCIDコミュのLife with Lars 1

“Then I remembered the beer I left in the park and only one thing comes to mind…recon, no one gets left behind…”
Drinking in the park is one of those things I feel I could write a book about. How to stash your beer if the cops come or how to plan a proper escape route are just a couple of topics I would touch upon. You see my friends and I would scope out parks to drink in and figure out the best places in the park to consume our shoulder tapped beverage of the night. We, at one point, got this down to a science so well and in my area in Campbell there are about five parks, two high schools, one grades school and last but not least, the burnt down winery near Saratoga. We could go to one of these places on a bust night as we called it, just for a little excitement to keep our blood pressure up and feel like we were the punkest mother fuckers on the planet; armed with two or three cases of cheap beer, usually “Shafer”, “Keystone,” or “Hamms – (the beer refreshing),” and some wine coolers for the ladies. Well, I was known to partake in those too at the risk of being called a faggot or at the end of some demeaning small penis joke, but whatever, booze is booze and wine coolers were like Kool-Aid and a nice break in between guzzling brew.
Bust nights were fun. We knew what nights these parks were “high-risk” and while on a scout mission I spotted some virgin territory by my friend Brendan’s house, an open ended park from both sides of which it would be a tricky ditch, but worth the risk. You see, the cops could come from both sides and trap us in the middle; but the fence that separated the block long of houses would provide an adequate cover but the choice of backyards would be left in God’s hands so to speak. Hopefully, he would make sure there were no dogs or dog owners with shotguns home. Oh yeah, I should not forget to mention that we always had tunes from a boom box; that always added to the party.
On this particular night, there were about seven or eight of us and some of them in this episode will remain anonymous because the true star of this evening was Erin, better known to all of us as “Tater Tot,” or Tater for short. No, he didn’t have an infinity for this product manufactured by “Ore Ida” or “O’Lay”. He just looked like a tater tot or a tot shaped human I should say. Erin was one of the best guys to know in the world. He was a Skunk and a loyal motherfucker. But on the other hand, slow on the breakaway and he always seemed to get left behind. Not by choice. I guess we just moved too fast for those small little keg legs to compete with.
So, there we are in the middle of the drinking session, listening to tunes. The sun is down on this chilly October night; perfect weather for a leather jacket and a mohair sweater. We’re at the end of the park where it is more residential for a couple of reasons: First off, it’s a better look out point and second, there’s a concrete table and bench for us to chill out on. Cops can really telegraph their punches at times. Everyone is laughing and poking fun at a moderate noise level as Giffin returns with another twelver from the trunk of his car that’s parked in the cul-de-sac. I see a car pull up on the lawn straight ahead about four to five hundred yards away, and turn its lights off real quick. Huh! Then I hear a speeding sound behind us, and thank God the guys are the only ones left. You see, the girls took off to Lyon’s restaurant and we were gonna meet them there when we finished up the rest of the beer. All I remember is dropping my can and abandoning the unfinished 12-pack to my left and running for cover, and I got this fucking bullet belt on which is a bitch to run with cause it breaks apart when you jar it around. I see Gordy, I see Giffin and I turn to them and say, “Fuck! Where’s Tater Tot?” We all look behind and we can’t see him. Oh shit! I’m thinking as I take my belt off in mid-run. But I see a shadowy keg-legged figure in front of us and I’m thinking, it’s got to be the beer. “Tater,” I yell. “Yea,” and answer from in front comes back. In disbelief I say, “What are you doing up there?” “Running,” he says. No shit right, he’s running, running faster than us. “This one,” I yell pointing to the part of the fence we jump over. We all go over okay and the big guy upstairs supplies us with a safe backyard to run through.
We’re on the street and it’s swarming with cops. We’ve got mohawks and spiky hair that could take out low flying aircraft so we gotta get outta sight quick. We ditch in some bushes and where we go from there is anyone’s guess. A light bulb goes off in my head and it tells me to go to Brendan’s for an alibi. I do and I tell him to say we’ve been at his house and if the cops stop us we’re gonna say we’re going to our car from here and that we just left. “OK,” he groggily answers from bed through his window. Now I gotta get the boys to tell them we were safe, sorta. Then I remembered the beer I left in the park and only one thing comes to mind…recon, no one gets left behind.
I sneak through the suburbs with pure stealth as I dodge cops and barking dogs. I get to the cul-de-sac. Two cops are parked, facing out, talking to each other. How do they not see me? I shoot behind a car. The opening of the park is available to me and my desire to liberate that half drunk 12-pack overtakes me. I glide in with grace and the thin cardboard, gleaming beer logo, greet me like a P.O.W. that had been in Nam too long. In one swift move I shoulder it and take the fence out of the park to the bushes where I reunited our comrades together. The cops disappear, the beer disappears, but the sight of Tater’s keg-legs running that fast will stay with me forever.
Lars.