Passing (out in) America: Part One (Introduction)

Authors Note:

The following going to be a series of essays written about a three month long road trip I took with three of my best friends. All events are as true as I remember them being, and all places are as real as you or I. I am sharing these stories with you in the hopes that you can go on your own personal adventure, and experience similar discoveries, inside and out. Please, read and enjoy.

I woke up groggy and hungover on a Friday morning, not too atypical I suppose. It was surprisingly warm and sunny for it being January 13th in Detroit, Michigan. When you grow up in Midwest you can just tell those sorts things from the way the sunlight looks as it passes through your window. Or, it could be because I had faulty sills, and there was no freezing cold bursts of air puffing in my face, like there were most mornings. The smell of my pillowcase reminisced of a fun night, you know, the kind of night where there is a free gallon of whiskey on the bar with your name on it. (If you ever make it to Detroit, go to ‘The Well' on Gratiot and Broadway, see Ray, he's a good man, with a heavy wrist.) I stayed in bed for what seemed like days waiting for my headache to subside, but it chose not to. I was left no choice but to kill my annoyance over the counter medication.

It was nine thirty in the morning by the time I shed my cotton cocoon and looked at my empty suitcase on the floor. I have always, and no doubt will always, put everything off until the last possible second call it a curse, but one man's curse is another man's blessing, right? Head throbbing, I struggled to the shower and let the warm water wash away all the sins I had committed the night before. Only God knows how many more I would soon partake in on my grand adventure. January 13th was the first day of the rest of my life.

As I stumbled out of the tub, I mimicked my dog and shuck my hair as dry as I could get it. With a quick brush and floss (my dentist is so proud of me), and a fresh pair of underroos, I was ready to speed pack. I had hopefully fifteen minutes before departure. Nine t-shirts, six pairs of jeans, one pair of black pants, one button down shirt, two ties, a sweater, a hoodie, a track jacket, one work uniform, ten pairs of underwear, and ten pairs of socks. If only I could run a mile that fast. Four minutes. Flat. I threw my computer, cell phone charger, iPod, and Polaroid in a backpack and I was ready for the road. Oh, the importance of living light. I just probably listed ninety percent of my worldly possessions, and that is perfectly okay with me

I couldn't eat. I was too excited. I poured a giant glass of orange juice and threw a Rice Krispie's Treat in my pocket for later. Talk about the breakfast of champions. Eleven anxious minutes passed before I heard the rumble of Detroit craftsmanship in my driveway. A 2006 Chevy Trailblazer was about to become my new home. I ran out the door and tried to stuff my luggage in the back of the truck. This proved to be harder than I thought. With three other peoples bags, a guitar, some sleeping bags, and a couple skateboards, you run out of room pretty fast. I adjusted, and readjusted our belongings until they resembled a small scale, well-packed semi trailer. I'd venture to say that "as long as you can see out of the rear view mirror, you'll be fine" became the unofficial phrase of the trip. I jumped in the backseat, behind the driver, gave my hellos, and admired an entire dashboard full of sunglasses. The car already smelt like a dirty sock was used to clean out an ashtray. I loved it.

The SUV belonged to my best friend of twenty years, Mike, and he was driving. Mike is a 200-pound Taurus who has a love for cheese and getting tattooed. He had just gotten back to The Great Lakes State from an eight month long stint he did in the Americorps. In other words, he spent eight months occupying various bars and national parks, drinking Makers Mark and building trails. He had dark sunglasses on, probably hiding the bags under his eyes that were there from babysitting Nathan the night before.

Nathan was sitting shotgun, and had his head hanging out of the window. Apparently he had some scotch in his stomach that had spent ten hours trying to get out. Well, Johnny Walker finally completed his escape act in my mothers drive way. Sorry about the stain mom. My mother wasn't the only maternal figure Nate had to apologize to that day. He had somehow gone tailbone first through Mike's parents Italian marble dining room table the night before. Best part? Mike's parents were in Florida for the next two weeks and came home to a shattered slab and a blank check.

I sat next to Ari. He had a giant smile on his face, as he usually does. I couldn't tell whether the Vicodin was wearing off or setting in until he offered me one. The main reason the four of us were about to embark on a journey of epic proportions was because Ari decided it was time bid the Murder Mitten goodbye, and start new in California. I took the pill from Ari, swallowed it with a tug of whiskey from Mike's flask, and at 10:13 AM, we began what would become the best three months of my life.

Our first leg of the trip would only take us 70 miles to Ann Arbor, MI, home of the Wolverines, and at the time our lifelong friend Patrick Miller, who would accompany us until the start of the winter semester, which was only a few days away. Seeing as to how this would be Ari's last drive through Detroit as a citizen, we took a quick detour say goodbye to some familiar sights. We drove past the Fox Theater, and Comerica Park. Down Woodward Ave, past the old Kern's Clock and The Spirit of Detroit, which idolizes boxing great Joe LouisJoe Louis. Further remembering the heavyweight we took a pass by the home of the Red Wings, the Joe Louis Arena. Cutting over to Michigan Ave, we passed by the old, abandoned Tiger Stadium, formerly known as Navin Field and Briggs Stadium, finally parking in the shadow the of the once great, still beautiful Michigan Central Station. Here on the corner of Michigan and Fourteenth is one of Detroit's little gems. A diamond in the rough, on the outskirts of the Corktown District, one of the best BBQ restaurants I have ever been to, Slows BarBQ. (Slows is located at 2138 Michigan Ave, Detroit, MI 48216. By phone at 313.962.9828, or on the web at www.slowsbarbq.com) (also, see a complete review on my blog at www.allvoices.com/users/detroitish, if it's not up, it will be soon). We usually came here on Friday nights because our friend David was always behind the bar. The afternoons are no different than the evenings at Slows, great food, great service, great alcohol, and if you don't have a reservation, you are waiting at least thirty minutes for a seat. We waited our turn, then filled up on baked macaroni and cheese, beef brisket, and craft beers before getting back on I-94 and finishing our trek to Ann Arbor.

We arrived in Ann Arbor and picked up Pat from his studio apartment on East Jefferson at about 1:00 PM. He was a student at the University of Michigan. He double majored in psychology and chain smoking, with a minor in binge drinking. Pat is one of those people that gauge time in how long it takes to smoke a cigarette. Everything can be in those seven minute increments, you know you have that friend, "yeah, we'll leave, but let's have a smoke first." It took him one smoke to get his bags packed in the car.

It was decided that we should probably get a beer before getting back on the road. If you haven't figured it out, alcohol is a constant theme in this story. We made the short walk to The Brown Jug for a couple of pints of Guinness. The Brown Jug (1204 S University Ave, Ann Arbor, MI 48104. Phone: 734.761.3355 or on the web at www.brownjug-annarbor.com) is a bar named after a real brown water jug left in Minnesota by U of M football coach Fielding Yost in 1903. The next morning Yost wrote to LJ Cook, athletic director for Minnesota, requesting that the jug be returned. Cook told Yost he would have to win it back. To this day the teams play each other every year for the infamous water can. It's one of the oldest rivalries in American sports. We finished our glasses of stout quickly and got back into the automobile. We buckled up and prepared for a 33.4 cigarette (or three hour and fifty-four minute) drive to our next destination. The Windy City, Chicago, Illinois.