Tom’s Travels

On May 23, 1998, John and his girlfriend, Carla, drove out to the Sheraton Inn in Harrisburg, PA to meet us. We weren't there. In preparation for the Great East Coast Feg Gathering And Motorcycle Rally, Coleen and I were tooling around The Capitol City looking for a fucking pair of Levi's. You see, in an effort to pack lightly and make room for the porno tapes and melt-on rubber body suit, we only packed two pair of pants each. Unfortunately, Coleen's other pair of jeans had tar all over them from the time she installed a narrow gauge railroad in our backyard. We finally found Levi's at the East Harrisburg Mall And Detention Facility For Men. She bought two pair of jeans, new sunglasses and a blouse. We got back to the hotel to find John and Carla in the bar with a dozen ears of corn. After hugs and beers we headed out. I had with me a printout from Yahoo! which detailed the route to Quail's roost. It was gonna be easy: Up 83, over the Susquehana on 81, then exit and find 315 2nd St. We passed over 1st street and started getting nervous. We turned on 2nd and I was shaking. 307...309...311...313...here it is. There was an old guy sitting on the front porch smoking a cigarette. We pulled up cautiously and started to get out, but something didn't look right. Carla The Bold decided to reconnoiter: "Are you The Great Quail?" The guy was puzzled. He lives at *317* 2nd St. 315 is an empty lot. FegFest was a ruse: I thought this was very funny. It turns out we were in Summerdale, not Enola. Yahoo screwed me. The old guy said he had some beers and a bottle of tequila, so we were welcome to party with him - but we were on a mission now. We had no phone number and I didn't remember Quail's real name. Our only hope was to go to Enola - one town over - and look for 315 2nd. Street. We crossed the town line and pulled into a small grocery store. John and Coleen went in to ask for directions. They were told there is no 2nd. Street in Enola by a guy who claimed to have lived there for 20 years. A lady told them "Yins are probably too late for the party..." (They say 'yins' in Pennsylvania.) We had a brilliant idea. We would go to the Public Library and hop on the Internet where I could get Quail's directions. If the library didn't have Internet access, we could go to the Police Department, which was located next door, and ask them how to get there. The library was closed. So was the Police Department. There was a sign on the door that read "We're down at the river eating clams and Pringles if you want us. Nothing happens in this fucking town anyway." Shit. We're hosed. Where's your 300 lb. Samoan attorney when you need him? We decided we would head a little further up the road. We came around a turn and saw the rusted street sign that said "Fourth." There was much rejoicing... Quail lives in a three story house atop a hill. There are 1,223 stone steps up to the house and another 74 inside the house to get to the back porch. I needed a beer. Quail and lj were out at the airport picking up gnat so we were greeted by Scary Mary - who really isn't all that scary after all. (Though she does have a one inch bar stuck through her belly button.) Quail, lj, and [G]Natalie then showed up and it was time to fire up the BBQ. The omnivores didn't fare too well as Quail's box-o-patties turned grey-green on the grill. He tried like hell to maneuver the meat until it started looking better, but it was no use and the whole thing just turned into a mound of writhing cow innards. In a fit of avian rage, Quail ripped the tin foil off the grill and threw it to the ground, where the flaming bovine juices threatened to engulf the redwood deck. But, being the neo-hippie eagle scout that he is, Quail stomped his mighty Birkenstock on the fire, transferring the flames from the foil to the bottom of his frayed bell-bottoms. Fire: Walk With Me. The vegetarians fared much better, as we usually do. Veggie burgers, tofu dogs, Carla & John's corn - not even a hint of difficulty. By that time food was a necessity. The beer was making its way through my head to the point where I was actually contemplating asking Quail about his recent conversion to Scientology. Luckily, though, you just have to heat up veggie burgers, and my lovely Coleen shoved one in my face just in time. From then on it was a hazy mixture of misbehaving foliage, tinfoil statuettes, illicit drug use, and the insistence by lj that everyone "go down" on me. The four of us finally had to leave around 11:30 when giant eyeballs started flying around the room and Quail began throwing bass frets at people like they were martial arts weapons. We descended the 1,233 stone steps to the street and found the car just where we left it. As we drove away I turned around to look at the giant birdhouse on the hill. I swear I saw Leonardo DiCaprio clinging to a plank on the front lawn. -tc