But hope it was, and we had come too far, in addition to no other conceivable options to turn back. Considerably lighter than we had set out on our adventure, 10 grams, $300, one scale, one pipe, and 23 gallons of gas to be exact, we approached Two Notches light as a feather and ‘counting on a miracle’. Hope grew with the glow of the lights from the freeway, yet nerves tightened. Alertly we exited I-77, an unfortunate recurring theme of our experience, with heads on a swivel came to a stop at the first light. The man was right, both sides of the road were cluttered with flashing signs; this was our best bet, yet no Wal-Mart in immediate sight. A half mile or so passed, and still nothing, well nothing other than the one thing we needed. I vividly recall McDonalds, Bojangles, another Harris Teeter, and oh I how loathed each and everyone! I felt we were being mocked by the gods for all those I condescendingly laughed at for ever having run out of gas. I ran through exit strategies in my head, all of which involved sleeping in the car, and my parents busting me as they were the most likely to deliver us funds for gas and continued travel, I felt my sphincter shrink…to quote the late and great Homer J. Simpson..

“Help me Jebus.”

With what could be the final turns of the wheels of a day I’d otherwise have forgotten, we rounded a long corner and held our breath… I recall thinking to myself, just give me this one goddamn thing and I will endure life’s many less comical sufferings and ask nothing in return, maybe even smoke less weed,  with which to be honest, I had my fingers crossed. I imagine what land must look like after being lost at sea, or anything with four limbs and tits after serving time, and believe those very things were depicted similarly illuminated as the Wal-Mart super center at Two Notches I saw that night. Lacking proper words to communicate our ecstasy, we screamed with joy and pumped our fists in release of a panic I’ve known only in nightmares. To think, our Mecca, our savior a corporation we’d often scorned for their plasticity and great bounding destruction of all the little mom and pap’s in the world. The prodigal check was alas cashed and a whopping $40 exchanged hands boosting us back into business. We splurged for a $6 meal at the Waffle House, for the three of us, which if you haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing first hand, is quite the collection of characters in the wee hours of the morning, especially in the south. Riding high on a partially appetite curbing snack, we were back on the road, and for the first time since our initial departure we had an ETA (estimated time of arrival).

After 19 hours, 35 gallons of gas, 11 grams (they confiscated 10 but we smoked one), $340, one scale, and one pipe, we arrived to Hilton Island, it was 5 am. In the final minutes approaching the island, like any good leader/liar I briefed the team on the exact details of our cover story.

“Justin and I left the party to get more beer, we were confronted by two guys asking for our money… they started talking shit, then shoving us… I shoved back… then one of them punched me in the face… the other pulled his gun and told us to drop the money… we complied, they picked it up, and as soon as they turned away we ran back to campus.”

It’s funny to think about it now, but our biggest dilemma outside of being arrested, was having no money other than a check to buy gas; what if we had really been robbed? They would have been pissed! At the time I was so relieved to be A. out of jail, B. not sleeping in my car on the side of the road, and C. at the beach, that I didn’t even feel bad traumatizing my parents through my lying efforts for the sake of a good weekend. We had discussed how they would probably eventually find out, but there would be a time and a place, and it was neither here nor there, especially with my lady of interest at the time and another friend coming that Friday evening. Determined to cement our fiction as fate, I began emphasizing to Justin that he would have to punch me in the face once we reached the condo, convinced of its necessity in selling the mugging. He was caught off guard and immediately declined my request, pleading to its lack of necessity, clearly uncomfortable with the idea, like most friends would be, although I can think of a select few who would enjoy particular thrill and satisfaction in such an opportunity.  With everything that happened in the day’s events, I could not risk any loose ends that might have risked my weekend of redemption in the sun, at the beach where I spent my childhood’s spring and summer vacations, and so I persisted.

To this day I have yet to convince another man to punch me in the face, which isn’t to say I haven’t tried, well not directly I guess, but I can be really obnoxious when opposing you on a beer pong table, which is another story all together. But on that day of firsts, where I was arrested, cuffed, robbed by the police, and bailed out of jail, I was determined for yet another first and convinced Justin to give me a right hook in the eye. I told him not to worry, that I had taken plenty of punches to the face, which was a lie, and to let me have it.

There we stood in the Villamare parking lot in Palmetto Dunes on Hilton Island under the fading 5:30 moon. Our journey was over; we had overcome great odds, douchebag pigs, and holy bout with the depths of a ‘96 Ford Explorer gas tank. Emma stood as witness, I nervously braced myself for a deal sealing punch on my weekend of freedom and ocean waves; Justin took a few steps back, raised his clinched right fist and gave me one last look as if to say “I’m sorry and you’re an idiot” at the same time. He advanced swiftly and uncoiled his wound right arm and delivered a swift but greatly un-devastating blow to my right eye;

“Are you serious? Hit me mother fucker! It needs to leave a mark!”

Talk about blue balls, there I was prepared to be anything short of knocked out in final conquest of our great adventure, and he gives me a love tap. For the second time in my life I awaited willingly and frustrated to be punched in the face with some conviction; Justin seemed certain not to have to repeat this process for a third time, I could see it in his eye, and braced myself as he repeated his previous efforts, clinched, back step, forward, uncoiled, and powww! I braced my self.

“Now that’s a little better, but fuck! Man, hit me, make it hurt, don’t make me ask Emma!”

Don’t get the idea I was trying to be a tough guy, not the case, I simply had a plan, and that plan involved a recently bruised and blackened eye to sell our mugging and other tall tales of shenanigans. Convinced this had to be the punch; I clinched my teeth to avoid damage of the tooth or tongue, and took a breath as he assumed the now annoyingly usual position. In a thrust of a days worth of damn the man anger Justin approached and heaved a heavy right hook to my right eye. I fell back and nearly to the ground as I knew our mission was accomplished,

“Alright that’s good! That’ll due we can stop right there…”

My head spun a little bit as I stood in place leaning over my knees in an effort to recollect myself and brain functionality. I took a breath and tasted the salt and sea on the wings of a fall night’s ocean breeze, and knew that I was home in many senses of the word, and that everything would be alright. Justin was a bit shaken and unnecessarily apologetic over the tri-factor of punches,

“You’ve done well my friend Mr. Spinks.”

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