It’s August 1993 and we’re making our way east along I-40 to Memphis. I have a splitting headache but that’s what you get when you hydrate with hot Coca Cola. We’d picked up 2 cases of 12 at the last gas station for a few bucks. It was a great deal except they’d been percolating outside in the blazing sun for God knows how long. Did it make a difference how long they’d been out there? It’s not like the car had a fridge or even air conditioning to keep them cool.
Speaking of no air conditioning, we were overheating again so we were going to have to stop for the day. It was only 11am but we’d all agreed that the only way to make it to Vegas from Montreal and back in this piece of shit car was to drive at night and sleep during the day. The plan had worked so far except not every motel will rent a room to 4 guys for 6 hours while the sun is still shining.
Once we did find a motel, we checked in and I tried to sleep it off but the pounding in my brain was too much. I drank some water but it didn’t help so I would have to let it pass. Meanwhile, Dave called the local pizzeria and Phil pulled out a can of Kiwi brand shoe polish and got to work on his Doc Martens.
He took a match and lit the polish, letting the heat soften the wax. The doorbell rang and Dave let the pizza guy in. Phil got up and gave him some cash. I lay on the bed and watched the unattended flame spread to the carpet.
I managed a few words before finally falling asleep.
“Guys…you better put out the fire or we’re going to burn to a crisp.”