It was the old bait and switch. JM John, filling in for some hare who'd backed out, was scheduled to set the trail. Ok! thought the Brooklyn irregulars, here was a good chance for a well-set, uncomplicated (for lack of time) trail that even had a good chance of ending in the neighborhood. But, as our luck would have it, John also backed out, and there was JM Jerry sauntering up to the start in a floppy bucket hat and a protective coating of flour that almost (but not quite) muted his fluorescent outfit. He immediately launched into a gripe about having to set the trail in an hour even though he couldn't run due to excruciating foot pain. In order to make up for that, Hare #3 explained, he threw in plenty of unmarked falses, flour on the wrong side of trees, and other annoying tricks. Still, the trail sounded great compared to the alternative of hearing more about Jerry's feet, so the pack took off.
Except of course for me, who had been conscripted into carrying the bags. Since this was Brooklyn, we were able to carry all the bags on our bodies and walk up Flatbush to the on-in looking like some sort of mobile rummage sale. I dumped everyone's precious possessions and took my precious shortcut to the trail in Prospect Heights, where I met up with Christine. From across the Grand Army Plaza intersection, her eagle-eyes spotted the first three marks from a check at the park and we ran ahead of the confused pack. Christine was also then the first to see a large rat cross the trail (considered bad luck to some; to others, it's just considered gross).
I found the trail from a check on Sixth Ave. and then led people too far. We had passed a mark 3 inches from the left side of an emergency phone, which, as we all should know, means turn right in Jerry World. Everyone was murmuring, "Mooney's" as we reached the last check on Flatbush. I let other people find the trail, and watched as a handful of brilliant people disappeared in the opposite direction for five minutes.
Paul administered down-downs. Jerry got two--one for taking us to the rat petting zoo. Plunger got one for something, and the two Petes drank their wicked brew for being newbies. But, no, Paul, Pete #1 wasn't new. So Paul drank. Keith drank for being last in, having been overtaken by Alice--still the only one I know who regularly comes in half an hour after everyone else raving about the lovely trail. Keith may have thought the emerald-covered bar lovely, but he had only 30 seconds to drink his down-down, click his shoes together 3 times and go home.
There's no place like Chinese restaurants in the city, either. We were told we were getting Chinese food, but got fish sticks.
Some Park Slope locals hung out late, exchanging tales of living with the worst roommates. It was agreed that the next time Stephen wants to kick out a roommate he should just end his hash at home and we'd take care of everything. Meanwhile, Byron-Brown showed up to find out why he hadn't been able to get through to John all day to tell him to bring the hash over for some free leftover keg beer. We also agree that hashers are also good to invite over when you want to kick a keg-just let us know. Well, you hash and learn.
Finally, someone pulled a switcheroo on the weather--we walked home in the rain. Then again, we had bellies full of beer and no roommates lying in wait. 2 out of 3 ain't bad.
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