It seems so long ago now, it almost seems like history (no you cynics, the question is not, "When was the last time Fluffy Lockerman got lucky on a Hash?" That's called fantasy, not history), but it was merely a late spring moon ago. It was the Wednesday before Memorial Weekend and I was early in arriving at the famous-but-now-temporarily-closed-until-equipped-with-a-micro-brewery- (from-Boston) Delmonicos, the start of the evening's Hash, when Curtis F. asked me uninnocuously, was I going to the Full Moon on Friday? Yes, of course. Would I mind distributing write-ups, again, no problem. Would I mind doing the write-up? (since my name was now listed as official Full Moon Brewmeister?), my pleasure. Later at the On-In, I would be invited by Basil to a surprise pre-nuptial birthday party for Mary. Basil, I may be the only never married fortysomething on the hash, but your being a bit late with that invitation (3-4 hours) would later cause my life considerable concern, to say the least. Remember Basil, the early bird catches the worm, which is good for him because I would catch neither worm, nor chicken nor eagle, or much of anything else on the awestruck upcoming event.
I can still clearly remember standing at the Gates Avenue bus stop on Greene Avenue that Friday morning, smiling to myself as I thought about the upcoming events of the day, or what I hoped would be the upcoming events of the day. You see from 9 til 5 I was spending the day with one of my almost-former staff members, the delicious looking Desiree, who was still covering the site until I found a replacement. Of course, gentleman and professional that I am, I would never cross ethical (let alone legal) lines of proper behavior of "boss" and "subordinate." However, as this was a staff member transitioned into her new position, she kept mentioning how our roles were changing and had recently stated, "You know Jerry, I am no longer on your payroll; I'm really not your staff pain (sic) anymore." My mind raced away as I waited for the bus in the bright spring sun. And, a Full Moon tonight also! WOW!! But at that point somewhere in the higher reaches of my psyche's ego, I think I realized those two mutant banshees of the brain which have been haunting the Nelson family intermittently since the ICE AGE, were now rearing their ugly heads into my consciousness. (In graduate school they gave them names like schizophrenia and mania.) Little did I know, the events of reality would be ever so much stranger.
On that fateful Friday evening I was again early, as is the custom of us traveling Brooklynites, and creatures that we are, and was greeted by the usual summer visitors, who usual seem to be Brits or students who can't really stand (or stay) where their from, but instead spend their time traveling from place to place telling everyone how wonderful the last place they left from was compared to where they are now at. Whatever. The crowd did grow some, and finally Bo arrived to inform us that, unlike the last run he set on a NYC Hash, which was criticized as being too straight and simple, this would be a "tricky" run (my words, not his). There would be separate chicken and eagle trails to start, which would meet, only to separate again. Was this to being a trail setting strategy, or weather some sort of description of the evolution of the species, as it turns out, it would be both.
As I remember, we entered the Park and went through a series of sort of sweeping checks. Who was on what trail, at this time I really didn't know or care. I seem to remember the brambles, a long false near the reservoir, but with a number of hashers still in sight. Then I remember moving east, and I struck up my ongoing conversation with the ever-lovely Lipstick Leslie about our arched feet and arthritis (sic). I remember a group of hashers going left down the "carriage trail," but seeing the eminent John Burke leading in a more northerly direction. When L.L. and I headed down the "carriage trail," we found no marks, and saw Full Moon Marian along with a virgin, asking if we were on.
By this time, being "on" was taking a turn towards the 60s psychedelic. I realized by now I was merely following a series of almost random arrows, some pink, some blue, none of them any too bright. The thought that each represented a specific trail had now extinguished in my mind. As the four of us head to the "left" fork, lingering former Joint Master J.B. would find his way easily through his old `hood, we became even more dismayed.
We four slug (sic) traveled east after finding a check outside the park, but to no avail. Burke headed north on Madison, never to be seen again. We took off circling blocks in pairs, east, south, north, whatever. Almost tempted to call in. I persuaded the other three to go back to Madison where we last saw Burke. Yes, there, we did find a mark. But the trail, well, every corner was like a check, with marks totally faded by rush hour foot traffic and darkness, crossovers with jurisdictional a like to nightmare (sic). L.L. and I lost Marian and her companion, struggling our way north, finally, to find ourselves at Kelly's Corner, which we had only recently used on a Wednesday On-In. Except tonight is has free Bud night for four or five hours (they should give that shit away). And the bar being so crowded we had to enter through the back door. Rumor has it even Dave Hardy had to squeeze through to get his bag, let alone his beer. Most of Hash stayed outside and alternative On-Ins were spreading like wild fire. Idaho Sue said we were welcome at her friend an occasional hasher Dan's garden apartment, just up the street, which sounded good to me. A hangover but gracious Dan treated us to grilled hot dogs and we supplied munchies, wings, and bottled beer, about a dozen of us, as I remember. The early evening's entertainment consisted of yelling obscenities at neighbors who said we were too loud (is this an Upper East Side pastime?). I myself left early, having a Charity 5K in the morning sponsored by my employer. As to the other On-Ins, one can one use their imagination. Rf.s--British Hash legends J.B. & D.H, "Bloody foolish kids, bloody foolish bar, fook `em, got to get `ome anyway." F&pk's--M.--"Hell, where's Jerry with the write-ups? Where's the hare? Where is Curtis? Hell, who cares. Get out some money, let's get drunk." Kelly's Korner--Bo: "I got a really good deal on this beer." Peter: "Everyone else in here is drinking for free, what kind of deal did you get?" As Nancy Reagan said back in the 80s when words like hash came up, "Kids, remember, just say BO."
Editor's Note (and paltry disclaimer): Jerry faxed to me 6 pages of handwritten write-up in his own axe-murder's scrawl which I transcribed here verbatim. The apparent freeflow stream of consciousness ramble is his own and was not edited. What I couldn't read, I made up and indicated with "(sic)." The narrative style, creative use of the King's English, abuse of the comma, and run-on sentences reminds me of Jack Kerouac's "Book of Dreams," though, and makes me wonder if the Fluffy Lockerman, with his references to 60s psychedelia and mutation of the 80s "Just say `No'" anti-drug campaign, ever partook of the magical giraffe ride in the land of the flying swizzle straw. Whoa, sorry for that flashback. Where was I? Oh yeah, I guess this will teach me to never pawn off the job of doing the write-ups again. --Curtis
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