Puking is a most unpleasant sensation. Aside from the guilt which often accompanies hours spent kneeling on the bathroom floor pouring the contents of one's stomach, and indeed most of one's other internal organs, into the city sewer system i.e. "I'm bad, therefore I deserve to vomit", there is the sheer boredom aspect. You finish an hour or two of throwing up, and think that you can finally get what remains of the night's sleep, so you tiptoe back to bed, sweating like a pig, and after ten minutes or so staring into the darkness, the same wave of nausea starts to pass over you. Knowing that there can't be anything in there, having already examined last Thursday's lunch on its way past, you go through the process again, retching and retching until, after half an hour of nothing, finally about a teaspoon's worth emerges and you're done until the next round. Never again will I eat, you say, Bud Light being a far safer source of nutrition.
My thoughts fell upon the above subject, upon learning from a Hasher, who shall remain anonymous in case anybody has recently shares bodily fluids with him, last Wednesday, that he was feeling decidedly queasy, but that he would be attending the Hash nonetheless. In that case, said I, would you mind telling the Hares to wait for me, as I am just completing my latest work of literature and would not wish to schlep all the way uptown to find the pack and Hares departed. I cannot believe that the Hares would be dumb enough not to wait, and can therefore only conclude that the aforementioned bilious Hasher failed to pass on the message. In any case, I arrived not a minute past 7:30 at the Lipstick Building to find the appointed corner deserted. Having cussed, stamped my foot and gobbed on a few passing tourists, I was considerably cheered to read on the ground that the On-In was to take place at Zabar's, that well-known purveyor of smoked meats and cheeses to the over-salaried. I was concerned that it might be a little bit crowded for a summer pack, but as long as everybody keeps moving, it would probably be okay. So on to the subway I strode, annoyed but, as usual, secretly glad that I had an excuse not to run the trail at the height of the summer heat.
"Would you like a kiss?" asked Leslie as I arrived at my destination. Assuming that this was my reward for being first in, I looked around to make sure that I had given the private detectives the slip, and said "sure", whereupon a packet of Hershey products was thrust in front of me. Gobble, gobble, gobble. This more than made up for my having misunderstood the name of the location; but, in fact, this emporium had pretensions worthy of the Upper West Side. I have never seen a notice "two drink minimum" at any Hash bar before, let alone at one which appears to be run by the Hell's Angels. According to those in the know, the pitcher price was not exactly apposite to the decor and location, either, but more of that anon.
Despite being first in, it was not by much. An extremely sweaty Doug and Laird followed me after about five minutes, Doug shedding his usual placid demeanor to rant about the "death march" aspects of the trail, which included a final stretch from 34th St. to the On-In without a single check, as if the Hares had handed the chalk over to Basil and said "here, you finish this." Not only that, but the 34th St. check had consisted of a beer stop at Hare Mike's apartment, which, in these temperatures, comes dangerously close to sadism. Maybe I should move off this subject before I make myself a laughing stock for suggesting that there may be occasions (or minutes in the course of occasions) when beer and Hashing do not go well together. In any case, not a great deal was said by the rest of the pack, the fact that everybody came in more of less together being the upside of the route march nature of the trail. Actually, the most exciting part of the trail came in Stuyvesant Town (are we over-using this quarter, chaps?), in the form of a human body under a sheet, which was rumored to be either Leslie in her latest acting role, or an actual bona fide freshly minted cadaver. This being an apparent first for the Hash, much speculation took place about the actual cause of death of the individual, the popular suggestion that it was a jumper seeming less than likely since the body did not seem to be lying on both sides of the street.
After all this excitement, the rest of the evening was spent in a search for beer. As the crowd thinned out, the Hares warmed to their task, and the pitchers started to appear with a regularity absent at the start of the evening. Leslie spread her aforementioned Kisses around, this, together with the increasingly popular curly fries, providing welcome supplements to the normal Hash fare. Visitor, and friend of Burke, Chris Huckstepp, returned after a year's absence, and was warmly welcomed by the 1 or 2 percent of the pack who were hashing when he was last around. Trail Master Jonathan showed up, showing impeccable timing in a week when the write-up had nothing insulting to say about him. A chorus of virgins was toasted, but I have no idea what anybody was called. Please introduce yourselves with a kiss.