As recuperative as a four-day weekend is meant to be, sometimes too much rest and relaxation can addle the brain. I was contemplating this irony as I dashed out the door into last Sunday's inclement weather to catch David "Mr. Razzmatazz" Croft's December 1 hash. "By all rights," I thought to myself, "I should simply stay home, watch some old Eastwood movies and finish off that case of Veuve." But, spurred on by young Slone's 2:45 phone call, I was out the door and into the nastiest day of the fall.
Addled I must have been. Wasn't that the estimable D. Croft exiting the Fulton Street subway not ten feet ahead of me? Couldn't be -- why would an epitomal Upper Eastsider be on a Brooklyn train? The be-shorted man was soon out of sight, however, and, needless to say, gone from my largely vacant mind. On a better day, I would have -- I should have -- recognized the foreshadowing.
Although the rain had abated, the wind had picked up considerably as I approached the motley crew assembled against the north wall of the South Street Seaport Museum. Veterans all, a few grunted in my direction as I found a spot out of the worst of the torrent. Submitting to JM Guiley's usual type-A barrage ("It's 3:03, let's get the #@*$%& going!"), Croft instructed "one mark and you're on" and we were off.
Starting in the center of the overly bright, relentlessly commercial restoration of the City's seaport, the hash headed east along Water Street and came to the first check at Peck Slip. More at home among the broken bottles and reeking piscine odors, the runners quickly solved the check and headed across the Slip to Front Street and then paralleled the Brooklyn Bridge along Frankfort Street. Previously in high spirits despite the Midlands-esque weather, the hash took on a decidedly gloomy tone as the runners contemplated the obvious -- that silly rabbit would have us cross the Bridge! A check at the base allowed the runners a few moments of delusion before the Man in Black (Roy, not Johnny) issued a cry of on-up.
Grim-faced, the runners steeled themselves against the gale force winds and cutting rain which buffeted the upper deck of the Bridge (rumor has it that a late-arriving virgin was blown overboard and rescued later in the week somewhere near North Carolina's Outer Banks -- rumor also has it that Disney is buying the rights and will produce the upcoming animated feature "Fly Way, Gnome;" DIS is also buying the rights to the hash, everyone in it, all of your family members, Samuel Adams and Curtis Fong's manner of speaking, dude). By now reeling from the painful effects of my strict every-third-week workout regimen, I silently seconded Jerry's "but I just came from here!" and miserably trundled my way over the girded colossus (the Bridge, not Jerry).
Achieving King's County, the pack headed through Cadman Plaza Park to the Promenade. The power centers of Lower Manhattan were awash in a steely mist; our fair lady shivered indiscernibly behind a curtain of leaden drizzle. The intrepid group pressed southward and, confronted by an enormous pool of swirling water at the Pierrepont gate, formed a human chain to cross the ever-deepening tarn. Bravely sacrificing their physical safety for the sake of their already drenched shoes, two of our troop were nearly felled by the insidious architecture of this hostile burg. Contributions for Laird and Sloney's tetanus shots and lessons in common sense are welcome.
Heedless now, cold and hungry, the runners raced through the Heights. The former homes of Walt Whitman, Thomas Wolfe, Norman Mailer, Tennessee Williams, Katherine Anne Porter, Richard Wright, Arthur Miller, Carson McCullers (somebody stop me) became a blur. Patagonia-ensconced men, women and children grimaced slightly as the runners pounded down Hicks Street, across Love Lane and onto Clark Street. One final turn past the charred remains of the St. George Hotel and the hash was home.
Once safely inside the bar, the runners were quick to disrobe which, given the ratio of men to women (roughly 35:4), was probably more interesting to your humble scribe than to many of the other participants. The absence of virgins, new shoes, birthdays, etc. resulted in relatively subdued down-downs. So much so, in fact, that JM DB2 issued a roaring reprimand. The Master was placated as the ducks got in their rows for Green Leaves. A small coterie of the most soggy had been huddling around the sterno-warmed chafing dishes and dove into the wings, meatballs and pasta as soon as they arrived. Others took advantage of the relative civility of the surroundings to actually sit at tables and eat with the provided utensils. Beer was quaffed, insults were hurled, someone outed herself, the hora was performed, Santa called and the truth about Area 51 was divulged. Bet you're sorry you missed it.
How oft was I awakened during the rain-sodden ebon hours
Fowl cries of foul play emitting from my beastly form
Fleshless bones which ere held aviary powers
"Murderer murderer" they seemed to screech
To wit, a Tums, to return me to my norm
This message has been brought to you by Scribes Against Thesauri -- hey, not everyone got an 800 on the verbal section. That's life.
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