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1 Tuff Place © 2004
A Road Show
The American summer. An abstract concept best epitomized by barbeques, the Beach Boys, and over-planned, over-hyped, and ultimately disastrous family vacations. Since we here at 1 Tuff Place fancy ourselves a dysfunctional kinship of sorts, what better way to “celebrate the summer” than to hit the road in search of lost dreams and easy dames. And with that simple idea (and the lack of any legitimate employment), the 1 Tuff Place Road Show was born. Wiping it clean and removing all remnants of placenta juice were all that was needed before the Road Show could become a reality.
The motive was straightforward; cruise through the countryside spreading flava as prevalent as a lady of the night does her legs. To bring the other three Soapboxers into my jilted worldview I staged a lavish audio/visual presentation at the 1 Tuff Compound. A mélange of botched Abraham Lincoln declarations, mispronounced Martin Luther theses, and a to-the-death game of Guess Who? resulted in a tentative itinerary and an agenda scribbled on a series of sanitary napkins.
The To-Do List:
Shameless Promotion 101: Having flooded the Huntington bar scene with 1 Tuff Place biz cards, and making more and more headway in the NYC arena, the tri-state area had all but dried up. Manifest destiny had reared its imperialistic head and we were not to be satisfied until every man, woman, and drunken sailor had visited 1 Tuff. Our egos would accept nothing less.
Assassinate the Sports Dude.net: Too long had he been the thorn in the side of 1 Tuff. Not only did he purport himself to be THE Dude of Sports, he also had a Soapbox forum on his shoddy website. With the look of Sarah Connor in his eyes, 1 Tuff’s Duderino de Deportes was on a mission of vengeance. And he would not be denied the joy of seeing a man driven before him.
The Wrath of Iss: Increasingly frustrated by an existence predicated on alarm clock wakeups, form-fitting slacks, and copious amounts of hair gel, our very own superhero, Iss, was going through an early mid-life crisis. A man of simple pleasures, he only seeks what is best in life. A fleet horse, the wind in his hair, and falcons at his wrist, not to mention the open step. The Road Show would give him the chance to satisfy one of these noble truths.
Campaign 2004: With four jerkoffs currently criss-crossing the country in a lesser-of-two-evils battle for the White House, we felt it our civic duty to combat these clowns with our own shoddy personalities. We’d make sure to kiss plenty of babies and, if possible, their nubile mothers. This would be politics at its most genuine.
Wyles Mallo’s Big Adventure: Having grown tired of exchanging pleasantries with undeserving local miscreants, Wyles decided the Road Show would be his swan song. “I’m needed elsewhere,” he was often heard saying, sometimes singing. No one believed him, but the remaining 1 Tuff members would still do their best to send him off with a wonderful parting gift (a la Double Dare). Easier said than done.
Luckily, we were able to coax the Sports Dude’s brother (Sports Bro) into “lending” us his beat-up 1985 Buick LeSabre station wagon and, with a pic-a-nic basket full of all-natural goodies and forward thinking treats prepared by Iss himself, we were off on an adventure of meager proportions. As 1 Tuff’s surrogate parents, Wyles and myself sat in the front seat, me behind the wheel and Mallo passing off his own broken philosophical musings as fact from the shotgun position. Iss and the Dude bitched from the backseat.
It was agreed upon that we would make our way through the heart of America in search of 1 Tuff converts. Unknowingly, the Bible Belt would not be as open to our tales of privilege and irresponsibility as we had originally hoped. By the time we hit Tennessee we’d already been run out of town by multiple posses equipped with the latest in pitchfork and torch technologies. But aside from a few missteps with some local town gentry’s daughters (if one was to question Iss on the matter, he’d say every last one of them were asking for it) and a botched bank robbery attempt by the Sports Dude, the Road Show was cruising along at a relaxed pace.
Until one afternoon in a small town outside Topeka, Kansas when Wyles and Iss wandered off in search of nourishment, that’s when the wheels came off, so to speak. I was never fully informed of the details, but I know a still-cooling blueberry pie was involved, as was a window sill. The pair returned in a hurry, suspecting a tar-n-feathering was about to go down. We piled into the LeSabre and took off to the west. Every twenty minutes while I was ingesting a Guinness, Mallo would carefully inspect any and all cars on our tail. He wore a look of reluctant awareness on his face.
We continued on in relative seclusion, few cars nearing us, but with a dark cloud bearing down from the east. As Iss and Sports Dude pulled each others’ hair in the backseat and I threatened to “turn this car around,” Wyles let out his patented high-pitched squeal as smoke began pouring out from under the wagon’s hood. I slammed on the brakes and got out to ascertain the problem as Mallo assumed motherly duties and spanked each lower 1 Tuff Soapboxer for their incessant squabbling. With Iss in tears I informed the crew that the 1 Tuff Mobile was no more. Despite the quickly setting sun, we sent the youthful Dude and Iss out in search of a mechanic, or some Segways (for some enviro-conscious travel). They were never to return.
After a few rations of baked beans on the open fire and having given up on Iss or the Dude returning, Wyles decided to turn in for the evening. He’d been quiet most of the night, except to exclaim, “Great tacos today Jake!” which I found odd, eating beans and not being named Jake. Nonetheless, I thought nothing of it and swiftly passed out with a can of Bud Heavy in hand and sleep in my eyes. Amidst a lucid dream involving the Czech women’s volleyball team I was brought back to reality by the gentle closing of one of the wagon’s big ol’ rusty doors. I straightened up to see Mallo outside the wagon tying up his few possessions in a doo-rag and fashioning that sack to a long stick he’d found on the side of the road. A regular Brer Rabbit he wasn’t, so I elected to see what the shit was going down.
I assumed he’d had a little too much Goldschlager with dinner and was wandering about as he was known to do. I expected to see him plant his head in the ground and attempt the infamous Ostrich dance but I couldn’t have been more wrong. I called his name and he jumped, nearly dropping the Riddler he was packing into his sack. In that one instant his eyes told me all his soul couldn’t bear to voice. Whatever he and Iss had experienced on their rendezvous in Kansas ran much deeper than merely swiping a slice of pie. “Time’s running out…I just gotta go,” he uttered and finished with his packing.
With that he hoisted his sack-n-stick over his shoulder and turned to face the east. I suddenly sensed the immediacy of the moment. This was it. The finale of flava. This wild ride didn’t need to end here, I thought to myself. Surely there was a rational way of getting out of this. Just as we had weaseled out of so many past situations, there was something that could be said to prevent such a drastic conclusion. As these thoughts raced through my mind Wyles turned back towards me in what looked to be a final goodbye. I needed so many questions answered, but before he could muster his farewell all I could ask was, “When am I going to see you again, dicknose?”
“I'll be all around in the dark. I'll be everywhere - wherever you can look. Wherever there's a ragassing to be had, I'll be there. Wherever there's a pinstick waiting to be rolled, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys exhale when they're working out their bitch tits - I'll be in the way kids cry when they hear of the American Indians’ land struggle. And when the people are singing my songs, and noddin’ their heads to the shit we built - I'll be there, too.”
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Realizing he had just plagiarized Steinbeck I felt the need to give him an old-fashioned “say mine,” but opted to keep it to myself. Mallo plucked a stray piece of straw from the earth and placed it gently in his mouth, turned and began about his long walk. As I stood there bathed in darkness I could hear him whistling the breakdown to “Stir Crazy / Brainwashed” as he passed out of sight. A warm breeze blew past my face, bringing with it an unfamiliar reality we were now thrust into. As I pondered an eternity of unanswerable questions, I could hear a sound closing in on me. It entered through my ears, but before it finished had touched my entire body. “Who loves you? And who do you love?”
