That sounds like the first sentence of a great story. Please continue...
Well, since it's so totally off-topic, I'll run through the short version, if I can manage. My dad and I were just laughing our asses off about this last night.
So, my mom had died. She grew up in Bethesda, and her family had a beach house on Fire Island, and she had always wanted her ashes to be spread there. My little sister had just hyper-extended her knee and couldn't fly, so my dad, my boyfriend Mike and I hopped on a plane and headed back east. My dad, just a week prior, had fallen into a camp fire while camping and burned his stomach pretty badly, which just added a layer of weird to things. Out of concern for my dad (partially), Mike and I brought quarter oz of weed and a heafty stash of pain pills with us. Little did we know the trip would turn into a slightly less exotic version of
Fear and Loathing.
So, once in MD, we rented a mini-van and picked up two of my mom's 5 sisters to accompany us, because they insisted. These two aunts, Aze (Suzanne) and Denise were the closest to my mom, but magically morphed into Statler and Waldorf the second we started moving. Everything was crap and we were retarded for this, that and the other reason and this would be the constant background noise for the next 6 or so hours. Just to spice things up a little, we had arrived during the 17-year brood of cicadas, AND left on the hottest day of the year, with 105 degrees and 99% humidity. Oh, and it was the day of Reagan's funeral.
Upon leaving Delaware, we'd be tagged by tolls so many goddamn times, dad just left his wallet between his legs on the seat for easy access. That was a great plan right up until he and Mike decided they needed a pee break. So they pull over on the side of the highway, walk over to some tall grass and relieve themselves.
Boy, what a mistake THAT was.
When we reached the next toll, it was realized that, when dad slid out of his seat to exit the car, he had forgotten about his wallet and it had fallen on the ground. I covered the toll, we exited and headed back to the site. Despite more searching in the tall grass, the wallet was not to be recovered. Luckily, I had enough money to cover the rest of the trip, so we continued on.
We stopped at a rest station, and Mike and dad decided to use the facilities while I helped Statler and Waldorf get something to eat. When they emerge from the bathroom, they're laughing hysterically. Apparently, when they were in the bathroom, Mike noticed a tick on dad. Yeah, fuck long grass on the east coast. So they twirl around for each other, checking each other for ticks, of which there are several, and then they commence the grooming. Well, dad flicks the last tick off Mike... and it lands on some poor guy walking into the bathroom. Instead of informing him, they come tumbling out of the bathroom, red in the face and doubled over.
Fast forward to Brooklyn. We're doing circles and falling into worse and worse neighborhoods, hopelessly lost while we search for JFK express way or whatever. I'm marveling at the fact that it does look just like on TV - Brownstones with clotheslines between them and graffiti, solid, as high as the arm can reach. Dad gets frustrated enough to ask for directions. We see a man sitting in a lawn chair at a local gas station and pull up to him. As dad asks directions, it becomes apparent that this man is
completely blind. Surprisingly, he got us exactly where we needed to go.
Finally, we close in on Bay Shore, where we plan to stay for the evening. Due to the tumultous nature of our drive, we all decide we could use a drink, and go in search of a liquor store. We don't see one immediately, so we ask a convenient store clerk. The man in the turbin leads us on a wild goose chase. We stop and ask another. This Sikh also leads us to nowhere. Finally, we ask a native who kindly informs us that liquor stores aren't open that day. Defeated, we head back to Bay Shore with a bunch of wine coolers (why not beer? I'm not really sure).
It's been dark awhile, now, and we drag our weary bodies into the Bay Shore Inn. It looks nice on the outside, but our slow-moving brains soon process the fact that smoking is allowed in the
lobby and the clerk is encased in bulletproof glass. If you ever encounter such a scenario, WALK AWAY. It was too late for us, though. Mike sees a plaquard above the glass that says, "Jacuzzi rooms - extra $50". With a devilish smirk, he turns to me, points and says, "I've got an extra $50." I roll my eyes but tell him to go ahead.
We all head to our respective rooms. Mike and I open the door to ours and are greeted by such a bizarre sight, we're speechless for about 5 seconds before bursting into laughter. Our "jacuzzi room" consisted of black carpet with rainbows on it, sexually suggestive "art" on the walls, a meager card table and two chairs next to a window covered by what appeared to be
burlap curtains, a king-sized bed complete with a full-size mirror trimmed with Hollywood track lighting on the ceiling above it and one of those machines that accepts coins in exchange for making the bed shake. Oh, and the "jacuzzi" - a
tub with air jets that's sitting
right in the room. Bow-chicka-wow-wow.
This is just too classic, so I call my dad's room and, without giving anything away, invite him down. When he comes in, his reaction is about the same, only he's got the extra hilarity of seeing Mike across the room in a pair of shorts, splashing away in the tub. We and I sit at the unstable card table, kicking back wine coolers and smoking cigs until we decide our efforts are futile, pop a vicoden each and wait to get knocked out. Dad heads back up to his room, Mike dries off and we don't even take advantage of the awesome (lol!) porn bed.
The next day, we set off for Fire Island to do the deed. We understand that it is, in fact, illegal to spread ashes in such a manner, but fuck it. We're doing it. We get there, head to a chunk of public beach and I dig a hole in the sand near the incoming tide. We pull out the solid, well-sealed box of ashes and - fuck. We didn't bring anything to open it with. I see a ranger, so I think I'm going to use my 21 year old female wiles to extract a screwdriver from him. Yeah, my "wiles" worked a little TOO well, and he wants to take a look at the "car problem" I need the screwdriver for. Backed into a corner, I frantically spill the beans, hoping he'll take pity and turn a blind eye - and facilitate the criminality with his screwdriver. It works! He pulls out a screw driver, sets it on the bed of his truck then turns around. I thank him a million times as I make my way back.
We performed the deed, albeit awkwardly, and headed back to Bethesda. Luckily, the ride back wasn't NEARLY as interesting. I don't think we could have taken much more.
The story's much better in person, by the way. I get to gesture and stuff.