Old school storytime...

Part 2

WHAT A NIGHT IN MILLEDGEVILLE BY RYKERT TOLEDANO

They say the bonds of brotherhood are never broken. well, I don't know who the hell said it, but I'm sure someone did. Probably that same "they" idiot alleged to be the author of countless other aphorisms, witticisms, and helpful hints. But enough about authorless quotes, for now.

During my time at Auburn, I learned of Alabama's culture, a strong sense of family and a brittle truce between years of prescribed tradition and shift in attitudes induced by an ever-varying demographic, from Jodee and Jay Vick.

Jodee, who believed that freshmen should not be allowed to speak, was the only ski team veteran willing to put up with my eager, yet car less, drive to be a part of the ski team. for Jodee, "if a pig didn't die, it's just not breakfast." Part Jeff Foxworthian prototype, part socialist, he always provided conversation fodder for philosophy and psychology students.

Jay, right or wrong, must have concluded that time-released adrenalin was added to every can of Natural Light. He told me once "without an adrenaline rush every now and then, you might as well be dead." the sensations of speed and flight in slalom and jump, were at the base of his life force, and he sure could drink a lot. Getting drunk required a full commitment, and he often delivered. He was also the type who only missed church if he was jumping at a tournament, or the race began before noon.

They had a bond like JB weld (anyone who has ever used it to repair a trick ski knows what i mean). They lived together, drank the same beer, (natural light, they even converted Chad Kidwell for a time. Of course Chad is an industrial engineer living in the suburbs of Huntsville right now, so natty light is a bit below his present means), voted identically at club meetings, and bitched like blue-haired grannies while at the lake.


They both liked to get drunk on occasion, especially on Saturday night at collegiate tournaments. If we were competing in Milledgeville, they took it to another level (the drinking, that is. Jodee said he never slalomed for shit at Walmead). After the traditional Mexican feast at the El Sombrero (my personal favorite of all the ski-town Mexican dives). The whole team, well, the whole conference was out a a bar downtown. it was the place next to the opera house, and, I confess, I can't remember the name. The usual debauchery followed: drinking, dancing, regrettable hookups, emesis, and loss of consciousness.


Todd Titus of Clemson and Chad Kidwell performed a series of interpretive bodily convulsions, so no one else seemed too out of place on the dance floor. Sadly, neither Jodee nor jay could reach the floor. Whiskey, beer, and a bar blocked their path. near closing time, both were sloshed, fading in and out of the natural world. It was last call, jump comes ealry on Sunday morning, so it was time to go home (motels become "home" when involved in collegiate water-skiing). As usual, the first order of business was to gather up all those who could no longer take care of themselves. That night "those" happened to be Jodee and jay. Christy, usually a very sloppy drunk, stayed remarkably sober (by her own standards, which meant that she did not puke before finishing dinner).


Scouring the bar for the brothers, we found Jodee and Jay seated back-to-back, each supporting the other's now-numb body. Gazing from below, Jodee slurred "where's jay?." From behind, the drunk-tank crew heard Jay gurgle, "we can't leave without Jodee!" Amazing. Their awareness reduced to almost nothing, they were still each other's first priority.

A double in-bar pass out merely catalyzed the memorable part of that night. As always (from 94-98) yours truly was driving the drunk bus (the "drunk bus" was a 1991 mercury tracer, dubbed "the turtle" by Chad Kidwell). With great intestinal fortitude, Jay survived the trip to the motel without puking. After falling out the door into the Milledgeville Holiday Inn (what a great motel!) Jay could last no longer. He sprayed the right rear tire with partially digested tacos and natural light. The river of Jay's rejected caloric input seemed to flow endlessly, from his mouth all the way to the highway.

A few minutes later, Jodi Elliot transported Jodee and Christy to the motel room (officially, only four occupants slept in the room that night). Jay moved a bit more slowly. hauling nearly all of his now-gangly mass, yours truly helped him up the stairs and placed his ravaged body on the second floor balcony. Not wanting to puke on himself, Jay stuck his head through the railing. born with a neck narrower than his cranium, he was stuck. A few exhausted cries for help later, the sober driver hears him, and realized that no one else had a head clear enough to offer help. With a heave that rivaled that of men many times larger, he yanked Jay's head through the narrow space between the bars. Jay lay there all but unconscious. He could neither walk nor crawl across the four feet of balcony that separated himself from the motel room door, and near-death slumber. There was only one thing to do. Just like the caveman after selecting a mate, our sober hero slung Jay over his shoulder, walked him into the room and placed him on the floor. Jay was out cold.

By this time, the room's air conditioner could have given the shivers to a penguin. Jodee and Christy were both asleep on chairs. Lost in the dream of a Metallica concert mosh pit (at least that's my theory), Jodee's head bobbed furiously, but his sleep was not roused. Christy, infested with chill bumps, lay there lifelessly. All were asleep. Our sober hero pushed his way into a bed for much-deserved, (and much needed) rest. That morning, we all heard Jodee's first words of the day: "owwwww! my neck really hurts!" we told him why. Waking up in a cold shiver, Christy, now barely aware of her surroundings, screamed at the top of her lungs "I HATE ALL Y'ALL FUCKERS!" Christy must have believed that somewhere in the ski club by-laws (wherever the hell they are, if they even exist), the is a rule granting blanket priority to the first skier to pass out in a cold motel chair. Christy then stomped across 2 mattersses and the backs of 5 or 6 still-inebriated skiers. Her last step nearly heimliched Robert. After a concussive door-slam, she locked herself into the bathroom.

That was one hell of a tournament. Both Jay and Jodee jumped the next day, posting respectable scores.