Mr. Happy (Part 2)

By the time we hit downtown Austin, we were all righteously drunk. We decided that we couldn't begin the retreat until we had advanced our cause up and down Sixth Street. We ended up drinking margaritas in Wylie's and trying to remember the names of various Austin women who at one time would give us the time of day. Gibmonster tried to call Helen, a nubile but incredibly beautiful friend of his, but she had left town for the weekend. "She's gone to Houston to see some guy," Gibmonster reported when he came back to our table. "They gave me the number where she can be reached," he said, smiling, as he handed me a napkin with a number scratched on one side. It was Bo-dotty's line at THP. "Damn," I said when I recognized the number, "no wonder that sonofabitch wouldn't come with us." "Do you think he has V.D.?", asked Mr. Happy, always anxious to examine the dark side of any situation. "I dunno," said Gibmonster, "but I did see a can of Raid in his closet." "Naw man," that stuff's just for crickets," I enlightened them. "He got paranoid a week or two ago and went to the free clinic. Got himself a clean bill of health and a complimentary pack of Trojans." "That's good news," said Mr. Happy, with less than obvious relief. "I'd hate to see that poor girl lose her virginity and her health during the same weekend."

After three more rounds, I called Motown, an old college buddy of mine, and arranged to meet him at the Lakeview Cafe for a few last minute beers before we headed for Horseshoe Bay and some serious partying. The retreat was a once a year gathering of anyone who had ever visited or lived at THP. There was a permanent invitation, complete with the date and place of the next retreat, plastered to the wall by the front, and only, entrance. The attendence ranged from two, me and TP, my ex-wife, in 1984, to the 43 wild and crazy retreaters that descended on Lake Conroe the past year. Since all 43 of us had been permanently banned from Montgomery County as a result of that drunkard's retreat, we had to find a new spot, and Horseshoe Bay was the majority vote. La Grange was the early favorite until Wally and Mad Max scouted it out and discovered that the Chicken Ranch had been torn down by a group of greedy yankees who were now selling souvenir pieces of the once famous institution for $12.95 a pop.

We did scissors, stone and paper to see who had to drive from Wylie's to the Lakeview Cafe and, just like a bad haircut, the scissors let me down. Driving would have been manageable if Gibmonster and Mr. Happy hadn't shot the bird at one too many pickup trucks on the way. About a hundred or so rednecks in a king cab chased us all the way to the Cafe and would have caught and probably killed us had they not been pulled over for doing 85 in a 35. We managed to make it in one piece and enticed Ann Kennear Earhart, the hostess, to give us a table by the window so we could watch for Motown and\or the hundred, pissed off rednecks. By the time we had dusted off four beers a piece, neither Mo nor the rednecks had shown. We figured we could live with fifty fifty and departed for the retreat. On the way out, Gibmonster and I tried to convince Ann Kennear Earhart to accompany us. She said she couldn't because she hadn't known us long enough. "Damn," muttered Gibmonster, "that time thing again." "It's okay," said Mr. Happy, "she probably has V.D. anyway." Mr. Happy had a way of making even a bleak situation seem even bleaker. As we drove towards Horseshoe Bay, I looked in the rear view mirror and noticed that Mr. Happy was trying to light his cigarette with a condom, obviously thinking it was a book of matches. "Hey, I can't get this damn thing open," he finally sought help, "one of you dudes got some matches?" "Here, try mine" said Gibmonster, handing Mr. Happy another condom.