Lenny and the
Pine Tree
by Don Drewniak
Lenny, a
friend dating back to seventh grade, and I had
been invited to attend a post senior prom BYOB
get together at a cabin located somewhere in the
woods of Somerset, Massachusetts, a town that
abuts my hometown of Fall River, Massachusetts.
Lenny came prepared with two pints of whiskey. I
passed on the booze because I had a ten-hour
workday ahead of me beginning at 7:30AM.
Lenny was half
in the bag by the time we made it to the cabin. I’m
guessing there were three dozen guys there and
most were either drunk or well on the way. Girls?
Not a one.
The big
mistake: Lenny and I were still in our rented
tuxedos as were most of the other guys. As he
broke the seal on the second pint, he was still
blaming me for “ruining our chances.” (See
link below).
Fifteen
minutes or so later, Lenny yelled, “I hate
that tree,” as he charged a pine tree that
was no more than fifteen feet in height. Up he
went as the rest of us encircled the tree primed
to watch the show. Once at the top, he began
wrestling with the tiniest branches in an attempt
to rip them off the slender trunk.
A loud cheer
greeted each successful rip. He was halfway down
the tree when he slid to the ground and passed
out. His white tux coat was streaked with green
and brown stains.
Three or four
of the guys dragged him to my car and deposited
him on the passenger side of the front seat as he
regained consciousness and begin to mumble about
my ruining his chances.
Mitch, another
long-time friend, who had driven to the cabin in
his ’51 Buick, suggested we bring him to the
Imperials Automobile Safety Club. Mitch and I
were members. “His old man will kill him if
we bring him home like this.”
“You’re
right,” I replied. “Meet you there.”
“I’ll
follow you.”
“Thanks.”
Lenny began to
make the unmistakable sounds preceding throwing
up when we were about halfway to the clubhouse. I
pulled over to the side of a road, leaned over
him, opened the passenger door and then used my
right foot to push him onto a patch of grass. He
proceeded to projectile vomit and then fall into
it.
When he
finally stopped puking, Mitch said, “Let’s
get him back into your car.”
“Bullshit,
those are Naugahyde seats. Let’s put him in
the trunk.”
“Won’t
be the first time.”
The Imperials’
clubhouse was an old barn that members had
converted into a garage. The bottom floor had two
bays, a workbench and a makeshift restroom with a
sink and toilet. The second floor, once a hayloft,
had two dump-ready couches, a few chairs, a small
black-and-white television and a Coke machine.
It was a
struggle, but we stuffed him into the trunk.
Getting him out was even tougher. We held him on
either side as we made our way into the clubhouse,
walked him upstairs and dumped him onto a couch.
“Let’s
get the hell outta here,” I said, “Got
to be at work by 7:30.” Off we went.
Had I been
thinking after my all-to-brief sleep, I would
have used part of my lunch break to bring my tux
back to the clothing store from which both of us
rented them. Instead, I put mine (still clean and
undamaged) on a hanger and left it on a porch at
Lenny’s house along with a note asking him
to turn mine in when he brought his back.
I was stocking
paint cans on shelves at my Schwartz Lumber and
Hardware job the next morning (Saturday) when I
heard the bellowing of a familiar voice, “Where’s
Lenny?”
It was Lenny’s
father, a short, stocky man who I had never seen
crack a smile.
“At the
Imperials’ clubhouse.
“The what?’
“Imperials
clubhouse.”
“Clubhouse
for what?”
“It's an
automobile safety club.”
“My ass
it is. “What's he diing there?”
“Last I
saw, he was sleeping.”
“Was he
drinking?”
“No, he
was sleeping.”
“Don’t
get smart with me. You know what the hell I mean.”
“A beer
or two.”
“Where is
this place?”
I gave him
directions and as he left I thanked the stars
that he wasn’t my father.
After work I
stopped at The Uke, my favorite bar/restaurant,
where I had a couple of beers and some golumpki (Polish
cabbage rolls). Yes, they served me beer even
though I was eighteen and the drinking age was
twenty-one. Times were different back then.
Home I went
where I crashed and slept through the night.
It wasn’t
until late Sunday afternoon that I ventured to
Lenny’s house. I had waited until his father’s
car was gone. As usual, Lenny was sitting at the
piano in the living room.
“You okay?”
I asked.
“Yah, the
old man didn’t say too much. Just pulled me
off the couch and dragged me to his car. Okay,
what happened?”
I began giving
him the details while laughing you-know-what off
in the process.
“I was
that far gone?”
“Yep.”
After a few
more minutes of feeding him additional details, I
asked if he returned the tuxedos.
“Yep.”
“Did they
make you pay for a new one?”
“Nope. I
put mine on a hanger and yours over it.”
“Didn’t
they check both of them?”
“Yep.”
“What did
they say when they saw yours?”
“I told
them it was yours.”
* * * * *
Note: The
Prince of Polka tales detail the double disaster
(or so it seemed at the time) of a dinner/dance
the night before my senior prom and the prom.
However, as the years have raced by, the
thousands of times I have recalled those two
events and laughed far outweigh the disaster that
I initially believed them to be:
The Prince
of Polka – The Pre-prom Dinner Dance.
The Prince
of Polka – Prom Night.
Copyright
© 2023 by Don Drewniak. All rights reserved.
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