Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’98

Image result for rusty jeep wrangler

“Archie!  Can Tracey and I come with you?”

The Congressman, Archie, and Don were heading up to New York to campaign after Congress adjourned.  Peter, in his Peter head, came up with this “great idea” to cap off our internship with The Congressman.

Archie jumped back aghast and started squeaking with his hands in the air,

“What?  What do you think The Congressman is made of?  Money!!   Please.  I’ve never heard of such a crazy idea.  I’m not babysitting you two either.  That’s just what we need.  You two making trouble…”

He stormed into his office but made a quick U-turn back to us.

“You know what?  Ok!  Fine!  If you guys get yourselves up there, you can help,” he dared us with a pointed finger.

He should have known better.

A week later, Peter and I were headed north on I-95.  We used Peter’s fine art of persuasion to convince our professor that it was important, nay, essential to have the time away from classes to bear witness to this important part of the American political process.

Peter was driving us in his “renovated” black Jeep Wrangler.  I say it was black, but one might argue its color was rust since most of it was.  Unlike Putty, Peter had no urge to Play-Doh his car’s corrosion.


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Not me, or the car, but you get the picture…


Without its frayed layering of duct tape, the seats risked looking like decapitated teddy bears.   Since the door locks didn’t work, he kept anything he didn’t want to be stolen in a lockbox from an army/navy store in the front passenger floor well.

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Any thief thinking they could just lift the lockbox out would be disappointed when realizing it literally weighed a ton.

If we ever were in an accident and that thing went flying, I’m sure they wouldn’t even be able to identify us by dental records.

The jeep didn’t have air conditioning or heating.   Its cover flapped like a flying flag anytime it went over ten miles an hour.   Then there were the holes.

Actual holes, in the jeep floor.

This was all fine and dandy in balmy D.C., but by the time we reached Pennsylvania, I looked like Jack Nicolson at the end of The Shining.

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Peter embraced the opportunity to demonstrate his rugged manliness and told me I was a pussy.

Which I was because I am.

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