''They threaded the cap with two notches'' said The Jaffer, looking down at half the Screwdriver (held inside of an antique Thermos) he had dumped upon the Marion McDonalds parking lot; it sizzled in the summer heat.
The drive thru was packed but no one happened to look at our predicament.
Granted, it was only made with Hawkeye Vodka, the worst and cheapest you can get, but that still didn't change The Jaffer's mind about swilling it, and complaining that he had swilled it, for the rest of the day.
Hawkeye Vodka has been described as ''an Iowan tradition'' and ''a staple of the University of Iowa experience'' but everyone else knows it as a step up from rubbing alcohol.
Actually, it's not even made in Iowa but St Louis, regardless, it's still found in every booze station in eastern Iowa.
The comparison, in both quality and taste, is found in the equally cheap Black Velvet whiskey which is the leading cause of blindness, DUI's, and car crashes in Iowa.
When Mississippi moonshiners had dumped a fouled batch into the mighty river, many moons ago, it turned the entire thing black and caused it to flow backwards until it dumped into the Cedar River where it had poisoned the entire state with dysentery and blindness.
Somehow, and by some demented inclination, a St Louie man decided to bottle some of it and recreate the demonic creation until it was perfected into what it is now.
Anyway, The Jaffer took the thermos, filled the cap, washed it down, and gave it back to me.
Not much was left so I just closed my eyes and hoped for the best. It has a gnarly bite, that was concealed by the OJ Simpson, and I walked away with only goosebumps.
We were looking for the town of Motor; all I knew was that it was up north.
St Nick was driving and the 2 hour trek felt like 2 centuries; maybe it was the work of the Hawkcrap or The Jaffer's impatience.
We were almost there when The Jaffer kept going on about this park. At first, I really didn't pay attention as he had mentioned abandoning the entire thing and going camping for the 3rd time at this point but I turned around when I heard that the park had ''an old Mill and a bridge''. That was it.
When I told him that, he said, ''Well, that was what I was trying to tell you this entire time''.
All around us were rocky hills and farming valley; I had spotted a sign that pointed out that it was 2 miles to the left, we turned, and went down gravel hills that dipped around farms and country intersections.
We finally hit the state preserve that surrounds the remains of the town after a few minutes. It dipped low after the hills until we passed the small bridge that marks the town. Two javes clad in full motorcycle gear eyed us like we were stupid as we drove across.
The mill towered over the other side of the bridge and the few buildings left.
We turned left and found a clearing next to the edge of the river. Behind us, two cars full of grumpsters drove past waving and The Jaffer hid behind a building to piss.
The river beside us was massive; it went down at least 30 or more feet and was nestled between two huge walls of rock and curved around out of view.
I turned and saw The Jaffer arising from the little smokehouse he had whizzed on. He told me that the buildings here all used to be unlocked to wander around in and tours used to be given to explain it's history.
They all were locked; a two story Inn, cooperage, the smokehouse, a stable, the mill, and the bridge were all that was left of Motor.
We started towards the Inn behind the car; it was locked.
St Nick, and his two cousins that he had brought, peered into all the windows and took note that it had looked trashed inside.
There was a small hill behind the Inn and I walked right up it to whizz behind the Inn. The backdoor had been sealed closed and St Nick only saw a toilet inside the windows.
We walked to the mill, it was also locked, and the sides of the door frame had been covered in name carvings, but the cooperage was the only one that wasn't. I just turned the knob and walked right in. It was a large room, museum signs littered the stone floor, and a large fireplace was it.
The Jaffer looked up at the ceiling and said that the last time that he had been here, the ceiling hadn't been there, and you could see straight up. I walked up to the fireplace and found more names carved into the rock. It was like a rite of passage. Someone had carved ''Nirvana'' in the middle of it.
We walked out and that had looked about it. The road curved in two directions; somewhere to the left were the road got smaller and steeper and the right led to an old campsite. We walked up the right road a little and found a little hiking path that led us in a complete circle.
Back on the main road, I looked off the bridge and saw a group of kayaks coming slowly up the river.
On our right was the mill, it stood over the river that it once had power over but now it was decayed and scribbled over by tourists. It's turbine sat besides it rusting into the ground. The Jaffer and I admired the mill for a minute and got into the car to leave.
The sun bled in between the hills and hid among the rocky cliffs that surrounded us.
I looked around the endless expanse and sighed.
I was growing tired of the coming and going. It was all becoming just headaches and arguments.
The Jaffer was getting itchy. He, along with St Nick's cousins, eyed me at the gas station on the way back.
It was in the town of Strawberry Point (known for a huge plastic strawberry and a hotel where you jump out the windows for fun). Everyone just wanted to go home. I was just tired of hauling the dead horse over my shoulder.
We stopped to get gas in the middle of town. It was dark now but it was a summer night. People wandered around the place, a grumpster with a hat made of PBR cans sewed together and a Hawaiian shirt head banged to no music, kids pulled up in bikes, and a truck load of good ol boys bought cases of beer and admired their dirt bikes.
Everyone stood around and talked in their own isolated conversations. The air was warm and the kids could bike out all night.
I turned and walked into the gas station, where we had just eaten, it was a little hole in the wall place and it also had a gun rack and a counter filled with handguns and revolvers. The ammo was counter priced only and the walls were covered in fishing gear.
The kid working the counter was bored and told me that the nozzle was sometimes stuck. I went outside to make sure then looked to the group. They looked tired and ready to leave.
St Nick stood there ready at the helm. The Jaffer spoke for them as he went on and on about leaving. I didn't care anymore.
The good ol boys had a few beers outside their trucks before getting in and jetting off with the mud stained bikes, the grampie roared off into the night howling and avoiding the attention of the cop who was just up the street, and the kids biked off into a random neighborhood. I could hear them talking amongst themselves as they biked away.
I sighed and got back in.
On the edge of town and the highway, St Nick couldn't just pass by this burned out motel we had passed before.
He, like I, just knew these things and veered off into the little lot.
We got out and started wandering inside the hollowed out building. It looked tore up from fire and storm. The walls were down to the frames, some didn't exist, and the roof was completely gone.
Even then, we could tell that it was a roach hotel from the size and to what The Jaffer had apparently remembered about it. He'd mutter out some type of fever dream like recollection and walk around repeating himself.
I looked out of the crumpled building and looked off into the empty road.
There was nothing else but to heed the call to it.
I walked out of the bombed out structure and got back into the car to drift back home.
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