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The Summer House Party That Led To A Tractor Police Chase Across A Golf Course

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The Summer House Party

Sirens blared behind us as Hock and I sprinted across the front lawn of Busch’s house. Hock’s bitch-ass beat me to the door, but it was locked, and he pounded on it yelling for someone to come to the door. Finally, Busch’s girlfriend opened the door, and we rushed inside and slammed the door behind us, inebriation making us more dramatic than the situation called for at that point. Busch lived in a neighborhood on the nicer side of our city, but closer to the actual city than the rest of us lived. Still, there was an extremely small possibility of any law enforcement following us into the neighborhood at whatever hour of the morning it currently was.

This was the culmination of our third night together back in our hometown for the summer. There were seven of us, and we had all gone out of state together for college. We had been drinking on Busch’s back porch for most of the day and as the sun started to set we called up some of the hot, tolerable girls from high school who we kept in touch with for precisely such instances. Busch was the only one who had a girlfriend, and she was in town visiting for a while but had given him the day off from being whipped, so she would be back as well. By the time night had set in a small party was taking place on the back porch that Busch’s parents were graciously and completely ignoring. The night progressed just as any other, with Miller and OJ blacking out prematurely and having to be forcibly subdued, but not before they pissed off a few girls and COMPLETELY RUINED MY CHANCES OF CLOSING. Which I definitely would have done. Hock’s efforts to lock down some late night festivities were similarly futile in the face of the now pissed off females.

Hock and I ended up walking across Busch’s neighborhood towards the nearby municipal golf course with a fifth of Evan Williams Honey in hand. The plan was to simply mess around on the golf course and get more hammered than we already were and then walk back. It was a relatively nice municipal course, and it ran right alongside the length of the neighborhood. We walked across the 18th towards the clubhouse thinking we’d sit on the patio that overlooked the skyline and burned some heaters while we worked on the Evan. As we walked, I spotted a John Deere Gator sitting off the 18th green just down the hill from the patio. I hit Hock on the shoulder and walked over to it as he followed. I looked in the seat and the cup holder hoping, but not expecting, to find anything. I didn’t. We turned to walk back up the hill when Hock, shithoused as he was, jumped and stomped on the hood of the Gator, making the whole thing roll back a few feet. As I walked up to look at the crater he just put in the hood, I saw laying there on the ground, next to the driver side wheel, a set of keys. Some minimum-wage municipal course grounds crewman had set the keys to the gator on top of the wheel to hide them, and now we had them.

I jumped in the driver’s seat and started it up as Hock jumped in, and we took off joyriding across the course with the pedal to the floor on that Gator. Aiming for any hill or dip I could find, I threw Hock’s drunk ass off of the vehicle multiple times. We made our way through the course drinking the bottle and burning heaters, when around #16 Hock suggested we head to the Whataburger that was around the corner from Busch’s house and hit up the drunk food choice of God himself. Thinking I’d never heard a better idea in my entire life, I turned for the street and headed for the orange and white stripes.

Upon our arrival, we pulled into the drive-thru and ordered what was surely a standard metric shit-ton of food. I don’t remember what Hock or I ordered exactly, but I can tell you it was almost definitely some patty melts because, as everyone knows, they’re the best thing on the menu. Reaching the window, we both realized for the first time that neither of us had our wallets. Dammit. After a long pause of silence, which I’m sure was uncomfortable for the poor soul working the drive-thru window that night, I did the only thing I knew to do. Floored it. What I failed to consider at the time was the drive-thru led directly into the street and that the top speed of a John Deere Gator is probably around 30 MPH. Fortunately, there was no one else on this portion of the road at the time, and I had no one else to avoid. Being the efficient driver I am, I made full use of the space I had available to me on the road. While there were no other cars on this road at that hour of the morning, there were a few people around. Apparently, one of those assholes took offense to our harmless fun, as Hock brought the cop that was now following us onto another residential street to my attention.

He didn’t have his sirens on, which was a good thing, I guess. Thinking we’d just play it cool, I pulled over on the side of the residential street and he stopped behind us. About the time I was thinking “Okay, just be cool, y’all aren’t that drunk, he won’t notice, just out having a little fun, you’re pre-law you can talk your way out of this,” and as he was shutting his car door, I looked over and saw in Hock’s hand the nearly empty bottle of Evan. I looked at the bottle, looked at Hock’s face, which said, “We are so fucked,” back at the bottle, and then did what I had to do. Floored it.

I looked over at Hock, and he yelled at me to go to the golf course, I followed his advice without thinking twice. Right as I was about to look back to see where the cop was, the sirens blared. I gripped the steering wheel as I focused in and cut straight through yards and across streets towards the course. Again, a Gator tops out at about 30 MPH. The sirens rang in the distance. My hands were glued to the steering wheel. The moment was tense, and we were on edge, a couple of outlaws running from the law. I looked over, and there was Hock by my side, and all of a sudden the moment was shattered. I shit you not; Hock was slouched back in his seat, arm slung across the back of mine, with a look of sheer apathy on his face, casually ripping another cig. I yelled at him. He swung his head towards me. I need you in the game, Hock. We’re running from the cops. He says he knows. Then we’re airborne.

I’d reached the course, come into the immediate side of what later turned out to be #8, and hit a hill. We landed roughly, turning, then screaming down the fairway. At least it seemed that way, I might remind you that a Gator’s top speed is around 30 MPH. Then, again, all of a sudden. Splash. Apparently, there’s a fairly sizeable water hazard on the back side of #8. We bail out of the Gator. We wade out of the pond. We’re soaked. There, at the side of the course, are flashing blue and red lights. I take off in a dead sprint back up #8, back towards Busch’s house. About midway there we hear sirens again, this time in the distance, but we know they’ve got to be chasing us. We book it all the way back, arriving at Busch’s and banging on the door.

We got inside, more sober than either of us had been all day, looked at the other, and busted out laughing. Busch’s girlfriend just stared at us and went into the kitchen. Miller grunted and rolled over on the couch, still asleep. What in the hell did we just do?

We then went back onto the porch and drank some more until we fell asleep.

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