Date:     September 10, 2000
Weather:  Without Pity
Venue: Stony Brook Watershed headquarters, two golf courses, significant
RR tracks, 518 to Llloda's abode in downtown Hopewell
Time:     1:30
Set By:   Llloda, with technical assistance from Nonsensei
Hashers:  RoJo, Tropical Depression, Ice Blue Balls, Son of a Bitch,
George Michael/Yellow Ball, Definitely not a Rat's Ass, Schwa!, Pumpkin
Pie, Rubber Alan, Discomfort, Nonsensei, Wacko, Jai, Ouipee, Brad, Hand
Solo, Booger, Dancing Fool.
Virgin Hasher: "John," aka Brad's brother
At the On In with gummy worms and razzleberry frosties: Uranus Williams

The Hash Also Rises

    It was hot.  The sun had risen in a cloudless sky and now shone
remorselessly in the mid-afternoon.  We were looking for marks.  They
were small, sometimes faded, forcing us on our hands and knees to crawl
in spaces not meant for grown men.  The briars ripped at our faces and
tore the dog's ear. He was too hot to whimper and loped on, reined in
only by his mistress's voice.  Somewhere above us a crow wheezed.
    In the distance a lone figure moved back and forth on the fairway.
He moved furtively, his white shirt and nylon pants doing little to
camouflage him among the oaks.  We could hear the thwack, thwack, of the
Big Berthas teeing off in the distance.
    "Are you?" We cried hopefully, anxious to escape the woods and the
golf balls.  Rojo had already fallen, kneecapped by a Topflite XL5.
Wacko said nothing but sprinted across the course.  We followed, dodging
the screams of the locals.  "This is private property!"  "Get off our
course!"  "It's their fault I bogied!  I want a free drop!"
    On the rail line there were no golf balls and no shade.  We shook
Nonsensei for some sign of where to go.
    "Tell us, little co-hare, or we leave you for the train."  "That's
right," said Solo, "I once saw a man encounter a 100 cars going 70 miles
per hour, and we couldn't find enough of him to put in a thimble."
    She threw her head back imperiously.  "Do what you like.  I'm going
east on the tracks. Maybe it's another mile, maybe two.  But it's that
or the golf course."  Hashers grumbled at the prospect of endless
awkward stones but no one argued with her.  They wanted beer.
    At the stream some jumped in and some crossed to the woods.  The
marks petered out again.
    "That's it.  We've been out an hour.  If you don't see me again. .
."
    I slapped Wacko hard across the face, once, twice, hard.  "Don't be
a fool.  We're cut off.  If the golfers see you again--remember
Tropical."
    Wacko's eyes widened.  "Christ, I'm sorry.  It's the sun."
    We said nothing more, stumbling forward until we met Llloda in
another golf course parking lot.
    "It's not so long," she said. "Have some water."
    We wanted to rub that smug expression off her face.  "Damn your
eyes, it's not water we're looking for.  What's with the golf courses?"
    She laughed in a way that cheered no one.  "What are you, mice or
hashers?  Afraid of members-only?  If you don't like my set, try
Nonsensei's."
    For thirty minutes we ran.  The marks were plentiful as we entered
the village.  Peasant women looked at us curiously as we cried, "On
on."  Cars stopped as drivers gawked at the procession of sweaty
bodies.  In the yard we collapsed, barely able to lift our heads for the
gummy worms and flavored nacho chips.  But in that shady clearing, close
by the house where Llloda lived, was the one for whom our bells tolled.
The beer also flowed and that was enough for us.