TIV

One fateful night a few weeks ago, one of our new roomies returned to the house around 11 pm, fresh from a hard day of over-imbibing on potent potables.  After a momentary discussion on how awesome our dogs are and how we could quite possibly be “the coolest roommates ever”, he suggested we join him down the street for a nightcap at the Silver Spigot.  Not being the types to refuse any invitation involving food or drink, Butterfinger, Mounds, and I happily accepted the offer.

When we arrived at the bar, immediately after passing through the rotting wood archway, I was transported 3000 miles back to the homeland. The walls were outfitted with neon Bud Light signs, various animal skulls, and posters featuring overly tanned ladies with teased hair, white thongs, and cut off sweatshirts.  The bar stools were sticky, tables littered with empty cigarette packs, and the entire place smelled of stale Pabst mixed with regurgitated steak.  As I sipped my $2 Miller High Life and pondered the possibility that I might have stumbled upon a disturbance in the space-time continuum and had indeed teleported back to the east coast, I was interrupted by a kindly looking older gentleman in the mood to talk.

I enjoy talking to people, especially those older, and wiser, than myself, so I put my string theory/Star Trek study on hold and chatted with Mr. Spigot (not his real name of course) by the 80s inspired jukebox.  We discussed the decline of rock music, laughed at a group of “bros” trying to pick up the only other women (or people for that matter) in the bar, compared notes on places we have visited, and I listened to some beans spill about his rocky relationship with his son.  Finally, at 1:30 am, the bartender rang the final bell and somewhat rudely herded us out the door in a steer-like fashion.

We saw Mr. Spigot was going to be walking home, so we offered to give him a lift; what’s one more in a Eurovan, right?  He somewhat unwillingly accepted our invitation, mentioning something about us needing to be quiet once we got into his neighborhood.  Little did I know, while Mounds drove and I played co-pilot, Mr. Spigot was in the back of the van letting Butterfinger in on a little something he had up his sleeve.  He had mentioned to us before we got in the car that there was a “vehicle” he had worked on that was parked near his house that we should go by and see sometime, which we all just wrote off as nonsense old man talk.

As we rounded the corner toward his home, he once again reminded us that we needed to be quiet.  I just nod and think to myself, “Does this guy think we are kindergarteners with no manners?”  Little did I know, in about 5 seconds I would be eating my words, proving that I do indeed have the social skills of a 5 year old.

There it was, before my eyes, the mystery vehicle that Mr. Spigot has spoke of so fondly, the TIV!

You may recognize the TIV, or Tornado Intercept Vehicle, from the Discovery Channel show Storm Chasers, but I live a somewhat sheltered virtual life on the interwebs, and had not before seen the TIV before coming face to metal with it that glorious, drunken night.  The TIV really is a unique vehicle, a mix between a tank and land submarine.  It really is much more impressive than the clips and pictures can show, well-suited for its job of blasting through tornadoes and chasing wild storms; most definitely not exactly the type of auto you would expect to be parked on a residential street.

The moral of this story?  Always accept an invitation to go out for drinks. This is true even if its late on a Saturday night and you are already in your pajamas, or you have not showered for 2 days and your hair resembles the coating the ducks had in the Exxon Valdez incident of ’89. You just never know when a TIV is parked down the street from your house;)