Well, that was something.

Once inside city limits, Brent asked the first person he saw, “Where’s Phil?”

“Who?”

Pause.

“Phil Newman, guy who runs the all-you-can-eat feed store out on Marsh-a-sippy-burg Road. My muskrat is starvin’. You seen ‘im?”

Concerned stare, quick retreat.

Brent chuckled as he turned back to us. “Come on. ‘Who?’ She was putting me on. Had to be.”

“Maybe the whole town doesn’t revolve around their celebrity--” Brooke began. She trimmed the end of her rebuke when she noticed the “Welcome to Punxatawney, Home of…” sign not far away. Sighing, she relented, “Or maybe it does.”

Brent continued his search. Eventually it yielded :

“In his burrow.”

“Is that somewhere specific or should we pick a field and start digging?”

Oh, no, Phil has a very specific burrow in the off-season. It’s a tiny dirt hovel behind a glass enclosure inside some building. Dutifully, we sough it out, and I THINK I saw a groundhog snoozing. The chubby brown ball I saw could have just as easily been a fluffy bathmat curled up and stuffed into the hole, though.

Our Phil enthusiasts, unsurprisingly, were not satisfied with this discovery. Nor were they thrilled that, after inquiring about Phil’s peculiar off-season dwelling, they were tersely recommended, “Come back in February.”

Regardless, we still offered the town our patronage. Four of us went for a bite, while two of us announced they were going “shopping.”

“Did you forget something?” Brase asked. “You can borrow mine, whatever it is.”

Glance exchanged between future conspirators, then, “Oh, that’s ok. Thanks, but I don’t think you’ll have what we need.”

So Brase, Cal, Brooke, and I sat down for a diner lunch. Brent and Dean rejoined us mid-way through the meal. When we saw them enter the restaurant, our food temporarily languished uneaten on plates and forks.

“That’s...a new look,” Brooke said.

They looked like fervent Disney tourists, our boys, exchanging mouse ears for groundhog tails. They wore Phil shirts and hats with vague approximations of the little guy’s toothy maw jutting out. Dean even wore oven mitts decorated with low resolution woodchuck profiles.

Brase put down his burger and asked, “What’s the deal? You were just complaining about all this.” ‘Complaining’ is under-selling Brent’s tantrum after discovering the burrow by a few degrees.

Still, “Complaining?” Brent asked, waving a dismissive palm toward his brother, “nahhh, we were just disappointed.” He glanced at Dean, smirking. “We just hadn’t discovered our true Punxatawney spirit yet.”

Dean nodded, promising, “And we aren’t finished. But we figured you’d like to be there for the next part.”

“I could use a second opinion on a few things,” Brent added quickly, flashing Dean a look. “’Does this make me look fat?’ and all that.”

Brooke’s eyes shifted from Brent to Dean. “Third opinions,” Brent corrected with a serpent-smile.

“They’re not lying,” Cal noted casually as he forked a syrup-sogged measure into his mouth. “That’s what truth sounds like.”

Brent and Dean waited for us to finish, inviting frequent puzzled looks from most of the other diners. Brent nodded politely to each, as if a grown man in a “Phil is the original Punx Rocker!” t-shirt was a perfectly reasonable sight.

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Brent helped himself to the last few bites of Brooke’s omelette and asked, “Everybody ready?

The shopping ruse was quickly abandoned and we followed them to Gobbler’s Knob. It’s the location of every February’s big reveal. Phil performs his one-gopher stage act for the audience, sees his shadow or doesn’t, and then everyone goes home. Thrilling.

Fast forward forty-five minutes…

A displeased member of the local constabulary is suggesting potential charges of trespassing for most of our group. Why? Brent and Dean decided to make camp – actual tents pitched and all the rest – right there at groundhog-zero, itself, Gobbler’s Knob.

After arriving at the Knob, they dumped their packs, got out the tents, and got to work.

“What in the hell are you doing?” Someone or everyone asked. No response from the pair.

The guys were quick about things. Both tents were up when the first concerned citizen arrived.

“You folks can’t,” a pause to examine the scene and confirm that eyes were not deceiving, “...set up camp here.”

“Oh, no, no.” Brent had already slithered into his tent. He called back through the half-open flap, “We aren’t camping-camping. Don’t worry.”

When no further clarification came, the townsperson asked, “What are you doing?”

“We’re waiting,” Brett said.

Dean, zipped to his throat in his own sleeping bag (I have no idea how he managed that) worm-squirmed deeper into the second tent. “It’s like Black Friday,” he added.

It was around this time that Brase walked away; no words, just a head-shaking forfeiture of involvement. The rest of us dawdled, stunned but fascinated.

“It’s October,” the citizen told the tents.

“Oh, I know, I know,” Brent said amicably, “but I’m Phil’s biggest fan! I’ve been waiting all my life for this!”

“They finally let him out of the home,” Dean confided. “Well, not so much LET out, exactly.”

For her part, baffled as she was, the townsperson continued reasoning with the lawbreakers, “All of that is in February – on GROUNDHOG’S Day. You’re too early.” It was a logical, perfectly persuasive argument being made against two individuals operating on purely illogical motivations.

“That’s exactly what everyone else will be telling themselves, too,” Dean said. “But this guy’s really near-sighted, so we need REALLY good seats. Up front. Like at a concert. You been to a concert?”

Dean and Brent remained committed to the charade and, eventually, they developed a small CROWD of concerned citizens. Understandably, the gathering wanted the campers to leave. First, they asked. Shortly thereafter, they demanded. Finally, the discussion progressed from focusing on the campsite to the two obstinate campers themselves. That’s when the threats began. A particularly helpful individual even offered to relocate the boys’ tents to a much more intimate location on Brent’s person.

I want to assure you that I was horrified and offended by the actions of my friends, but I must admit, it was all so absurd and unbelievable that I just couldn’t take any of it seriously. And, if I’m being completely truthful, it was hilarious. Dangerous and disrespectful, yes, but also hilarious.

Please, however, do not try this at home. Or anywhere.

Brent cracked a few times. I could hear him snort back laughter inside the tent. But Dean saved the illusion each time. Really, his act sold the whole thing. He clung to a sliver of plausibility and would not let go. No matter what Brent or anyone else said, he produced a marginally-justifiable explanation without faltering.

The larger the crowd grew, the less lenient it became. When some of the budding hostility shifted toward we, the innocent bystanders, Brent called it quits. His tent suddenly rose six feet in the air, pegs snapping loose from their tethers, and started gliding away. On two human legs, the tent was fleeing the scene.

Hearing this, Dean emerged as well. He snickered at the Brent-tent, but opted for a more conventional tear-down. As he uprooted his tent, he growled back reproachfully at the locals. “You see what you did? He’s regressing. That’s 15 years of therapy right down the drain. Which of you is paying for that? Whose your attorney? What’s your blood type?”

Just as the exchange was reaching a fever pitch, the cop showed up. Or deputy. Someone claiming authority without a badge. “This is all a big misunderstanding,” Cal told him, “there’s no problem at all.” A piece of debris chose that moment to spitefully strike the corner of Brent’s tent. He didn’t notice.

The fuzz didn’t so much let us go as tire of the chase. The rest of us followed Brent’s example and hurried away. Cal and Dean took turns placating the officer, immediately redirecting the conversation any time “charges” or “trespassing” were mentioned.

“And it really is such a BEAUTIFUL town,” Cal would note.

“Sir, who does the public lawn-keeping here?” Dean would ask. “They do such an admirable job. The trees are all just the right height!”

We never stopped moving.

The mob broke apart near the edge of town. The officer had called it quits long before. Dean paused to offer a final, spirited “apology” to anyone in ear shot, before, chuckling, jogged to catch up to the rest of us.

It’s a safe bet that we are no longer welcome in the lovely village of Punxatawney. I regret never getting the opportunity to seek out Phil’s wisdom but, if he’s anything like his fellow ‘Tawneys, maybe that’s for the best.