Category: Partying
“Dude, you are so domesticated.”
I smiled with a nod. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
I regarded my friend with a quizzical arch of the brow. “Your jealousy is so transparent.”
“I’m not jealous. What’s to be jealous of? Pssh. I’m not jealous.”
I grinned. “Okay, whatever you say man.”
He scooted his chair to the left, pushing his coffee mug with him. “Okay, let me tell you how lame being domesticated is.”
I waved him on. “Please, tell me.”
He cleared his throat. “First, it means your girl’s got you by the balls. You gotta do whatever she says now. Be at home by a certain time. No drinking late with your friends. No more parties and hangovers. No more—”
“Hold on man, I’m going to stop you right there. Do you honestly, seriously, in all sincerity, think I still want to be doing any of those things of my own volition?”
“Yea. Well… no? You don’t, I’m guessing?”
“Damn right I don’t. I’m too old for that crap. Hangovers? Dude. C’mon. Hangovers?”
“Well, I don’t mean hangovers are the goal, they’re just the end result of a good night…”
“A hangover for me is not the sign of a good night. Maybe when I was in college, but even then, I never aimed for a hangover. Who in their right mind aims for a hangover? I never did. And as an adult, definitely not.”
He rubbed his chin. “Okay…”
“And ‘got me by the balls?’ Really? Did you really just say that?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, sure,” I nodded slowly. “I know what you mean. Because I don’t go out and party all night long means my girl has me by the balls. That’s what you mean, right?”
“Yea…”
“And that presupposes that she ordered me to stay home. Hence the ‘by the balls’ comment, right?”
“Um…”
“So if I tell you I do not want to party all night long anymore, because I am a tired old man who needs his sleep, otherwise I’m a cranky bastard in the morning, does that constitute following an order by someone else?”
“Well, no…”
I sat back in my chair. “So what else you got, Sherlock? Tell me what else is lame about being domesticated.”
He shifted in his seat. Coughed. Cleared his throat again. “Fine. Point B, it means your ass no longer has freedom. You can’t just take off on a road trip, or hit Vegas for a weekend, or—”
“No more freedom. By that, I assume you mean I can’t travel on my own anymore, right?”
“Right, exactly. She either has to come along, or you can’t go at all.”
I studied the swirls of whipped cream on my mocha. “That’s not exactly true. Maybe for your past relationships, you’ve had that kind of restriction. For me, my fiancée doesn’t mind if I take off on a trip alone. She’s taken trips just with her friends, and so have I.”
He slumped forward. “Really?”
“Yea. To me, that’s a mark of a healthy relationship. Or, at least, what I want out of a relationship. Some people prefer tighter interaction. Others, looser. She and I both feel it’s important to have our own lives, as well as a life together.”
“Well, okay…”
“Then there are times when I genuinely want her along. I have fun with her. That’s why I’m marrying her! So why would I want to do all of those things alone, when I can have this wonderful, funny, beautiful person with me too?”
“Dude, you’re going to make me sick.”
I took a gulp of frothy mocha and wiped my lip. “Okay, okay. So moving right along. Are these your reasons against domestication? Seriously? You know, you’re just talking about relationships in general. Neither of these points has anything to do with being domesticated.”
He snorted. “That’s where you’re wrong! Domestication is the process of taming. You’re getting tamed, dude. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Tamed?”
“Yea. Like, you once could do all this wild stuff. Now, you gotta be—excuse me, want to be home by a certain time, and stuff like that.”
“Oh, so you’re lambasting the process of getting older, as opposed to being in a relationship?”
He scratched his head. “What? No. Don’t confuse me. No, I ain’t talking about… no, not about getting older. I mean, you’re getting domesticated, like, you got a girl now, you’re settling down, you can’t do the same stuff you once did…”
“As we get older, none of us can do the same things we once did. You can’t sit in a high chair anymore and be spoon-fed by your Mom, for instance. Well, maybe you do, but not the average adult.”
“Funny. What I mean is, and this is reason number three: You’re not having any more fun.”
“Okay, now you’re lamenting the process of getting older, not domestication. Though perhaps you’re drawing parallels between the two.”
“Yea, um, exactly.”
“Well, I for one, relish the idea of growing older. I actually like to have more responsibilities, deal with new challenges, and adjust my life accordingly. For me, this is all very fun and exciting. I realize my sentiments are uncommon, but hey, that’s me.”
“I dunno man, that sounds crazy to me…”
“Sure. And that’s fine. You don’t have to like the process of getting older, or being in a relationship. Me, I love them. I love being in a relationship, I love being engaged, I look forward to a house and kids and in-laws and grandkids and all that. It’s not for everyone. There are a lot of people out there who don’t want this, and shouldn’t aim for this either. But I do. Each to his own, right? Each to his own.”
“I told you, man…”
I quizzically arched of the brow. “What?”
He shook his head. “You are so domesticated.”
We met at a wedding. I know. It’s a cliché to meet someone at a wedding. Some even crash weddings to pick up those someones.
Not us though. Meeting a guy was, at best, on the periphery of her radar, if it was even on the screen. The bride told me there would be hardly any single girls there. So I turned my focus to enjoying Hawaii since it was my first time there.
My table at the wedding reception was the loud, drunk table. You know that table. Every wedding has one. Its guests are a raucous, rowdy bunch, roaring with alcohol. Elderly family members look over in disgust. Yup, that was us.
After a round or two of tequila shots, we crowded the bar for one more. We were all friends of the bride, so she joined us too. “How many should I get?” I asked.
A friend glanced around the group. “About seven, I think.”
I turned to the bartender and ordered seven tequila shots. As he handed me the shot glasses and I handed them over to my friends. However, there were only six of us. I was left with two shots in my hands.
That’s when I turned around and saw her. A cute smile and pretty freckles in an adorable black & white dress. And without a drink in her hands.
“Want to do a shot with us?” I asked her. I didn’t want the extra shot to go to waste. It was the polite thing to do. Plus, she was cute. “We’re doing a shot with the bride.”
“Sure,” she smiled and took the glass. I smiled back.
“To the bride!” someone shouted. We all raised our glasses and poured the burning tequila down our throats. Like liquid lava down our gullets, searing down our chests. I stifled a cough.
“Thanks,” she said as I took her empty glass.
“I’m Mike, by the way,” I told her.
“I’m Mia.”
I smiled. She smiled. And that’s how we first met.
The elevators ding open to the beeps, bells, and chimes of the MGM casino floor. We hang a left, a right, another right, then trough through throngs of tourists.
Excitement tingles in our fingertips. We could throw lightning bolts from our hands, it’s so strong.
This is how it always is. It’s become our Vegas tradition.
Our first destination is the Zuri Bar. Dark shadows criss-crossed with crisp blue lights cast an unsettling web on the walls. Deep bass boom-boom-booms into our bodies. It’s a club atmosphere meant to psyche up even the most anxious player. To us, it just adds to the soundtrack of Vegas, followed by the singing of slots and cheering at craps.
Smoke waifs our senses. Occasional puffs pollute our noses. It’s a city of all sins, especially the self-destructive and peer-destructive ones. It’s a place where one goes to die a little each day, literally, morally, perhaps even spiritually. That’s okay though. As soon as you leave, those mutilations remain. What happens in Vegas, well, you know.
We crash into the couches and survey the scenery. Some of the guys see them as prey, with their loose wallets, polished ATM cards, and optimistic naivety. Me, I like to people-watch. I make up stories for each one.
For instance, that lady in the little black dress over there, sitting by herself? She’s having a clandestine rendezvous with a high roller she met at the Mirage. Being that she was staying at the Mirage with her husband, she had to arrange this meeting at the MGM.
Little does she know that her husband is also having his own secret rendezvous… with that high roller’s… brother! Gasp.
This is all a manifestation of my mind’s meanderings, of course. Take off its leash and it will run loose in all kinds of directions. The scotch whiskey doesn’t help either.
Oh, I didn’t tell you about the scotch whiskey? Macallan. 21-year, maybe 25-year if we’re feeling especially lucky. The 50-year? Well, one day. Like mellow velvet down your throat, the water back brings out hints of toffee and cloves. It takes off the edge for those who have such a distaste, and it accentuates the flavors for those who have such a taste.
Price: a Benjamin and change.
We savor our Macallans slowly. It is a rare delicacy that we appreciate in all its elegance. The sounds, the smells, the sights… every sense is tempted as much as it is offended. Just the way we like it.
The waitress serves as eye candy we devour hungrily. Short skirt, low top, and lots of skin. The uniform designers sure know how to rile up their audience. A comment here, a joke there, and she giggles. The fact that this act increases her tip notwithstanding, we smile and feel invincible. What better way to measure a guy’s manhood than by how many times he can get a hot chick to laugh?
Then the psychology begins. We torture each other with taunts and torments. We encourage each other with enthusiasm and applause. Break ourselves down and build ourselves up. Just like in the army. Our way of becoming Vegas Strong. Fuck yea.
Once we’ve been molded appropriately, we’re off to our next destination. The high-limit slots. We’re not talking your Grandma’s slots here. I’m sure she’s a lovely lady who once made that big win of three hundred dollars. Good for her.
I’m talking about a Benjamin a pull. Feed the beast a one-hundred dollar bill, then stroke its shaft. One pull each. Maybe two or three more if we’re feeling incomprehensibly indestructible. Fortune favors the fools on Friday, we fathom. It’s the beginning of the weekend, the perfect time to lure the lustful with luxuriousness.
The first victim pulls once. Hits one-thousand right away.
The second victim pulls once. Nothing. Twice. One-thousand and two hundred.
I pull once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Aw shit, why not? Thrice. One-thousand and six hundred. Thank you beast, for regurgitating such regal riches.
Price: a Benjamin. Reward: ten-fold or more.
Armed with confidence, indestructibility, and optimistic naivety, we approach the tables to start our attack. The rest of the trip is dictated not by tradition, but by the tides of fate. We enter it with the full knowledge of our odds. And that, my friend, is our Vegas tradition.
Oh boy, Thanksgiving is coming soon! That means family and food and fun!
What kind of fun? How about this kind of fun:
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Cook the turkey and “dress it up” using other foods. Shape the mashed potatoes in a face with carrots for the eyes. Put this at the top of the turkey. Shape the stuffing into boots and put them on the legs of the turkey. You can get even more creative with celery sticks, corn, and other side dishes.
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Choose a magic word for the day. Every time someone says that word, you and whoever else knows the word has to take a swig of alcohol. If you’re not around any alcohol, you have to get to some as soon as you can – and you can’t talk until you do. Just nod and smile if others are trying to speak to you.
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Buy a bag of fortune cookies and take the fortunes out. After you remove your guests’ coats, slip a fortune into their pockets, one per coat. This only works if the weather is cool enough to warrant coats, of course.
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If you have a Roomba robotic vacuum cleaner (or some other kind of mobile home robot), attach a cardboard box on top of it. Have the robot cruise around your house with a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the box. Hopefully the box is tall enough and the robot steady enough. You may need to serve relatively stable hors d’oeuvres that won’t roll around or fall over easily, such as crackers with cheese.
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If you have a dog, feed it food to make it gassy. This could include beans, cauliflower, and broccoli. A dog that eats too fast can also get gassy. Try to time it so it doesn’t coincide with dinner. Perhaps when your guests first arrive. Or perhaps after dinner, while everyone is sitting around and talking. Unless you want it to happen during dinner. It’s your call.
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Every time somebody says something, add the words, “in bed” after it. Chuckle to yourself if the phrase is especially good. Don’t tell anyone why you’re laughing though; keep this little secret to yourself.
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Create a table-top turkey centerpiece. Rig it so if someone touches it, something pops up like a Jack-in-the-Box or a Snakes-in-a-Can. Don’t do this if you have elderly relatives with weak hearts, however. Make sure it doesn’t explode or get too messy either, especially all over the food.
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Use lots of subtle sexual innuendo. Be nonchalant, but stare at the person after you say it, to see if they get it. Use phrases like: “That’s a huge breast”, “Tying the legs together keeps the inside moist,” “If I don’t undo my pants, I’ll burst,” “That’s one terrific spread,” “I’m in the mood for some dark meat,” “It’s a little dry, do you still want to eat it,” “Don’t play with your meat,” “Just spread the legs open and I’ll stuff it in,” “I didn’t expect everyone to come all at once,” “You still have a little bit on your chin,” “You’ll know it’s ready when it pops up,” and “That’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen!”
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If you really want your guests to leave early, set all the clocks one hour ahead. This only works if no one watches TV, however. Many will have watches and mobile phones with the correct time, but they may not double-check and just trust the clock on the wall. If they do look at their watches, just shrug and tell them their watch must have died.
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Every time a relative squeezes your cheeks, squeeze their cheeks back.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
“After a long, hard day,” Sunitha says with a breathy sigh, “there’s nothing I like better than to down a good cold one.”
She picks up a bottle of Negra Modelo and tosses it back expertly.
“It’s hard you know,” she adds, in between gulps. “All this coding and programming gets tiring. Staring at the screen all day long. Dealing with frequent functional changes. Trying to juggle multiple projects all at once…”
Her eyes wander. She sighs.
“Sometimes, I just need a release. A break.”
She looks down at the bottle.
“This is why I love Negra Modelo. It helps me to escape. To get my mind off some annoying bug or failed production push.”
Sunitha tosses back another swig. She smacks her lips when she finishes.
“It has such a nice finish. It’s so smooth. And already, I’m feeling giggly and warm.” She hiccups. “Oops! Hee hee.”
She takes another big gulp. For a moment, there is a peaceful silence as she chugs down three or four mouthfuls.
“Ahhh! Feels so good! Hee hee! Whoa, the room is spinning. I want another beer! Can you get me another beer? C’mon, go get me another beer. Ohmigosh, I have to pee. But get me a beer first! Hee hee! C’mon!”
Yes. There’s nothing like a good cold Negra Modelo to help you relax from a hard day’s work.
“You done good boy,” praised Momma Timmy, filling me with a sense of pride only an impressionable youth would feel when commended by an adult. Those were some great years, those high school years.
Well, no. High school sucked. But at least I could hold my liquor. (Praise the public school system!)
I was fifteen or sixteen. It was New Year’s Eve. A group of us were invited to Timmy’s mom’s house in the projects in Queens. For many of us, it was our first time in the projects.
“Call me Momma Timmy,” she hollered. Momma Timmy was a massive woman, both literally and figuratively. She occupied a space larger than life. When she entered the room, the walls shook from the sheer force of her personality.
“Dis is my punch.” She pointed at a large bowl of fruit punch that smelled more like vodka than fruit. It was as flammable as it was toxic to the liver. I got buzzed just looking at it.
“Dis be da bathroom. Don’ clog da toilet, now, ya hear!” We nodded emphatically. With a voice like a locomotive and forearms like a tracker, we didn’t want to do anything to cross Momma Timmy. No one crosses Momma Timmy.
“Here be da kitchen. There be some forties in da fridge. Help yo’self. And have a Happy New Year!” We thanked her graciously and opened the fridge.
Forties. I had never seen one before. It was heavy, cold, and I had no idea how my bladder was going to hold that much liquid.
Momma Timmy’s tiny apartment was buzzing with people. Neighbors, Timmy’s friends from Queens, and other assorted well-wishers and party-crashers loitered every room.
At one point, a little kid (who must have been seven or eight) came up to us. “Hey, want to buy a hot dog?” He pulled down his pants and flashed us.
“Boy, you best pull yo’ pants up, befo’ I smack da black off yo’ ass!” Momma Timmy bellowed. The little boy ran down the hallway in laughter.
My first sip of alcohol was tough. It was bitter all around. Bitter going in, bitter going down, and bitter aftertaste. Yuck. I took several hearty swallows anyways.
Since we were all insecure high school kids, we measured our manliness by how quickly we consumed our forties. I think Tony was in the lead, which led him to dancing on the coffee table. I can’t remember if he was dancing with a girl or just by himself.
Later, he ended up with his face in the toilet bowl. We had to pull him out so he wouldn’t drown.
Each subsequent swallow was more bitter than the last. I couldn’t understand how people wanted more alcohol the more they drank. I took large gulps not because I wanted to finish first, but because I wanted to be done with the forty and not have to take another gulp.
Despite my efforts, I was the last person to finish. The others held onto their empty bottles with pride (except for Tony, who was too busy dancing).
Then it started. The vomiting.
It started innocently enough. Someone ran to the bathroom to discreetly, yet painfully, force his intestines out through his throat. Then the smell and sound prompted copycaters. Soon, everyone from my high school was praying to the Porcelain God (again, except for Tony, who was passed out in front of the Porcelain God).
Everyone, that is, except for me.
That’s not to say my intestines weren’t trying to force themselves up through my throat. They were. Trust me, they were. I fought with every muscle of restraint I had to keep the bile down.
In retrospect, I should have vomited; I would have felt much better afterwards. But I was just a dumb high school kid. What the hell did I know?
By the end of the night, everyone was passed out on the floor. I curled up near the window, where the ice-cold breeze helped me fight the urge to purge. Some people were still vomiting in the hallway. The smell of smoke, vomit, and alcohol filled the air. Which was another reason for my huddling near an fresh air.
“You done good boy.” I looked up. Momma Timmy was standing over me. “You done good. You held yo’ liquor.” She nodded the nod of adult respect. Then she shuffled off.
I turned back down and closed my eyes. As I focused my stomach muscles on holding back the tides, Momma Timmy’s words echoed in my mind.
“You done good boy. You done good. You held yo’ liquor.”
. . .
What was your first drink like?
I had no idea who she was. I was pretty damn far wasted by the time I saw her, so I wasn’t able to make any proper introductions.
My memory, then, isn’t going to win points for accuracy. But I’ll tell you what I can remember.
I was dancing with my friends when she grabbed me and pulled me over. It took a few moments for me to register what had just happened. I was now standing next to this girl who was waiting on line for the women’s restroom.
For a brief minute, I thought she was a friend of mine. “Hey,” I shouted.
“Hey,” she shouted back. “What’s your name?”
What’s my name? I wondered. Doesn’t she know my name already? Then it struck me; she wasn’t my friend. I had no idea who she was.
“Mike,” I answered. “What’s yours?”
I’m pretty sure she gave me her name, but for the life of me, I can’t remember it. Memory and vast quantities of alcohol don’t mix well.
For the next few moments, I think we shouted at each other. I probably would have remembered what we were talking about, had it not been for the next incident.
She kissed me. Or maybe I kissed her. I don’t remember. All I know is, there was some kissing going on and one of us started it.
It was a whole lotta kissing too, I think. Meaning: tongue. Or maybe not. Damn, I wish I could remember.
Then the women’s restroom was free and she broke away to go pee.
I wandered back to my friends in a daze. They were smirking. “Who is she?” one of them asked.
“I have no fucking idea!”
And I never did find out who she was. If perhaps I had remembered what she looked like, I could have looked for her at the party. But damn, that memory-erasing elixir robbed me of her face or name. All I have left is a random drive-by kissing story.
. . .
Have you ever had a random drive-by kissing?
It was my first ever alcohol-induced black-out. I’ll never forget it. Except for the black-out itself, which, well, I’ll never remember.
It was my last day of work at Ernst & Young. My coworkers took me out to celebrate, NYC-style, with excessive amounts of shots, beer, and more shots. We spent a good three hours at the neighborhood bar liquoring up. And I quickly reached my limit.
I would call myself a fairly smart drinker. I’m aware of my limit and generally know to slow down. Sure, I’ve been sick plenty of times in public. Those guys at St. Marks Ale House probably never want to see my face again after I decorated the jukebox with my pasta dinner.
So I called it a night when I reached my limit with my coworkers. By this time, they were pretty well liquored up too. We all said our last goodbyes, then I headed out.
This is when Jayne, one of my coworkers, convinced me to join her and her friends for another party in the city. I was ready to head home, but I think she said something like, “there will be a lot of really cute girls there” that finally turned me.
She ordered the cab over to Apple, a bar near NYU. This was strange. I didn’t know her to be a person who hung out in this neighborhood. That’s where my college friends and I hang out.
“You hang out at Apple?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she nodded. I was in no state to question, so I just nodded back and tried to still the spinning in my head.
Then we arrived, walked through the doors, and over to a large table in the back.
“SURPRISE!!!!”
I jumped backwards. Seated at this table were a bunch of my college friends. They all cheered and shouted. My eyes popped out of my head and everything spun around even faster.
Jane, one of my college friends, had apparently organized this with Jayne, one of my coworkers. I guess that means you should never trust a girl whose name rhymes with rain, regardless of its spelling.
I took a seat and proceeded to fill up with even more alcohol. The first was a shot of Three Wise Men. That’s Johnny Walker, Jim Bean, and Jack Daniels. The second was a shot of Four Horsemen. That’s Jagermeister, Goldschlager, Rumplemintz, and Barcardi 151. Evil, evil drinks.
The next thing I remember, I’m sitting in my college buddy Eric’s bathroom, apparently taking a dump in his toilet. I blinked and looked around. The first rays of sunlight were coming through the window. My head was pounding like a jackhammer. And I had a hangover the size of Sammo Hung.
I finish my, er, duties, then walk out of the bathroom. In the bedroom are a few of the guys from last night, all passed out on the floor. I apparently was in a sleeping bag.
Still disoriented and totally confused, I found my digital camera by my sleeping bag and picked it up. Then I started going through each shot, one by one.
I saw pictures of my coworkers and pictures of my college friends at Apple. Then I saw a picture of me doing a Tequila shot with two girls. I don’t remember that. Then I saw a picture of my friends and I in another bar. I don’t remember that either!
The rest of the pictures were the same. Me in unfamiliar locations, but always with a different shot in my hands. How much did I fucking drink last night? I wondered.
It was a surprise that I didn’t puke my brains out. Usually, when I surpass my limit, my dinner is coming out the wrong end of my digestive tract. But this time, I didn’t. That’s probably why my memories are all gone; my body had to dump something from my body—either my dinner or my memories.
Blacking out is frightening. I don’t like being in a situation where I’m not in control of myself. Well, except for alcoholic drunkenness. But blacking out and not remembering the entire night felt different.
And what a way to celebrate my last day in NYC! I fucking blacked out! Woo hoo! Thanks Jayne and Jane, for the memories (or lack thereof)!
. . .
Have you ever blacked out after drinking too much?
Game? Do I have game, you ask? Amidst this club, this pounding music, these blinking lights?
No. I do not have game.
It’s impossible to get to know anyone in this environment. It’s possible to make eye contact, follow the smile, buy a drink, and grind on the dance floor, sure. Anything more than that will be drowned by the pounding.
What exactly is this game of which you speak? The ability to pick up girls and get their numbers? Their “digits”?
I’ve met my fair share of single girls. I’ve had my fair share of dates. I’ll even go as far as to say that in a city where there are many more single guys than girls, I consider myself blessed to have had little trouble meeting single girls.
Meeting single girls and going on dates is not difficult. Meeting the right girl is. Meeting one that is compatible with you, that you like and that likes you. That’s the hard part.
But this game of which you speak, no, I don’t have that. Not anymore.
Maybe once I did. Maybe once, I even enjoyed it. It was fun: meeting a beautiful stranger, dancing close and tight with her, and maybe ending the night with a kiss.
This game of which you speak gets old though. It gets tiring. It gets stupid.
I need more now. I need intelligent and funny conversation. I need a witty and meaningful discourse. I need more than, “Hey baby, how you doin’?”
While the bass is pounding, it’s awkward to talk about the economy, politics, and the effects of our evolving society on future generations of our children. Perhaps there are a few girls in a club who would actually enjoy such a conversation, but I sure haven’t met any.
It’s because I’m older now. I’m in a different stage in my life. There’s a lot more that going to a club and trying to use my game. Not that I have any.
There’s nothing wrong with this either. That point should be made clear. I did it once. It’s not an evil thing. People go to clubs for two reasons: to dance and to meet new people. You don’t go to a club just to talk; if you want to do that, go to a lounge or café or somewhere else more quiet.
And those are great reasons. It’s a lot of fun, if you like to dance and meet new people.
So this game of which you speak. I do not have it. Not anymore. And I’m damn glad I don’t.
. . .
Do you have game?
“Let’s just haul his ass out of bed man,” Tom asserted. Tyrone and Eric nodded and followed him into the bedroom. I poured myself another scotch and looked at my watch. It was ten past midnight.
“Kit! Get up!”
Silence.
“Get the fuck up man! You can’t sleep! This is your fucking bachelor party!”
Mumbles.
“Get the fuck up!”
I walked over to the window and sipped my scotch. The bright lights of Vegas blinked below our hotel room. Hundreds of acts of debauchery called out to us. Now if we could only wake the groom up.
“I’m… so… tired…” Kit murmured. “You… guys… go… without… me…”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” berated Tyrone. “This is your last night out with the guys. Your last chance for some fun. Now c’mon man, you’re going to have fun, whether you want to or not.”
Eric came out and shook his head. I grinned.
“I don’t blame him,” Eric said. “I’m kind of tired too.”
“It’s only 12 o’clock man,” I told him. “It’s Vegas. You can’t sleep. That’s not allowed here.”
Eric smirked. “Yea, I know.” He looked back at Kit. “We’re just getting old.”
I sighed and finished my scotch.
“Think of this as one last chance to be young,” I suggested. “As one last chance to do stupid and irresponsible things.”
Eric nodded slowly and headed towards the door. Tyrone and Tom came out with Kit in tow. Kit’s bloodshot eyes were half open. His eyelid muscles were visibly fighting to stay open.
I put my glass down and we all left the hotel room. We visited a few places along The Strip and loaded up the Old People with plenty of coffee and Red Bull. The bride and her party were here as well, having their own fun. I wondered if they had just as hard a time keeping the bride awake.
We returned to the hotel room around three in the morning. I was still wired and wandered downstairs to play a few hands of Blackjack while the rest of the Old People slept and snored loudly.
Next morning we joined the girls for breakfast.
“Well, hello sleepy heads,” the girls chanted. We filed into the booth and gulped down our water.
“You all look peppy this morning,” observed Tom. “Get a lot of sleep, did you?”
“Not really!” chirped Norika. “We’re all running on only a few hours of sleep!”
“But we’re feeling great!” added Cynthia.
We blinked in silence. “What time did you sleep?” asked Eric.
“Oh, I don’t know, around four thirty or so,” answered Norika.
The guys looked at each other, then at Kit. Then the Old People hanged their heads in shame.
. . .
What did you do at your last bachelor party (that you can speak of)?
