The Sunshine State [Day 3]

Saturday, May 27

I stumbled out to the couch and turned on the tv. An hour or so later Dupa experienced déjà vu, as again he shuffled out to the living room to find me watching River Monsters (*shrug*...it was a marathon weekend).

After watching Jeremy Wade swim with tigerfish in the Okavango Delta, we strolled down the street to Screwie Louie’s for lunch. Sipping Coronas on their deck, watching tourists and locals pass by in various states of dress and consciousness, was the purest expression of beach life that you can find.

There’s something intoxicating about it. Even with all my objections to living in Florida—and there are many—I can fully appreciate the appeal, living at your own pace and holding onto each gust of warm ocean air. It was just this siren call that lured TK away from the life of a corporate drone in Pittsburgh. And it led him to the love of his life, who he’d be marrying a few hours later. Hard to argue with those results.

Ah yes, there was a wedding to get to. The open-ended dress code led me to an easy decision: a 90-degree day on a Florida beach? Shorts, short-sleeved button down, and boat shoes, baby. Watching my friends sweat in suits, dress pants, and long-sleeved shirts, I patted myself on my back all day [much credit is also due to my personal stylist, Alex, who helped me in shopping for my wardrobe prior to the trip].

Beauty like this is perfect...for drinking.

My esteemed associate, Dupa, however, chose a tailored white linen suit, blue pinstriped shirt, and sandals. I cannot, in good conscience, hate on that decision.

The location for the ceremony was beautiful, with blue skies and blue-green waters serving as a backdrop. The one thing it lacked was alcohol, and I kicked myself for not following through on my idea to bring a cooler full of beer.

A grounds crew hastily assembled the archway that would serve as the altar; while we stood watching, someone pointed out that there was a beachside bar about 500 yards away that sold drinks in large, reusable cups. Dupa and I looked at each other, nodded, and headed off in that direction. We returned just before groomsmen began ushering parents and others down the aisle. I sipped on a tall cup of piña colada, while snapping pictures of groomsmen sweating out booze and a beautiful bride joyously striding across the sand towards her destiny.

The parents and the bridal party formed a receiving line afterwards, leading up to the edge of the beach. I told Tide’s parents how lucky we all felt TK was. I told TK’s parents I was friends with Dupa, but I was the good one. “That’s what we’ve heard,” his mom confirmed.

I complimented Tide on the silver and blue color scheme she’d chosen for the groom and groomsmen, but suggested one change. “The ties,” I explained while tracing my finger across TK’s navy-blue neckpiece. “They should have orange stripes running across them.” The bride lunged at me, connecting her tiny fist hard on my arm (and I really think she was aiming for my face, but was just too short to reach it).

War Eagle.

Our buddy “Grunts,” was following me in the line. After he congratulated TK, he pulled back from their hug to add, “I’ve got a present for you in my back pocket.” He leaned forward to reveal a bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

TK: *incredulous* “Did you just Ice me?” *grabs the bottle, cracks it open, takes a knee, chugs it down*

The wedding photographer was Johnny-on-the-spot, kneeling opposite TK to get an action shot of the icing.

Shafe was several people back from us in the line. When he got to the end and gave the bride a hug, he added, “I’ve got something in my pocket for you.” Then he leaned forward and revealed a bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Badass bride that she is, Tide took the bottle, cracked it open, took a knee, and chugged.

Have I mentioned that these two were made for each other?

While the wedding party did the photography portion of the day, the W&J demographic of the guest list piled under deck umbrellas at the beachside bar where Dupa and I had gotten the pre-ceremony drinks. Shafe yelled “Play Hall & Oates!” at the musician playing live on the deck, Billy’s girlfriend explained to me the difficulties of being a young teacher on the beach in the age of social media [“I can’t be out here with my tits out.”], rounds of drinks were bought and drank, and Mrs. Ton [“I’m allowed to look—I’m married, I’m not dead.”] and I scoped out the talent coming in off the sand.

Just as we were preparing to leave for the reception, Dupa struck upon an idea. He asked the bartender if they sold six packs. They did. He looked back at us with a grin, then ordered up a sixer of Smirnoff Ice to go. In one swift moment, he had just turned the wedding reception into a warzone.

The wedding’s second stage was held at the local Elks Lodge. Located right on the bay, the hall featured a deck with a beautiful view of waterside mansions, perfect for smoking the hand-rolled cigars that were available to all guests. The space was beautiful and yet still unpretentious.

And when the groom made it to his seat after his first dance with his bride and a dance with his mom, he found a cold bottle of Smirnoff Ice waiting for him. He sighed, cracked it, kneeled, and chugged.

A friend’s fiancée came back to our table with a margarita in a large glass, and I knew what my next order would be. Dupa got one as well, but soon decided he needed to be mobile, which could be awkward and troublesome with a large, heavy glass. He grabbed his large plastic cup from the beachside bar, poured his margarita into it, screwed on the lid, and began circulating. When he was due for a refill, he asked the bartender if she’d make a margarita directly in his travel cup. She happily accommodated him, and I wanted to hug her. But instead I restrained myself and handed my own travel cup forward for my next margarita.

Meanwhile, Grunts returned to his table after visiting the buffet. A Smirnoff Ice was on his chair. Another victim.

I filled myself up with delicious chicken parm, roast beef, veggies, potatoes, and more. It felt less like indulging in fine dining and more like packing sandbags against the rising river of margaritas flowing through me. It was needed fortification.

During his best man speech, Ton recalled a story from their college days, when TK had insisted they buy a bottle of Hypnotiq for a party. So, to christen the occasion, Ton motioned to TK’s sister, who walked a bucket of ice with two bottles of Hypno up to the front of the room and sat it in front of the bride and groom. Ton cracked open a bottle, and they each took a swig of the awful fruit juice/cognac mixture.

Wanting revenge later, TK called Shafe over and said two words: “Get Ton.” So, as we all stood at the bar talking, Shafe walked up, tapped Ton on his shoulder, and pointed down to his hunting boot. Ton found a bottle of Smirnoff Ice looking up at him. Crack, kneel, chug.

The dancefloor was active all night, whether Billy was performing N’Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye” routine, which he’d learned in middle school, or Dupa was posing in the middle of it with his shades on, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, and his arms outstretched like a bird of prey swooping down from the heavens. And when Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me” came over the speakers, Grunts looked at me and lost himself in the tune.

Me: “You’re so white.”
Grunts: *laughs* “I may be a white guy, but I still hate Trump!”

One of TK’s groomsmen, “Insider,” was a former Super Bowl champion, a hulking man with arms like bridge support beams. He was the sage, measured voice of wisdom most of the weekend, the old head offering advice from someone who has seen and done it all. But even sage Super Bowl champs can get Iced, especially when the groom orders the hit. Another chug.

The reception wrapped at 10 pm; TK and Tide said goodnight to the parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, as one after another Ubers pulled up to the Elks Lodge like choppers to a Saigon rooftop. Everyone was instructed to head back to Daiquiri Shak.

When we got there, though, I helped the bride and groom drop off some things at their apartment, which was walking distance from the bar. I gazed out over the Gulf from their beachfront balcony, while Tide took a moment to relax and TK put away the items we’d brought back. They were both ready to cut loose and truly celebrate the day without pretense. Or, as TK put it when Tide paused to ask if she should take her ID: “If they ask for my ID, I’m gonna whip my dick out. *nodding to me* And you can quote me.”

There’s something amazing about watching a bride walk into a bar in her wedding gown. The looks on people’s faces were somewhere between shock and joy. Everyone congratulated her, as heads snapped around from every direction. Tide had to feel like a celebrity; I felt like part of her entourage.

We headed for the deck, and were soon joined by various wedding guests who had been drinking inside. As I stood at the bar ordering us a round, I struck up a conversation with three strangers: a couple and a cute friend of the wife. [It’s really amazing how frequently this happens, and each time it begins with some unsolicited question/comment about my height.] Before my beers had even been served, I was posing for a picture with them. Later in the night they would get Ton in on the act, too, as the cute friend requested that my buddy pick her up for a photo.

The bride, too, was beloved by cameras. My favorite picture of the weekend came while she stood at the railing of the deck, a lit cigar dangling between her fingers, a Bud Light within arm’s reach, and an air of confidence radiating from her as her eyes lock on something in the distance. In another picture, she leisure poses while being held aloft by the arms of TK, Ton, and me.

Inside the bar, madness reigned.

• Tiger Blood and Shafe were vying for the attention of the maid of honor, Tide’s sister, who wasn’t interested in either of them. It was like watching two salmon race each other up a frozen stream.
• Insider was dying to break free from the confines of his tuxedo, and removed everything but his pants and the Nike Pro tank top he was using as an undershirt.
• Balls’ bachelorette party friend had come out yet again, and she seemed entertained watching the chaos around her.
• Tiger Blood got a lead on someone who could sell him some coke, and asked me if I “party.”
• Grunts’ wife, all of 5’5” and 100 lbs, put on Insider’s tux vest—which fit her like a dress—and danced around.
• Insider, meanwhile, arm-wrestled all comers, including Tiger Blood and the maid of honor.
• Tiger Blood explained, "You've never really done coke until you've done it off a stripper's ass."
• Grunts’ wife climbed up on a pool table to dance around, to the horror of her husband, who pulled her back down.
• Tide and TK made an early exit, to get to the final wedding tradition. Or, as the groom so finely put it, “She’s gonna be shorter in the morning.”
  

Absent from all of this was Dupa. By all accounts he had been in the bar when everyone first arrived, and Mrs. Ton even managed to get a picture of him standing near the pool tables with his pants around his ankles. But not long after, he pulled an Irish goodbye. Gone without a trace, before the bride and groom had even appeared.

In the end, it seemed like a perfect tribute to the day. There really can’t be a better gift for the bride and groom than the knowledge that their wedding was too much for Dupa to handle.

When It's Poured, It Reigns

In my 31st year on this planet, my level of activity is never consistent from one weekend to the next. I’ll spend one Friday and Saturday night in sweatpants, posted up on the couch with DVR’d episodes of Archer on the TV screen, and a week later I’ll be running between multiple events, happenings, and brouhahas that all seem to be going on at once. In February I took a road trip to Buffalo on a Friday afternoon; boozed all over the town that night; woke up the next morning and came back to Pittsburgh; drowned myself in Gatorade and aspirin, took a nap, and then hosted an Anti-Valentine’s night of barhopping in Shadyside with a cast of characters on Saturday night. The weekend after that? I didn’t move from my couch for the better part of 72 hours, hacking and wheezing through a bad chest cold.

The glamour life.

Last weekend I managed to find time for both sweatpants and debauchery. Friday TJ and I kicked it low-key with food, TV, and a few drinks at my place [Dupa was supposed to be a part of this, but he pulled the “blow off your boys at the last minute to see a girl” bitch move; he has been repeatedly chastised by our circle ever since, and deservedly so]. Saturday, though, was packed with three soirees around town—as well as one in Seven Springs that I had to forfeit attending due to the obvious logistics hurdle involved. My friend “Nitschke” was beginning his night of birthday celebrations at Hofbrauhaus, where a get-together for another friend of mine was also taking place. I planned to put in appearances at each of these, and then conclude the night at Tank’s place, where he was hosting a house party.

There’s an innate risk, though, in trying to synchronize this type social event hopscotch; the plan’s choreography is dependent upon each player’s attention to detail and ability to think on his or her feet. And, unfortunately for me, Dupa has the situational awareness of Lenny from “Of Mice and Men”.

He had gone to Hofbrauhaus around 4 to meet up with Nitschke and co. I rolled down around 6, having not heard a peep out of anyone aside from TJ, who said he’d catch up with us when we got to Levelz, a bar on Carson St. in South Side. I tried calling Dupa as I walked up to the Hof, but didn’t get an answer. I shot off a text to both he and Nitschke asking where they were in the crowded German restaurant. When I’d walked around without finding anyone or getting any calls or messages back, I phoned the birthday boy. “Uhh,” he responded after picking up, “didn’t [Dupa] tell you I left? I’m walking into the White Eagle.”

Nitschke said he had specifically told Dupa to alert me to the change of venue before he left Hofbrauhaus. And not only had Dupa—who hadn’t departed when Nitschke did, but had instead trailed behind to look for the other Hof party—failed to inform me that everyone else from the first shindig had already moved onto another bar, but he had neglected to notify me when he left a few minutes later. That’s two kicks to the doorknockers that I owed my Polish associate for party fouls that weekend, and I hadn’t even been in the same building with him yet.

Nitschke said he would only be at the Eagle for one quick drink, and that I might as well head to Levelz, which would be their next destination. Since TJ was also heading there, I abandoned my plan to stop by the other Hof party and drove over to Carson St. And after I’d gotten to the bar and ordered a beer, I shot TJ a text to see what his ETA was. His response: “We’re at the White Eagle.”

I hate my friends.

I sipped on my bottle of Sam Adams for another ten minutes, while daydreaming of kicking justice out of my boys and wishing I’d worn heavier boots. Nitschke and some of his friends were the first (well, second, third, fourth, etc.) to arrive. He loaded up the jukebox with Clipse and Mos Def songs while we waited for everyone else. “You know,” I remarked to him, “You’re probably the first white boy in a V-neck sweater to ever play ‘Grindin’ on a jukebox.”

Eventually Dupa, Mitch Canada, Jay Swag, and TJ came through the door; after I dished out some verbal abuse, the party as a whole relocated to the tables in the back of the bar to watch the Penguins/Leafs game. Reaching your 30s has a definitive effect on your party behavior. In our 20s, we would’ve been loud and rambunctious, propositioning female bartenders, spilling drinks, and making management nervous. Instead the 15 of us relaxed in chairs, calmly talking sports, music, and life. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is our conversations inevitably turning towards the topic of sex.

Jay Swag: “I could hate-fuck something right now.”
Me: “Isn’t that kind of redundant, though? I mean, knowing you, I can’t picture any of your fucking being anything but hate-fucking.”

Swag informed us that he has, in fact, engaged in “love sex”—twice. Every other time was angry and ginger.

I made my way to Tank’s around 10:30, cruising with a slight buzz and The Black Album bumping on my stereo. When I walked into a house full of familiar tipsy faces, Chief gave me the beverage menu. “Beer’s downstairs, or *pointing to bottle* we have Beam.” I eagerly went with Plan B [The odds of me ever using that phrase again? Yet another mile marker of being 30something]. I poured myself a glass and looked for a mixer, to no avail. Noticing my unsuccessful search, Chief said, “Yeah, we’re drinking ‘neat’ tonight.”

Drinking glasses of straight Jim Beam after several hours of polishing off bottles of Boston Lager during the game? I saw no good coming of this.

And, of course, none did. As a collective, we circled the drain gradually, but with certainty. Finn and I narrowly lost to Chief and Sloku on the beer pong table. Sipping from a tumbler of bourbon in between chugs of beer from felled cups was poetic illustration of the balancing act we’ve found at 30. One moment urbane and sharp, discussing the politics of the Middle East and the pitfalls of marriage; the next youthful and crude, cracking jokes about body parts and each other’s sexualities. And yet it all contributed to the whole and finished product that we had become: very, very drunk.

• One of our friends, Clay, yelled, “Meat! C’mere, Meat!” TD watched in shock as his four year old daughter came walking in from another room. “You call your daughter ‘Meat’?” Clay, however, didn’t see anything strange in it. “What? She’s my little meathead,” he said affectionately.
• Hollywood and Chief stumbled into the type of mini-feud so commonly suffered by two guys too inebriated to know what language they’re speaking. Jokes led to sack taps; sack taps led to wrestling; wrestling led to a fishhook; a fishhook led to someone’s finger being severely bitten. And, of course, that bite led to rage and a momentary disruption of the party.
• Tank, Esq, and I lit up cigars on the back porch (a terrific idea for someone recovering from a bad chest cold, by the way). Tank, typical of married people who have some alcohol in them, became convinced that finding me a girlfriend was somehow necessary for my survival. “You don’t want a girlfriend?” “I’m just not concerned with it, man. I’m not saying I don’t want one, but I'm not going to break my back to make it happen.” This wasn’t satisfactory for him, though. Seeking backup, he turned to Esq, who had been more engrossed with bringing the radio outside while we smoked. “Don’t you think he needs a girl?” Esq is engaged, and certainly in no hurry to see others go through the same headaches that he does. “Not really. Let him enjoy it while he can.”

• The only three still awake by 4 a.m.: Hollywood, who watched old sitcom reruns in the living room; Tank, who microwaved frozen snack food; and me, who ransacked the remaining buffalo chicken dip that Tank’s wife had made.

Like I said, the glamour life. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to Archer. Danger zooonnnnne.

Organized Chaos

I have a lot of friends. And not just in the Facebook sense of “I once shared an elevator with this person, found out that we both play Farmville, and now we’re ‘friends’-slash-‘neighbors’.” No, I actually know a lot of people. And a lot of the people I know also know a lot of people. This means that I meet a lot of the people that they know. And that means I end up knowing a lot more people.

And with all of that, you would think I’d have a much more exciting dating life. But that’s neither here nor…anywhere, frankly.

I say none of this to brag, of course (especially not that last part). Instead, I bring it up as evidence that I’ve been exposed to many types of people. And I think most can be narrowed down into one of two styles of friendship:

1. There are those who refuse to leave a man behind. If they walked into the club with six other people, you better damn well believe they’re leaving with those same six (or they will at least have a reasonable amount of confidence that any buddy left to go his own way is going to end up someplace safe and/or advantageous…and/or disease-free). 
2. On the other side of the coin you have those guys who don’t really give a fizzle where or how anyone gets anywhere at the end of the night. This doesn’t mean that they’re less of friends; if they feel you’re in any real danger, then they’re in the saddle, guns blazing. But short of seeing you blacked out and walking down the middle of a busy freeway, they’re going to leave you to your survival instincts after a long night of boozing—typically because they, themselves, are relying on their own survival instincts.

I’m tempted to say that there’s a third group, one comprised of people who straddle the line dividing the first two. People who, on some days, will fight for the good of the team; and who, on other days, will do for self, and worry about sorting out the details of everyone else’s well-being in the morning. People like…me. But the more I think about it, the harder I find it to put myself anywhere but in that second category above. The truth of the matter is, 95% of the time I’ve got only my survival in mind. I love my real friends, and will fight for them against any adversary. But I’m also what they call a “grown ass man”; all things being equal, if I associate with you on a friendship level, then I expect you to handle yourself as competently as I do. If you’re in true peril I’ll assist; but if you’re just acting a fool, I’ll catch you on the next one.

If you’re wondering where all of this is coming from, let me get to the point: Tank’s bachelor party took place last month.

Ahhhh…all starting to make sense now, isn’t it?

Ladies, you may not quite be up to speed, but I know that the fellas reading this are already with me. [Feel free to skip ahead a couple of paragraphs to get to the action, guys; I’m going to take a moment to assist the women.] I think most of the fairer sex is somewhat misinformed as to what goes on when guys get together for bachelor parties. In telling the tale of GG’s stag party last year, I explained how the party’s traditional involvement with exotic dancers isn’t quite as scandalous as you might have pictured. But with or without ladies of the pole-spinning arts, there’s a fundamental rule about bachelor parties that guys tend to accept as unspoken law: Coordination is a fool’s errand.

Sure, you can expertly lay out plans for the night’s start; but the levels of booze and testosterone are each steadily building in everyone’s bloodstreams throughout the event. Each is strong enough on its own; when mixed together, you have an incredibly powerful hallucinogenic. 15+ deranged guys are not going to stick to an itinerary. No, they’re like a rack of billiard balls. And anything—be it woman, whim, or other distraction—can come rocketing in like a cue ball at any moment.

Tank’s little brother, BAL, was in charge of putting the party together. Around 20 or so of us gathered at Tank’s house in Dormont that afternoon for beer, food, and college football. Tank’s kitchen and dining room were overrun by snacks and hors d'oeuvres, as well as burgers and hot dogs fresh off the grill; his game room was equipped with two large flatscreen TVs and fine Cuban cigars; his laundry room was converted into a beer pong arena and stocked with Irish Car Bomb ingredients; and his patio, where the kegs were located, became a beer garden/smoker’s shelter. A table for beer pong—complete with pong balls, cups, and pitchers—had also been set up on the patio; but with temperatures in the upper 40s, it remained dormant. The man of honor drank from his very own black chalice with the word “PIMP” spelled out in glittering (albeit fake) diamonds. A DD limo would be coming after 8 pm to take people to Station Square. With that, a loose framework was created for the day’s shenanigans.

Breitling arrived in a new, all-black International MXT. As he parked on the street in front of Tank’s house, he blew the horn; the blast that resulted boomed through the quiet neighborhood and rattled windows up and down the street. An elderly woman came out of her house yelling “fucking asshole!”, and was intercepted by Chief.

Chief: “I’m sorry about that, ma’am! He was just having a little fun.”
Woman: “Well tell him he’s an asshole! What is that thing?”
Chief: “I think it’s a train!”

While every guy in my alcoholic family adds a distinctive and pleasing flavor to a gathering, it’s my W&J brothers that always deliver the best return on my drinking investment. This is true down to the smallest of interactions. For instance: As I stood on the patio with Chief and Finn trading all of the familiar insults, degradations, and aspersions that are by now customary and as warm as a brotherly embrace, a pause eventually came to our banter. Chief, never to leave a moment free of mischief, reached over and picked up a pong ball from the table. He then sized up Finn’s cup—sitting on the table less than two feet away—and fired a shot directly into it with a playful chuckle. Finn, unfazed, picked the ball out of his beer, shook it off, and began taking the measure on the cup in Chief’s hand, again less than two feet away. Cocking back his hand, he snapped off a shot with everything he could muster—directly at Chief’s forehead.

That was likely the last time that day that a pong ball was thrown in jest, though. The games inside quickly took on more and more importance, as the competitiveness in the air was ratcheted up by the sudden (but not unexpected) introduction of cash to the table. Ten, twenty, fifty, and even one hundred dollar bills were soon being tossed on the table by gladiators and spectators alike (which for me quickly brought to mind my experience at the W&J frat party several years ago). Being low on funds, I only made one bet, putting $20 on Esq and Baby Joey to beat Chief and our buddy, “Sloku” [for those of you curious about the genesis of that alias: his spiked hair reminds me of the DragonBall Z character, Goku—he even dressed as him one Halloween—and he speaks with a slow, deliberate tone]. When I lost that to Butters, I thought better of risking anything further. At its peak, the day’s wagering featured a battle in which each of the four men on the table put up $100 of his own money—small change for a Vegas craps table, but nearly unheard of in middle class Pittsburgh beer pong. Baby Joey has long maintained a much more modest income than his older brother Esq, a young hotshot lawyer. But having recently found a lucrative new career path, Joey was unexpectedly covering his sibling with the laundry room’s impromptu beer sportsbook. “I’m into Joey for $150,” Esq said incredulously. “The world’s coming to an end.”

Though two limos were supposed to move the party to Station Square at 8, it was after 10 by the time we were ready to be moved. I had intended to only attend the first half of the day’s events, and to therefore go easy on my bank account by skipping the club-hopping. By this point in the night, however, Chief and others were well lubricated by the high of beer pong glories and the…beer…of beer pong defeats (not to mention by a few rounds of Irish Car Bombs done in toast to the groom-to-be), and I was told that I would be insulting them by not staying out at their cost.

So my choices are (1.) go home and fall asleep on my couch watching Chappelle Show reruns, or (2.) smoke cigars in a limo ride to Station Square and party with my boys…for free? Well, I guess I could stay out a little longer—for Tank’s sake.

We hit Steel House a mangled, slow-moving, low-laying cloud of 15 or so drunks, speaking loudly in coarse terms, ordering rounds of shots and apologizing to anyone nearby who wasn’t as inebriated as us—which was everyone. I’m quite certain that by this point I was no longer standing and/or walking, but instead floating; I was being carried along by my own piece of the cloud, a cushy haze that enveloped my comprehension and speech patterns. Soon we had spread into Barroom, onto the dance floor and throughout the surrounding lounge areas. Then there were kielbasa sandwiches from the vendor on Barroom’s deck, and then…well, somehow I was walking through the front doors of Rivers Casino with Butters, our friend Dirty, and Joey.

I really don’t remember how we got there, though I think it was via limo. We found Breitling and another guy from the party at a Pai Gow table. After some further searching we found Esq alone at a blackjack table. And after talking to other various party refugees found strewn around the casino floor, we learned that Tank and BAL were in the poker room. Chief was first said to be somewhere at a craps table, but subsequent reports placed him heading for the doors and—hopefully—a cab to Tank’s house.

Rivers being a PA casino, last call for alcohol comes around 1:30 am. Great; dry and broke in a casino. Now that’s living. The next few hours were spent touring the floor with Butters and Joey, watching our scattered crew play their chosen games of chance.

• Blackjack: Esq was losing badly, but stubbornly kept throwing more money on the table, against our advice. 
• Pai Gow: Breitling spoke in loud, obnoxious streams of profanity and bravado (standard) as he built up a $5000 stack of chips in front of him. While walking past this vivid display of the rich getting richer, Butters paused, looked at me, and said, “I hate him.”
• Poker: On our second stop to the poker room, we found a Tank-less BAL. The groom-to-be had, it was theorized, headed home. The younger of the two brothers was committed to staying on the table for the long haul, having just invested another $200 buy-in. The early end to drink service didn’t seem to have hindered his inebriation much, as he looked as though he could pass out in his chair at any moment. Sometimes you simply leave a man to die the death that his dignity desires.

We found Dirty and, all four of us being sober and exhausted, grabbed a cab back to Tank’s house at 4:30 am. His drained fiancée, Katie (a saint of a woman, really), opened the door for us. She assured us that Tank had, indeed, found his way home, and was sleeping it off in their bedroom.

Just like we’d planned.