BACHELOR PARTY

   I took a couple of days off work in anticipation of my daughter Rachel’s wedding (more on that later).  I enjoyed getting up early and not going to work.  Funny how a day off can make coffee and peanut butter toast taste better.

   Since my wife Andrea was staying up late taking care of wedding business and worrying about details, I let her sleep in during these days off, and took over crowbarring my son Jackson out of bed for a day of high school learning.  Probably because it’s not my normal responsibility, I enjoyed prodding him, making his lunch and getting him to school.

   One day, I prepared an inspirational note for him.  I praised his hard work and diligence, told him that his good grades were the result of that effort and assured him that his future was limitless.  I even drew a crude sketch of myself (the only kind I can make) with a speech bubble telling him that I love him.  Tucking this note inside the once folded paper napkin in his lunch, I felt good and hoped for two results:  One, it would make him feel appreciated and two, his buddies would see it and give him shit for it. 

   When Jack got home from school, I was outside raking leaves.  I was anxious to see how the note hit him (I forgot a third result I wanted from the note, affirmation on what a great Dad I am).   He greeted me briefly and made his way inside for the all important after school snack ( I can think of few things more necessary or enjoyable than an after school snack; I can’t recall exactly what I ate, but I do know it was eaten while watching The Three Stooges or Little Rascals).

   Fifteen minutes later (the kid works fast), Jack came outside to help with the leaves.  We worked side by side for the next hour, Jack giving me a class by class rundown of what happened during his school day.  Still no mention of the note.

   When the raking was completed, my son and I headed inside to get ready for the wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner.  Nothing.  I could not take it any longer.

   “Didn’t you like the note I put in your lunch today?”

   “What note?”

   “Are you kidding, the note I tucked into your napk...”

   “What?”

   “Oh shit, you didn’t use your napkin did you?  You never use your napkin.”

   I had made a crucial error, one that my wife would have never made.  I tucked something I wanted the kid to see into his napkin.  Like pinning a note you wanted me to see on a bottle of shampoo.  Not going to happen.

   

   What did happen, before Rachel’s wedding to Matt, was a small bachelor party.  This party consisted of Matt (we had to invite him), Bug Juice partner Tony, son and groomsman Max, Max’s best friend and all around good guy Luke, plus myself.  We decided to get things lubricated with a few beers in my garage.  I have to admit, there was a whole lot less drinking at my house before we got a fancy patio installed and the garage gussied up.  I sometimes wonder what effect this will have on my youngest child Jackson, witness to this increase in partying (“Jack, run in the house and get a couple of Mich Lights for Tony and Aunt Bessie”).  He will either own a bar or become a minister.  I’m leaning toward bar owner at this time.

   After this pre bar drinking, Beth and Rachel took on designated driver duties and drove us to downtown Dearborn and Howell’s.  There is no place better to get a night of drinking started than the Howeller.  It’s cheap, pretensionless, dark and there is nothing to do there but drink and talk.  So we drank and talked.

   As soon as we sat down, an old fart at the table next to us asked us where we were from.  I told him Dearborn and Allen Park.  

   “You guys ain’t shit.”  

   

   He proudly noted that he was from Southwest Detroit, like that meant something.  I told him he wasn’t worth shit and a friendship was born.  Because of my proximity to him and the alcohol going down, Uncle Wally and I became fast friends.  He bragged that he was a dead ringer for George Carlin (definitely) and Willie Nelson (not so much).  Tony told him he looked more like Richard Harris and this brought forth a fresh stream of obscenities.  Before we left for the night, Uncle Wally asked Max if he wanted to dash outside and smoke a fatty with him.  Max declined, either because I was present or because a grown man calling himself Uncle Wally wanted some alone time with him.

   Ten minutes after we sat down, a table of pretty young things sitting next to us got up to leave (seems to happen to me a lot).  On the way out, one of the dollies leaned into our group and told Max that he was sexy as hell. She said this to him with me sitting shoulder to shoulder.  What has he got that I don’t?  I mean besides clear skin, blue eyes not obscured by droopy lids and youth. Shit!  Max chalked his attractiveness up to the Brett Michaels-like headband he was wearing, but I know better.  He is sexy as hell!  

   Howell’s was just what the doctor ordered.  The beer flowed, a few shots found their way to our table and Tony took the chalk from the community chalkboard and started writing “Matt Blows” on anything that didn’t move.  

   From Howell’s it was a short walk to The Post.  This joint was younger, louder and more conducive to dancing.  In short, it was more Max and Luke.  This younger duo knew every song being played, danced at the table to most of them and accelerated the shot downing part of the program.  We kept to ourselves at The Post, a result of the volume level.  Since Tony and I carry more weight (I don’t have time to explain this, we just do), our stay at The Post was somewhat short and we decided to sashay further down Michigan Avenue to Silky Sullivan’s.

   As soon as we hit Silky’s, I made a beeline for the head only to find the urinals and toilet filled with hurl.  Because I was bursting and somewhat intoxicated, I whizzed anyway.  The boys and I took a table right in front of the band and the dance floor.  Had we known how shitty the band would be and how few people they would entice to dance, we may have chosen digs a bit further away.

   Still, we made the best of it.  We befriended the female lead singer who coughed like the hooker in Full Metal Jacket.  In between hacks, she and the boys played some of the god awfulest covers of all time.  A few songs came to a grinding halt in mid stream, others plodded along to their sad conclusion.  So we drank.  I witnessed more shots coming Matt’s way and started to see the lights go out in his eyes.  As the sage older future father in law, I could have put a halt to this, but thought, “Fuck it.”

   At night’s end, the call was made to Bess and Ray to pick up the sodden group.  While waiting in the parking lot for our rides home, Matt and Luke decided to run around the corner in search of the hot dog vendor we saw over an hour ago.  The only wieners these two came back with was...nah, too easy.  Max also decided this would be a good time to get into it with a car leaving the parking lot.  Their response was to swerve dangerously close to our little group.  Nothing like a nice altercation to punctuate the evening.

Cheers!  Jim

PS  Ray texted Max the following day to inform him that, about five minutes from home, Matt stuck his head out of the car window and streaked the side panel.  Her first order of business that day, which by the way was her birthday, was to clean her future hubby's barf off the vehicle.

Way to go Matt!