When we last left off at the bachelor party, there was a whole lot of shaking going on, courtesy of some robust strippers. Not anticipating knowing a soul at this strip club, I was surprised to spy a couple guys from Des Moines I worked with back in my TV days. And by surprised, I mean appalled. And a little grossed out.
When they spotted me, they were in complete disbelief. One of them even pinched me to make sure I was real. “What in the hell are you doing here?” they asked. I retorted, “Uh, what am I doing here? What are YOU doing here? I’m not the one who drove four hours to visit a seedy, podunk hole in the wall.”
My former co-workers looked defeated. Although not as defeated as the heavy-hipped woman dancing on stage at the time. “I’m here for a bachelor party,” I casually mentioned while spraying myself down with Bactine. “See there’s the bachelor over there … the one with the glazed-over eyes and drool coming out of his mouth.”
No sooner had I said that than the bachelor, Zach, magically appeared at my side. “Are these guys bothering you?” he asked. Part of me wanted to say, “Hell yes!” and proceed to watch a full-on beat down happen right before my eyes. I mean, no one had ever defended my honor before … in a wildly underwhelming, smoky gentlemen’s club. But for the sake of the evening, I said no … and Zach stumbled off.
I’ve known Zach going on ten years now. He stumbled in to my fitness class one day and we took a shine to each other, this despite having nothing in common. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Zachintosh, as I affectionately call him, is a firefighter and self-proclaimed meathead. He enjoys lifting heavy things off the ground and then putting them back down. Repeatedly. He’s an affable fellow, polite and unassuming with a torso of death. When I need kegs moved or small SUVs rolled over, I call Zach. Why? Because — like I said — he enjoys lifting heavy things off the ground and then putting them back down.
“Wanna see something cool?” he once asked. Knowing that I’m not easily impressed, I said, “Sure.” He said, “Give me a dime.” He then proceeded to flex and hold said dime between his perfectly sculpted pecs for 60 seconds. “Wow, I bet you’re great at parties,” I remarked. He’s a man of few words … but has a chest you could land planes on.
The guys who joined him were a Rogue’s gallery of testosterone. His friend Josh looked like he was ready to kill anyone at any moment. Josh stood with his arms folded most of the night and sported biceps that looked like a half-cut grapefruit was inserted in them. Several family members were in tow, including Zach’s little brother who managed to guzzle his body weight in alcohol. His toasts to his brother were sweet, albeit incoherent as the night went on. Several members of the wedding party were there, including one gentlemen who’s opening salvos to me were, “Have you ever broken someone’s jaw before?”
In the sport of drinking, there’s tee totaling, there’s binge drinking and then there’s whatever happened the night of the bachelor party. I have never seen such a wide array of liquor being ingested in my life. I’m guessing half of those boys threw up their spleen and the other half had moderate to severe alcohol poisoning.
All in all, it was a successful evening … or so I was told. I didn’t really have anything to gauge it on. No one got arrested (that I know of). No one died (at least not on the bachelor bus). And (mercifully) no one got in to fisticuffs.
God, let’s hope this is Zach’s first and only marriage. I don’t think I can take another night out like this. I’m pretty sure he’s good to go, though. Toward the end of the night he pulled me aside and said, “This is cool and all, but I think I’d rather be at home chilling with my fiancée right now.”
Yep, he’s gonna do just fine.