Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates (14 page)

Mike: As we were floating in the middle of the lake, you two started smooching pretty hard. I know you're not a big PDA guy, and I can understand you letting your guard down when the only P watching the DA is me, but you were really going at it. I was surprised. Soon that surprise turned to disgust, then it turned to alarm. I couldn't believe what I was watching develop. I knew you were horny, but I didn't know it was to the level of what I was watching.

Dave: It became one of those “I'll stop if you stop” scenarios with her, and you know neither one of us ever comes out on the right end of those. It felt so good to touch someone, especially someone who was as able to ignore your presence as I was. When she took her shirt off, I thought, This is happening! Do you remember what you yelled aloud when she did that?

Mike: “Holy mackerel!”

Dave: It didn't matter that you were screaming phrases our parents used so they wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain; the heat was on when that shirt came off. I will say that there were parts of me that felt weird about it with you right there. I was barreling toward a stop sign I knew I'd blow through, though. I did, very briefly, think about how strange this was about to become for you.

Mike: No, you didn't. The only considerate thing you did was position her naked body in between us, so I at least didn't have to see your nudity.

Dave: You're welcome.

Mike: At that point, I still thought she was just going to get naked, and I was telling myself that was it, and this would be a pleasant treat for the both of us. When did it turn the corner?

Dave: This entire experience was so blurry, but the one lucid memory I do have was this: I was wearing these highlighter yellow shorts with an elastic waist. She pulled the waistline out away from my stomach and looked down, then looked back up at me as if she was saying “For meee?” I don't know what made me say what I said next, but out it came: “Go for it.” You know what was funny? When her head and torso bent down at a ninety-degree angle toward my wiener, all of a sudden you and I were staring at each other! That was some awkward eye contact, huh? I didn't know where else to look!

Mike: Gross! I'm having flashbacks. It's burned into my skull. I can't believe at one point I was thinking about trying to steal her from you. Or weirder, maybe try join in, just to see how much crazier it could get? I don't know! We were in the middle of a lake, man. All sorts of stuff goes through a guy's head.

Dave: Had I known then what I know now about BA, I'd have put my money on that happening with little to no resistance.

Mike: I wouldn't have had the chance, anyway. You lasted what . . . ten seconds?

Dave: Real feel? Twelve seconds.

Mike: And I thought you stopped because you came to your senses when you remembered how strange it is to hump a total stranger in front of your younger brother in the middle of a lake. Had I known you stopped because you were finished, I would have made fun of you way harder.

Actual Live Notes

I just watched you have sex. For like ten seconds. Were you done? What WAS that? Then after, I am pretty confident she was about to literally move on to me, but your cupcakin' bonds were too strong. I probably had 6 drinks just now on the boat because I didn't know what else to do. This stinks! I don't know whether to write about it so I don't forget, or just actually try and forget that I watched you give that gal a pussy job. Shit. I feel like we've crossed a line (BECAUSE OF YOU) that we just can't turn back from. I'm calling it quits on our partnership/brotherhood.

“Mike, can we fuck in front of you if she gets naked and blocks my body and penis?”

This is ridiculous. I'm captain of the fucking love boat and you're over there taking advantage of your undefeated “9in' ” playlist. You're finger-banging a bisexual architect in librarian glasses, while I stare at you guys and lament out loud about how horny/disgusted I am—she's even sympathizing with me! I bet I could bang her during/after you. Ugh, gross. I just poured the strongest drink of all time. There's no turning back from this, Dave.

(Dave)

I just woke up. It's 11 something a.m. on a Saturday. It's the fall of 2012 in New York City. I'm immediately overcome with one of the few feelings I both hate and am consistently unable to avoid: waking up and having no idea what the FUCK happened the night prior, combined with not being able to find my phone to piece it together. The longer I have to wait for the forensics, the worse I assume I behaved. It happens here and there with me, mostly when I drink too much. Actually it only happens when I drink too much, but this time I mean I didn't remember drinking that much at all. I also usually have a pretty reliable drunk fail-safe. The damage is never that bad, because once I get to that level, I pretty much have twenty minutes of being a raving lunatic, then go directly to bed in a compromising position. It's like clockwork. Once in a while, I'll grope a buddy's girlfriend or puke somewhere public. But usually the feedback is along the lines of “Oh, you weren't too bad. You were real fucked-up, yup, but didn't do anything too bad.” Still, I have to be able to assess the potential of the previous night's missteps by analyzing the forensics, and I can't do that without my phone. I can't find it anywhere, and I start to freak out. I barely trust myself when I'm sober.

My mind was racing as I realized how little I actually remembered. In fact, I didn't remember
any
thing. Why were things so foggy? Put it together, Dave. I had to actually turn on the TV to see what time it was, since I couldn't find my phone. Okay, let's see, 11 something a.m. on a Saturday in the fall of 2012 in New York. That means I had a Button Hooker
¹
flag football game in less than an hour. I decided to do a full sweep of the apartment for my phone before heading out for the game. As I declared my shoe-box-sized bedroom “clear” (aloud, like a SWAT team leader), I moved into the living room. I immediately noticed some weird colored shit on the floor. As I explored the apartment looking for my phone, all I could see was more weird colored shit. It was everywhere. Everywhere! I gave my eyes thirty seconds to focus and began investigating. Once I found my glasses, I picked some of it up and held it closer for examination. They were feathers. Very distinct feathers. Peacock feathers. It looked like someone ran over the NBC peacock with a lawn mower, in my living room. My first thought was that Matt Lauer was somehow involved as revenge for all those selfies we took on his phone. Then I remembered Matt Lauer is a sweetheart and revenge isn't his game. My next thought was a bit more rational: was it part of a costume? They really didn't feel fake, though. If this was part of a costume, it was very high-end. You cannot imagine my confusion at this point. I picked one up. Fucking huge. I thought maybe, just maybe, I ended up at some sort of
Eyes Wide Shut
–type party where everyone was fucking each other while wearing masks? And maybe I met a gal in a peacock mask and we did a bunch of freaky stuff, so the feathers went flying everywhere? After realizing how ridiculous this sounded as my first assumption, I started doing some real investigating. I smelled the feather. Gamey. Son of a bitch, I don't have time for this. And where is my iPhone? I can only answer all of your questions the same way I answered them myself at the time:
in the most confusing manner possible
.

11:40 a.m.: Hungover, confused, and curious, I managed to pull myself together, put on my Button Hooker gold jersey (I lost my original jersey, so I now rock a yellow T-shirt I found at No Relation Vintage in the East Village; it has a Rastafarian guy on it who says, “Jamaican Me Crazy!” It's so on point) and rush out the door with Frank in tow. Frank is the team mascot for the Button Hookers, which is ironic because he isn't physically capable of running an actual button-hook pattern and he
hates
footballs. He steals every single one he can and then destroys it. What a shitty mascot. Frank and I got to the field within ten minutes of game time. Fellow Button Hookers rejoiced. I felt good, like they were genuinely happy I was there. My teammates on the Button Hookers are also my best friends. I tried asking everyone about what had happened the night before, but everyone gave me that look that said
you know what you did
. Are you guys being ironic? I don't know what I did. Honestly!

12 p.m.–1 p.m.: Game time. I wasn't feeling so hot. I had the spins, then took a personal time-out for a quick sideline spit-up. You know those spit-ups when you aren't quite throwing up, but your body is still telling you something has to come out? I had those for a while, then I drank all of my water, then all of my teammates' water, then I stole some from our ref. I was hurting. At halftime, I started fishing for clues from my friends. Steve immediately informed me that he could not believe I was still breathing and that he had already been writing my obituary. Okay. Good start. Apparently, attempts at reaching me all morning proved futile, and he had been telling anyone who would listen that I was dead. The last he saw me was at 11 p.m. He could only say I was drinking “like you had a bone to pick.” And he left me shortly thereafter. Tim didn't provide much more insight. He walked by me, looked me in the eye, threw his head back with one stiff laugh, slapped me
really
hard on the back, and kept on walking. That's all he could offer.

The game ended, and I forcefully corralled the gang. It was at this point that the guys finally filled me in about my night from their perspective. Apparently, around midnight I had met a nice gal and we seemed to hit it off. I do remember that part. For well over an hour, this gal proceeded to very publicly seduce me (their words, not mine). I remember that, too. She was like a snake charmer! She played her little flute and out peeked its head from the basket, ready to dance for her. I was told that she and I had a very public make-out and that I wouldn't stop telling anyone who would listen that I was “smitten.” I don't quite remember that part. Sometime shortly after, she asked me to taste of some of the molly she had hidden deep within her bosom. I was helpless. Fucking snake charmer, you guys. My friends were also careful to note two things:

1. That the molly she was offering (seducing me with, really) didn't look like any molly they'd ever seen before.

2. That I did not care
whatsoever
what she was giving me, I was in. They said she put a few of these little chunks of stuff in my hand and I popped them into my mouth as I asked, “What are these things?
Do you want to dance?
”

1:30–2 a.m.: The walk home with Frank was rough. I had to clear my head and figure out what happened. I stopped to get some froyo, which helped as always.

What the fuck did this girl feed me? Also, did she have a live peacock in her pocketbook? Was it some sort of sexy costume?
Where the fuck
is my phone? I need that! Dammit. All I could pull together was that I ate some weird substance that was most likely not the substance I was told it was, and BOOM, lights out. Roofies? Do they actually exist? What the hell? Back at my apartment, I did some research. As I got comfortable among the peacock feathers, I fired up the Google machine. Let's get to the bottom of this.

2:30– . . . All right, that's it—I will find out what's going on here, and I don't care how much it costs me. After some consideration and a weird amount of pot, I decided it was time for results. Hello, Emergency Room. How long could this take, anyway?

9–10:30—Clearly the good people of Beth Israel Medical Center did not deem my medical emergency an actual “medical emergency.” I'm not saying that my situation should have taken priority over some of the gore you see in a New York City ER, but I was so hungover that I at least
looked
like I needed emergency attention. That was what convinced me to go to the ER in the first place. I'll put nearly anything in my body, but I've got to know what it is. It took so long, that ER visit. I shouldn't have written down on the form that I was visiting the ER because I believe I was roofied and a peacock stole my iPhone. Six and a half hours later, I got to see the friendly little Asian doctor. I twisted my story around a bit to make it seem like more of a medical emergency with real-world consequences, rather than my quest to find out who or what was in my apartment the night before and maybe, upon answering that question, find out where the hell my phone was. This guy straight up did not believe me. But if at first you don't succeed, make up more shit until you get your way. Dr. Woo finally (reluctantly) took some tests. The toxicology report? Roofalin. The peacock spiked my punch. Well, that explains the complete black hole in the space my memories used to occupy. Next step, peacock feathers.

Two to three weeks later: After the toxicology report came back, my friends never let me hear the end of it. They couldn't believe a girl seduced me, then roofied me. And no one could let the peacock feathers go. Soon my friend Howard suggested I send them to a lab downtown to find out if they were real. It would cost $499, and he convinced every single person on our email chain to kick in a portion. I had a deep moment of introspection when I sent off a check for $499 and an envelope of feathers in order to determine if I was robbed by a bird. In the meantime, I replaced my iPhone. This was my seventh iPhone of 2012. By the way, did you know that the iPhone insurance people stop insuring you after your sixth iPhone? I am iPhone uninsurable. They said I had to go at least eight months without losing or breaking one before I could reapply for coverage. What bullshit.

It was a Monday when the email came through and I gathered up a few friends on speakerphone to hear the results. The lab tech was very formal in informing me that the feathers in question had been analyzed. She proceeded to explain that before she could say any more, I'd have to contact the NYPD directly with a reference number she gave me. Okay. Uh,
what
?