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AND THE BOUQUET GOES TO…
Mariano Arias. Gustavo's Wedding Party. High Winds Polo Club. Palm Beach, Florida.
“Hey! Teamie!” Alex Yanez stumbles out of the tent and grabs me before I have a chance to bolt. He has more money than god and less sense than a porcupine in a vat of margarita mix. “Mariano, my good man!” He has a bottle in one hand and two shot glasses in the other. “What’s this I hear about you leaving us. You can’t do that!”
He pours a liberal triple for each of us. “Down the hatch.” He’s paying no attention to me, so I deposit the liquor into a plant holder that’s sporting wreathes of plastic toys while he knocks his drink back.
“Wa-hooo!” I’ve heard that noise before. Alex is about to do some version of his Bucking Bronco routine. “That woman of yours is something else.”
“I have no woman, Alex.” More’s the pity. I should have. I almost could have, but I blew it.
“Cool. Cool.” He throws his arm around my shoulder. “Mighty cool. That lap dance,mi hermano. I would have paid good money for that.”
He saw a dragon-painted woman mount me and press herself against me like we were facing the end of days and had to fuck our way to freedom. I saw Lolly—wild and playful, but also angry and dangerous—aiming her wrath at me.
“Do you know what they call women like her in England?” Alex is well traveled. His father made a fortune mining gems, which means Alex goes where he wants, when he wants. It doesn’t surprise me that his drunken brain goes to Europe. “A top bit of totty.” He taps me on the chest, right on the orange, sparkling imprint Lolly left there, using the rim of his glass to punctuate his English lesson.
I imaginetop bit of tottyisn’t a phrase I’m going to use.
“Not the same as toptotty, one word.” He’s leaning his knuckles against me, hard enough that I’m propping him up. I need to get him to safety. Or hand him off to someone else. I can’t just leave him. A man this drunk is a danger to himself. “Toptotty, one word, is the kind of woman who’s not only demonstrably attractive, but also happy to be in the company of men, even when they’re beingbloke-y.” He throws his arms wide. “Don’t we need to beblokessometimes? Drink. Swear. Not worry about saying therightthing all the time?”
If bloke is synonymous with asshole, he may be right. Some men need to be this way. I do not. If having a code of honor makes me “not a bloke-y bloke,”then I’m fine with that.
“What wouldn’t I give for a toptotty woman who liked me the way I am…” He dances a few staggering steps, which I believe are more commonly found in cowboy bars, but what do I know? He two-steps his way past a couple of tables, laughing at himself and encouraging others to laugh with him.
There are four basic kinds of drunks: happy, slappy, nutty, and not. Looked at another way, these are categorized as: Mary Poppins (the happy giggler who just gets happier when they’re under the influence); Dr. Hyde (who’s up for a couple of rounds of boxing-without-provocation); the Nutty Professor (an erstwhile introvert who becomes the life and soul of the party); and Ernest Hemmingway (who famously boasted that drink had no effect on him whatsoever, which perhaps explains why he pickled himself alive).
I’m in thenotcategory. My personality doesn’t change much, even if I have three or four drinks. Unlike Hemmingway, I rarely do. Polo and riding give me far more pleasure than alcohol ever could.
I don’t know what kind of drunk Lolly is—perhaps there’s a fifth kind who goes from bubble-giggles to melancholy—but I have spent enough time with Alex to know that he is a happy drunk for two thirds of the night and a Mr. Hyde for the final act. The trick is to steer him away from the bar before he turns into the maudlin and self-deprecating monster.
I make a move for the bottle, but he has that canny knack so many drunks have, of not knowing where his shoelaces are or how to find his own dick when he’s standing over a urinal, but full awareness of where the bottle is at all times. He whips the whiskey away at the last minute and holds it over his head like some trophy or talisman. “We’re going to send you offright.We’re going to need another one of these.”
He isn’t weaving, but he’s not steady on his feet either. He doesn’t notice the turned heads or raised eyebrows or the Snorlax wiping down his haunches as Alex barges past, slopping champagne down his outfit on his way to the bar.
Xena, Warrior Princess is behind the most popular table in the joint, mixing cocktails.
“I want a bottle of Macallan Cask Strength.” Alex has lost his manners, shoving through a wall of latex and thrusting himself to the front of the line.
Xena checks the stock and shakes his head. “Nothing of that name at this zip code, I’m afraid.”
“Laphroaig, then?”
“Still a no. How about a Shirley Temple?”
I don’t disagree. Alex needs to stop drinking now before it’s too late.
“Are you yanking my chain?” There it is. That tone. He’s tipping and I need to get him out of there.
“I think sir has had enough.”
“Sir has not had enough. Sir is aGolden Horseshoe. Sir gets whatever the fuck sir wants.”
It’s hard not to wince when he goes off the rails like this. It brings dishonor to us all.
“I don’t care if sir is the legendary Golden Dildo, crowned with rubies and sapphires.” Xena has the crowd eating from the palm of his hand. “Sir is being rude, and rude gets him a big, fat no.”
Alex doesn’t growl exactly, but the noise that comes out of him is enough to create a small wall of space around him.
