Last Call

March 1999
Last Call
By Bob Coskrey

It was an unseasonably balmy day in New York City last November 24th, as my wife, Barbara, and I sat in the Stage Delicatessen with “M” and “L,” * two of our oldest and best friends. I have known “M” (the husband) since about 1960, before he had met “L” and before I had met Barbara, even “M” is that special category of old friend, not someone I had played basketball or football with, or shared bouts of pre-test anxiety, or even hormonally bonded moments of libidinous leering into Ashley Hall dormitories from its on-campus cave.** “M” had earned that special beer bottle shaped asterisk next to his name. He had served—and served honorably—with me in the Budweiser Brigade, the Remy Martin Regiment, the Absolute Army. “M” is that particular pal, that charter member cohort, that prototypical and proverbial accomplished accomplice—the Drinking Buddy.

And not just a run-of-the-mill, everyday variety. We had shared tragedy, ecstasy, humiliation, hilarity, terror, boredom, and ennui, even a jail cell (sometimes all in one day), but additionally, and just as important, “M” had provided me with years of non-stop, over-the-top, uncensored, free entertainment, because he would always do and say things, most so outrageous that I, as “disgusting” a writer as I am, won’t even be able to repeat here. I will only say that alcohol was always involved, girls usually, clothes occasionally, and inhibition never. In fact, his lack of inhibition and propensity for saying what others only dare to think, remind me of none other than the present day “King of all Media,” as well as all that is vile and immoral, and this similarity in personality is certainly one reason why I am a Howard Stern fan.

New York is my favorite place to visit, with its thousands of terrific restaurants, theatre, nightlife, museums, history, and just plain non-stop excitement, so the idea of my wife and I spending five days there with “M” and his wife had kept me revved up for the moment like a kid counting down the days to his first trip to Disney World.

“L” and Barbara would browse around the stores on 5th Avenue pretending they could afford to buy things, while “M” and I would move from bar to bar like well-buzzed honey bees sampling the mood altering nectar of each. By the time we were all ready to go out for the evening, “M” would be in peak performance condition, and it would not simply be a night of entertainment, but I would have tons of material to draw from. Who knows, maybe even a novel would emerge from this meeting of New York and “M.” There might even be a movie similar to those Dracula or Abbott and Costello, Tarzan, or Ernest in New York (I didn’t see that one, of course): “M Swills Manhattan,” or “M Tells Big Apple to ‘Bite Me’.”

And so not only lunch but launch time had arrived and we all sat at the table and prepared to fuel up for blast off:

L: Heineken.
Barbara: Miller Lite.
Me (stuttering in nerve tingling anticipation): A…A..Huh…Heineken.

The tension built in my chest, as my heart palpitated faster, and I tried to appear nonchalant reading the upside down menu.

I looked up at the waiter and I thought I saw that nefarious glint take hold, as he kicked off the opening ceremonies of the New York Swingathon 1998 with the words: “I’ll have a water, please.”

I looked around for Allen Funt or Rod Serling. I thought about running outside to see if the sun was setting in the East. All is chaos, the world is in disorder, cares would be driving on the sidewalk, the Central Park horses would be riding in their own carriages pulled by blubbery tourists, and Jesse Helms and Ben Vereen would be dating publicly.

Apparently unaware of my demented state, “M” let the other shoe drop.

M: Yeah, I haven’t had a drink in two weeks. I had a physical and I’ve got borderline liver problems. I’ve even joined A.A. I feel great.
Me (thinking): Well, I don’t! I’ve been looking forward to this for six months. This is like taking Christie Brinkley back to your apartment and somehow she turns out to be David. And couldn’t you have waited a few more weeks? What a liver among friends? You just get another one and then you can drink even more.

Ashamed of the selfishness of my thoughts, I managed to utter a, no doubt, unconvincing “Great, great.”

Mixed feelings? Osterized is more like it. On the one hand, I was, of course, happy that one of my oldest and dearest friends had taken a monumental step in his life and seemed sincerely happy about it, but at the same time, I was profoundly disappointed that I would not have a first class ticket on the “Mr. M’s Wild Ride Through Manhattan,” and that tradition would now compel me to cross out the beer bottle shaped asterisk next to his name.

Even more depressing was the gradual realization that of my original list of drinking buddies, there was now but one left and he lived two states away. Over the years, two had stopped drinking, one had died, and another had unofficially resigned in protest of my, making him pay for damage to a window he had stumbled into.

And so here I am at a crossroads. Do I really even need a drinking buddy at the age of 59? For the past 15 years, with all of them living out of state I only saw them a grand total of maybe four times a year anyway. But all guys, no matter how geeky, are supposed to have a drinking buddy, so how can I look in the mirror and call myself a man without one?

Could I go to a bar and recruit? I don’t think so. Sounds a little gay.
Thinking: Me (sipping a beer in a downtown bar): Excuse me, but I’m looking for a drinking buddy. Can I buy you a beer?
Man (Look of disgust on his face): Get away from me, you old queen.
Me: You misunderstand. I’m as hetero as you can get. I’ve got a V-chip in my TV that permanently blocks out the Lifetime Channel. I once removed my own tonsils rather than paying a high deductable. Sometimes, during cold spells, I go running without shoes, or pants either for that matter.
Man: Get away from me, you creep!
Bartender: Hit the road, Jack, we don’t want your kind in here.
Obviously that approach won’t work, so with Bill Macchio’s permission, here goes:

Married, white, flagrantly heterosexual, 59 year old male seeks a male drinking buddy. Marital status, age, race or sexual orientation unimportant (though gays or bi’s should be forewarned—the relationship will never go beyond the dancing stage). Must have or appreciate cynical view toward people and life in general; should enjoy talking about sports, movies, books, current events, should enjoy talking about politics for its comedic value only; must be capable of saying and doing outrageous things for my vicarious enjoyment; extroverted “Howard Stern” like personality a plus; must be physically healthy; mental health unimportant as long as you’re not dangerous. Most important of all, must be willing to sign a contact stating that you will continue to function as my drinking buddy till only death do us part. Leaves of absence will be given for medical treatment for high blood pressure, pancreatitis, and liver transplants, if necessary.

Also, should be willing and able to travel to New York next November with me and my wife as proof of commitment.

Please write care of this magazine. Auditions (“wet runs”) will be given at Crawford’s Tavern in Mt. Pleasant.

Bottoms up!

*I am using initials only to protect the innocent and guilty alike.
**The school has (or had) a cave-like structure on its campus.