Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates (17 page)

I had seen her in the Gazebo multiple times throughout the summer. Before I had ever even met her, I was having a ball simply observing her. I saw the same routine every time she met someone new at my bar. Reading their faces as they reacted to the things she said was so entertaining. First, people were blown away by how attractive she is. Then, before they could get over her beauty, people became confused and disoriented with the things coming out of her mouth. It's like there were four different completely insane people living inside her, and they were all vying for control. It was a goddamn mess.

Holly Humphrey set her eyes on me on the fifteenth of July, 2011. Nantucket Island was at its proverbial full mast. July is when things pick up in a big way on the island. If Nantucket was an eligible bachelor and was making love, and started in early May with some island foreplay, by mid-July, it was rock solid. I mean this island was fuckin' HARD. Babes everywhere, guys wearing tank tops, vanity muscles, badass mopeds, expensive rebuilt retro European SUVs, yachts with celebrities
and
Mini Coopers on board, you get the idea.

So I'm doing my thing, just having a classic “beach kids” type of summer. I'm up to no good, staying up late, getting denied by pretty girls, developing unattractive tan lines, neglecting my physical fitness, and failing to save money. I was like John Cusack in the aptly named
One Crazy Summer
.

So, mid-July. I'm working a lunch shift at the Gazebo. Lunch shifts at the Gazebo are ideal, in that you've only got to work during the day, though they are tough, because 95 percent of the staff is still shitfaced for the start of them. If you could somehow film the staff on a busy day shift, then speed the whole thing up, you could sell it to Discovery Channel as a documentary on alcohol metabolism. At 10 a.m., starting time, all the squares arrive, because they didn't go out the night before. Why are they even living on an island? Ten fifteen to ten thirty rolls around, the booze-smelling (chain smoking, dry-heaving, eyes-as-red-as-the-devil's-dick) portion of the staff shows up. Somehow, the crew comes together and everybody makes a bunch of money. Four fifteen comes along, and I'm still in one piece. As I'm cleaning up behind the bar, I start thinking about which kid's-menu items I'm going to demolish. I look up and
oh,
Holly. Coming by for a cocktail, as I'm finishing my shift. Coincidence? I'd only met her once before this, and she scares the shit out of me—so naturally I clock out, walk to the other side of the bar, and start drinking. Why would I move across the bar and start drinking with a crazy girl who frightens me? It all boils down to the one undeniable fact as old as time itself—men cannot resist beautiful women. Especially one who is into you! I am twenty-one, single, and come aaaahn, she is a babe! Can you blame me? My uncontrollable horniness combines with that weird, what-the-hell-is-happening sort of feeling, and I am all in.

Over the course of the next hour, I consume a healthy four to six bourbons, and Holly Humphrey is not far behind. The girl can drink! Keep in mind we're drinking at the bar I work at, surrounded by my friends and roommates who are all working, and we're being served by my oldest brother's best friend, Alaska. Alaska is from Alaska. Alaska is a giant dickhead and loves fucking with me, especially when it comes to women. Especially when it comes to a crazy woman, and
especially
when he knows just how crazy she is, like this one. As Alaska is overserving us (at four thirty in the afternoon), a revolving crowd is gathering around the bar to listen in on the verbal insanity that is pouring out of Holly's sexy little mouth.

Holly Humphrey has a flight to catch. A flight? Today? In an hour? This surprises me. I'm from upstate New York (so sick, you guys) and grew up post-9/11. If I have a flight to catch, I am at the airport with six forms of ID four fucking
months
before that flight, and I'm a white guy! My Arab friends basically have to say the pledge of allegiance just to get car service to take them to the airport. Holly Humphrey has a flight in an hour? I don't get it. Does she have her own crop duster? I thought only farmers had those. I ask her about it, and she pulls this coupon book out of her Birkin bag. It is a complete booklet of airline vouchers. Fifty pages thick, and every single page the same exact thing. A free airline pass. Did you guys know these exist? Did you know they make airline tickets that you just hand to the attendant and then you get on the next flight? I didn't. She has a
book
of those. Holly Humphrey has a flight to catch.

Holly Humphrey's dad is very rich and very angry. He is equally insane, too. Very ill-tempered. It turns out he is also spending some time on the island of Nantucket. Furious, looking for his daughter. I don't know this. All of a sudden, I am made aware. After the twelfth call she has sidebarred (and fourth Stoli O-bomb), I finally ask her who has been calling her. “Just my daddy,” she explains. Great. A little more digging, and I put together the obvious. Her father has been calling her because he either:

1. Wants to take her to the airport so she will make her flight.

2. Wants to kill her, because, well . . . I get it.

3. Wants to take her to the airport, so he can have her killed once she's arrived in Boston, giving him an alibi . . . Smart guy, no wonder he's loaded.

Holly Humphrey is ducking calls left and right, looking over her shoulder with fear in her eyes—just trying to avoid her old man. At this point, I've now become drunk enough to be thinking about how badly I'd like to make sweet, crazy, risky, rich-gal love to Holly before her flight. Strategically convenient bonus: my house is right next to the airport! It just made so much sense, everybody. One problem: our only ride is my '86 Yamaha moped, and I am (as my dad would put it) absolutely cockeyed. Way too drunk to drive. Naturally, I immediately decide to drive. The
real
problem is that my reliable little moped is only 50 cc's (that's an engine term, gals). The thing barely supports my giant, lumbering frame; there was no way it will take on me, Holly, and her five hundred pounds of high-maintenance luggage. I shoot my roommate Tim (also a friend, confidant, state hockey champ, man-babe, and coworker) a glance as he is mixing drinks behind the bar. Tim has seen that glance a thousand times. He no-look throws me his moped keys. Did I mention Tim has a moped, too? We were the Scooter Boys! Good gang name? Nope. But it was very literal. Tim was the leader of the Scooter Boys. You know why? Because Tim has a
sick
moped. The thing absolutely flew. Somewhere along the line, a mechanic did some after-market work on it, and the results made you feel like you were straddling a Tomahawk missile. Added bonus: it was also a two-seater. My '86 Yamaha, although awesome, only had room for one. With me? Just short of room for one. Timmy and I had a gentlemen's understanding that, should either of us be so lucky as to have a gal in tow, the two-seater moped went to that guy. Rules of the road. One might ask what would happen if we were both lucky enough to have a gal on the same night. Well, you've only got one option at that point: expensive group taxi. As luck would have it, we didn't take one group taxi that summer.

Back to reality, folks. I've got a crazy blonde, an angry rich father, a jacked-up moped, and a race against the clock—let's focus! We find Tim's moped in the back alley of the restaurant. That alley is all cobblestone. Ever ride a moped over three-hundred-year-old New England cobblestone? No? Try it with a ticking-blond-sex-bomb on the back. As we take off down the alley, I am at half-mast before our first RPM. By the time we turn out of the alley, I am at a full tuck-under. With Holly Humphrey on the back and a full erection in my Nantucket reds, we are off! Assuming most of you aren't familiar with the layout of Nantucket, let me fill you in—there is the port, where I work. It's the “downtown” part of the island. The cobblestone alleys bob and weave in every direction, further confirming that
everyone
in New England, even back when the town was being designed, is or was a complete drunk. It's like driving around a child's finger painting. Makes no sense whatsoever. Luckily, the cobblestone keeps people from getting going too fast; otherwise it'd be accident city. You have to weave through about a cumulative mile of this nonsense to get out of town and on the main roads toward my house, the airport, and intercourse.

Holly Humphrey is holding on tight, and I mean
tight.
I am approaching an intersection about two hundred yards upstream of the Gazebo. I have the right of way, but always look, just to be safe. To my left, BAM, this giant, black, ridiculous, $150,000, tinted-window, red-button-from-MIB-capable, fucking intimidating Mercedes SUV almost splatters my brains and guts and Holly's tits everywhere. I'm talking within a foot and a half of really doing some damage to us. I swear to God, the SUV coming at us was the Canyonero from
The Simpsons
(12 yards long, 2 lanes wide, 65 tons of American pride!) Do you know how mad Timmy would have been if I wrecked his scooter
and
he had to cover my shifts? True to my BAC, I start yelling at the driver like a madman on a scooter. Just as I'm doing so, Holly Humphrey (on back) buries her head away from the SUV and starts screaming in my ear that that's her dad and to
hit it
! Crazy dad is on to us! Oh, you're wondering if this is the same crazy dad that's been blowing her phone up for the past two hours? Yep. That's him. An angry rich dad looking for his fucked-up daughter who has been avoiding him. The ironic thing is that upon spotting us on the moped, he doesn't get
happier.
I look into his eyes, and he into mine. Had that moment been set in an old western movie, that song would play that always plays right before they say “Draw!” The drawn-out time that two cowboys look each other in the eye is always portrayed as at least fifteen seconds. What were the rules there?
With each cowboy's gun holstered, the two parties are to just stare at each other. At some point, they should have a race to kill the other person. No one will ever say draw. Then one guy dies.
Great plan, Wild West.

Back to reality: Holly's dad is done staring and SHIT IS ON. Holly Humphrey says hit it, so I hit it. We take off down a side street. You know what angry dads do in that kind of situation? They fucking chase you! Thank God I've had a few drinks, because the chase scene that ensues takes some nerves, my friend. If the Wild West draw song was playing a few seconds before, it has since been replaced by the song that plays during the credits of
The Benny Hill Show.

It becomes very clear that this town is about to see the David versus Goliath of high-speed chases. Giant Mercedes SUV versus 75 cc moped. Side note here: the speed governor on this particular moped had been removed, because Tim is a badass, so this thing could really fly. Here we are, angry lead-foot dad versus horny half-in-the-bag waiter and real-life Looney Toon on the back. If this was a prizefight, the tale of the tape would favor Angry Daddy by a mile. This is Nantucket, though, my summer homeland. Now, I won't pretend to be well seasoned in the ways of gambling, but I will tell you with confidence that there are three home field advantages a man should never bet against:

1. Tom Brady in Foxboro

2. Justin Timberlake on planet Earth

3. Mike Stangle in Nantucket

I know the town like the back of my dick! Goliath's going down! Off I go, utilizing all 75 cc's of the hog I was riding. LEFT RIGHT SECRET ALLEY LEFT LEFT MORE COBBLESTONES HEY ALEX ILL SEE YOU TONIGHT AT THE CHICKEN BOX! LEFT RIGHT RIGHT THIS BONER WON'T GO AWAY! Holly? Oh, she is doing exactly what you'd expect a lunatic of her caliber to be doing: talking dirty/crazy in my ear during the whole fucking thing. That is for the first few minutes. As she realizes I am losing her dad, she further encourages me with an OTPHJ (Outside The Pants Hand Job). Believe it or not, I lose the guy by way of nineteen different side street maneuvers. By the time we sputter into my driveway, Tim's bike is overheating and Holly's finger has fully penetrated my butt.

My friends, I learned something that day. I learned that I am not Dave Stangle. I just can't handle the crazy ones! I'm not built for it. Dave, more for you, buddy. By the time I caught my breath and could digest what had happened over the prior twenty minutes, Holly Humphrey had wandered off to the airport in her high heels. Thank God.

I recently found out Holly was secretly engaged during this entire fiasco. After a little digging, I learned that her fiancé is a big-time coke dealer. Makes sense. I'll probably be murdered for a lousy OTPHJ.

(Dave)

I don't get ashamed easily. It doesn't mean I don't recognize my own flaws; it's just that I'm not trying to improve on them whatsoever. I like being a dirtbag. I own it. Being a dirtbag is only a few shades from being a bad boy, and chicks love bad boys. I'm like a second-rate bad boy, so chicks sort of dig it, but not that much. At least it helps me understand why I'm twenty-nine and still single, with a trajectory path of creepy-forty-six-year-old-uncle-who-people-suspect-might-be-gay-because-he-never-settled-down status. Still, if that's the vibe I give off, then I say most people don't really know me very well. Even my iPhone doesn't know me very well, and I spend most of my time glued to my iPhone. It still autocorrects
butthole
to
buttonhole,
even though I talk about the first thing all the time and the second thing never.