Maybe you can be of some help here.  I have a wonderful, handsome, on-his-way-to-wealthy single friend I’d love to set up with a cute, smart, deserving young woman who wants kids, as he does.  If only I could find the right one.

His name is Bryan, and he’s a 38 year-old, six foot, dark handsome, wild haired. motor cycle riding former contractor who now owns two restaurants.  He doesn’t cook, or take reservations, or pick out the furniture which graces his new-colonial cocktail lounge.  No late hours or manual labor hands here.  He simply finds the locations, hires the chef, and the reviews, it seems, take care of the rest.

The thing about Bry is– and it’s truly a small drawback in the larger scheme of it all– is that he can’t do just one drug at a time.

Not to imply Bry is some kind of strung-out addict. This couldn’t be further from the truth.  Bry is in fact, one of the highest functioning and successful drug addicts I have ever known: right up there with Snoop Dog and Michael Phelps.  And he recently surprised us all when he confessed, in earnest, that he had quit smoking pot……… by himself.

Bry had been a committed a dope smoker since his early teens, even when none of us were around, so it was pleasing to see him voluntarily draw the line, even if it’s a dotted one.  This was a foundational step. And one that made me think for the first time he was ready to tone it down, grow up, reel it in, straighten out.  It was time to find Bry a girl not attached to a stainless-steel pole.

To celebrate turning a new leaf, Bry took us all to a high-end tequila bar.

It was one of those situations that started with a simply tasty cocktail.  A close group of high school friends gather to sip margaritas and reminisce about the old days.The ten of us had not been united like this in half a decade. The voltage between us was tangible.

The wisest of the group peeled off after the third round.  They weren’t planning to come at all, they claimed.  And now they were going to get an ear-full from the collective brides and bride-to-be’s when they caught the late train home to Westchester. We lost four right off the bat.

That Bryan would besmirch them all individually after they left was a no brainer.  And he was right.  The guys who ditched were pussy-whipped.  Not to get sexist, because this is not about the “castrating wife who doesn’t let her man have fun.”

This was about the scared husband who is out of shape cutting loose and uses his “castrating wife who doesn’t let her man have fun” as an excuse.  Had the wives known the situation, they likely would have said “Go have fun, don’t be a pussy, just peel off when the single guys hit the Asian rub-n-tug parlor.”  Most of them knew Bryan better than he knew himself.

The thing is, no one ever really leaves a gathering with Bryan after just a few drinks.  The second the first guy said, “I have an early day tomorrow,” Bryan ordered a round of shots: if you gotta get home early, we better speed things up, was his reasoning.  And who can argue with that?

He chose a top-shelf, aged tequila, which facilitated everyone’s what the hell acquiescence.  Then there was the signature Bry finger-wave-n-left-eye-wink, which queued the bartender to keep the cork off, and pour another round immediately. Bryan is a generous tipper, and this was a local bar.  And that’s how four investment bankers left well over the legal limit after being at the bar for less than 55 minutes.

Those of us that remained would face a number of more intense hurdles. As the writer, it was my responsibility to stick around and document it all for posterity.  Or legal testimony.  Whichever came first.  Little did I know that in less that five hours, I’d be driving on the wrong side of the highway, trying to scrape a triumvirate of drug dealers off the passenger side of Bry’s Jeep by ramming into the divider and jacking the vehicle up on two wheels.

I won’t go into the whole situation here because it will leave little for the novela, which is going to be a best seller.  There will be bidding wars at the studios for this one, so I need to contain my excitement here, and just tease out the story a smidge.

Let’s just say the shots led to giant glass bong hits, followed by “batties,” after the bong was shattered. Inevitably, with the convenience of today’s miraculous hand-held technology, a simple text message had a few $50 bags of very clean cocaine in our hands in less than 15 minutes.

I don’t touch the devil’s dandruff myself, but the dealer’s these days are as sharp at up-selling as any McDonald’s window jockey who offers you a larger coke and fries when all you really want is a garden burger.  This one had mushrooms with “alotta psilocybin, bro…”

I had done them in college, and seen Jerry Garcia come to life in a terrible Dead cover band, so I was really weary.  The deal closer was that these particular shrooms were covered in Godiva chocolate.  Kind of hard to say no to that level of culinary care, especially when you haven’t had dessert, which I hadn’t.

Everyone else was already on their third or fourth substance– fifth and sixth, if you include caffeine and nicotine.  It was clear to me that as a responsible documentarian, I should be closer to my subjects authentic experience.  Thankfully, they weren’t that strong.

I did switch from taking notes with a pen and paper to using the mic on my iPhone after that, though.  It’s hard to write when you see twelve fingers. The problem is, I still can’t make out half of the shit I said.  Between the laughter, malapropisms and general inaudibility resulting from massive group communication, many brilliant observations were indecipherable.  One of the last comprehensible utterances was me saying, “I’m okay to drive!”

And it was true, relatively. Relative to Bry, who was at this point, drunk, high, wired, tripping, tweaked, and sleep deprived, I was stone cold sober, save the occasional dancing panda skittering across the windshield with a faceless blond in a red dress. Something about them made me feel safe.

I kept things under control for the most part, and patted myself on the back for the one thing I am always proud and thankful for when I’m out with old friends like Bryan; something I never ever take for granted for a single solitary second: no one died on my watch.  At least, they hadn’t when I dropped them off at 6 am at the Chinatown rub-n-tug.

Could any of them get an erection at this point I wondered?  I’m sure with a few blue pills, they’d be just fine.  Not that Bry ever needs any kind of enhancement.  He’s as virile as you get.

It’s one of the most attractive things about him, the ladies say.  He can go all night.  Just need to find the right gal who can keep up with him, or reel him in a bit.  She’s out there, I’m sure.  And after this seminal night, this turning point, I know for sure Bryan is ready for a real relationship.