Day One of our quest. A plan is formed.
We were on Interstate 90, about fifty miles out of Seattle. The city's lights were growing smaller and more faint in the rear view mirror. Ahead of us were the Cascade Mountains, Idaho, Montana, and all the rest of America. It was about four-thirty in the morning. I could already see the faintest orange-yellow glimmerings of the sun along the eastern horizon, preparing for another day.
Al had dozed off back when we were still on Mercer Island. I had, after all, kidnapped him at three in the morning, and he was older than I was. Neither of us would be ready for a membership in the AARP for at least another decade, but we had both reached the age where hot young teen sluts would address us both as "Sir." As for me, I was still young and hale enough that a good jolting cup of java would keep me going for miles and miles. However, Al confessed that since he'd passed his fortieth birthday, if he didn't get a full eight hours he was no damn good for anything the rest of the day. So he curled up to sleep for a while, and I roared down the highway into the black, moonless Washington night.
I'd found a classic rock radio station to which I was listening while I drove. Neil Young's "Heart Of Gold" was playing when Al awoke. Neil'd finished his harmonica solo and had started singing again when Al opened his eyes.
"I've been to Hollywood
I've been to Redwood
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold
I've been in my mind
it's such a fine line
that keeps me searching for a heart of gold
and I'm getting old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold, and I'm getting old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold.
Keep me searching and I'm growing old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold.
I've been a miner for a heart of gold."
Al, still half asleep, said, "Play it again, J.T."
I said, "I can't, Man. It's on the radio. I should get it on CD, though. Great song."
"I love that song," Al said as the final chord faded and the next song came up. Foghat. "Slow Ride." Al asked, "What do you think he's looking for?"
I shrugged. It was such an obvious question I wondered if he wasn't still half-asleep. "A heart of gold."
"No shit, Sherlock," said Al. I knew then he was fully awake. He said, "What's so special about that heart of gold that he's getting desperate? That's what the song's about, Man. He's getting old. He's running out of time. There's desperation in his voice. What's so special about that heart of gold?"
I had to think for a moment. Before I could answer, Al answered his own question for me.
He said, "That special treasure. That one, unique person he's looked for his whole life. He believes there's the perfect woman out there waiting for him to find her, only he hasn't found her yet. He's been looking, but time's getting short. That's why he's desperate."
I couldn't think of a better answer than that, especially at that hour of the morning. I'd need a coffee break, soon. We drove along in silence for a few minutes. I watched the road. Al stared out the window, not really watching anything.
Finally, he said, "So, J.T. How the fuck are we getting my testicles back?"
Inwardly, I cringed. I knew Al would ask that question sooner or later. I'd hoped he'd ask it later so I could come up with a satisfactory answer. I said, "I don't know, yet. I'm kind of planning this as I go."
"Meaning you're making this up as you go."
"Basically, yeah."
"Sounds good to me," said Al. He became quiet and stared out the window again.
I realized I didn't want silence at that time. I was tired; I'd been driving all night, and conversation would make it easier to get to the next town and a much-needed refill of my travelling coffee mug. I also figured this was as good a time as any to lay out a plan of attack.
I said, "I'll gladly accept any input you have, Man. Any ideas? They're your nuts. You'd know better than anyone how to get them back."
Al gave me a sad laugh. He said, "Shit, J.T. I have no idea. It's been so long, I've forgotten what it's like to have to shift them around in a tight pair of jeans. She ripped them from my scrotum long before the divorce hearing."
I winced at the image. Then, I had a flash of inspiration. I said, "We start small. We re-develop them. Like physical therapy. Build them up slowly."
"Where do we start?"
"At a strip club. A tittie bar."
"What?"
I said, "Seriously, Man. We start in the fucking cave. We gather with other men and beat our chests and dance around the fire and gear up for battle. We start in a tittie bar. Where else are we going to find so much raw testosterone? We could grab somebody, open a vein, drain manliness into a glass and drink it. That's where we start."
Al laughed. "Okay. I'm game. Shit, I haven't been to a strip club in ages." He thought for a moment. "You know the last time I was in a tittie bar? My bachelor party. The night before my wedding. Remember?"
I said, "Yeah. I remember." Against my better intentions, I grew silent, pulling up memories from the distant past.
We were in Los Angeles that night. We'd had the wedding rehearsal that day and we congregated in a nearby steakhouse for the rehearsal dinner. Afterward, my fellow groomsmen, stewards and I piled into some cars to take Al out for his bachelor party. We didn't have a plan. It was my responsibility as Best Man, but Al said he didn't want anything big. We decided to hit a few strip clubs and bar hop for a while, and Al said he was fine with that.
Our first stop was a sleazy little club on Colorado Avenue, just a few blocks from the Santa Monica Pier. And when I say it was sleazy, I mean it in a good way. The Lakers' locker room at the old Forum was bigger. Three tiny little dance stages with the obligatory poles and track lights along the edge of the stages. The bar in the back served only shots and beers, and the bartender looked less like he could make four kinds of daquiries and more like he could kill you in six different ways using only a pencil. Judging by the bulge under the armpit of his jacket, he was packing at least a .45.
The girls were an eclectic mix. Some looked old and tired, some looked young and not-quite-so-innocent anymore. Some put some effort into their routines, some danced like they'd just heard about the death of a loved one.
Still, the place was packed with customers, flashing lots of green. And some of the girls were pretty hot, too. When we entered the club, the girl at the stage directly in front of us spied Al and me and she spread her legs just for us, allowing me my first glimpse of a pierced clit.
I've seen a few more since then, but my reaction hasn't changed.
YEE-OWCH!
Anyway, this seemed like the perfect place to truly debauch ourselves before Al's entry into the Gulag of Matrimony. Full topless and bottomless dancing, lots of alcohol, a little rowdy, and the girls were all a little feisty. I had no idea whether the club was up to code or not, but since I saw a pair of off-duty LAPD patrolmen whooping it up, still in their uniforms, I wasn't worried.
We picked a booth to sit down in and watch the show, and we ordered a few drinks. I fulfilled my obligation as best man (it's a dirty job but somebody's got to do it), and I arranged with one of the dancers to give Al a "Bachelor Party Special." For fifty bucks, she agreed to do it.
Her name was "Candy." Or so she said. I didn't care, really. She was tall, with long legs and a huge rack, and flaming red hair. In other words, she was Al's perfect female type.
She got on stage and announced that Al was leaving the Fraternity of Single Men, and she had a going-away present for him. We had to practucally shove Al onto the stage for his present. He was made to sit down in a chair brought onto the stage, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. Then, several girls danced for him, rubbing their pelvises on his knee and smothering his face with boobs and generally doing their best to make him cum in his pants.
And Al just sat there and did nothing.
Looking back, I should have realized something was wrong. In the old days, taking Al to a strip club was like finding a lost package of C-4 plastic explosive and saying, "Hey, let's get some gasoline, a blow torch, and a few firecrackers and, you know, see what happens."
Al used to love strip clubs. He took me to my first titty bar. Hell, he got me my first date with a stripper. Al treated the admonition, "Behave yourself" like a sensible piece of advice, but not an actual RULE.
When Candy brought out the handcuffs, knowing Al, I wanted to ask her to make sure those cuffs were actual police issue, and not toy cuffs. For her own safety, she might want to borrow a couple pair from those off-duty cops.
See, the Al I knew and loved was into pushing limits. If someone told him, "Don't touch the dancers," he'd nickle and dime you to death on the definition of "touch." I fully expected Al to press against his restraints with arms, legs, hands, chest, and tongue.
But he didn't do anything. He just sat there, sheepishly smiling as the ladies rubbed their bodies against him, and he didn't even have any red marks on his wrists when they let him go. He'd been as passive as if he'd spent four hours playing computer solitaire.
When he got down off the stage, Al asked if we could leave. He knew of an all-night billiard hall down on Ocean Park Boulevard where we could drink beer and shoot pool all night.
I figured, Hell. It's his bachelor party. "Whatever you want, Al," I said. So we left.
We all piled into our cars and headed over to the billiard hall. Al and I were in one car by ourselves. He was driving. He'd actually had a little more to drink than I had, but he knew where we were going and, anyway, driving through Los Angeles sober actually hinders performance instead of helping it.
I said, "Hope I didn't embarrass you by dragging you up there, Al. It was supposed to be fun."
Al said, "Oh, yeah. It was a gas, J.T. Thanks. I had a blast."
"You didn't look like it was a blast. You wanted to get the hell out of there as fast as you could."
Al shook his head. "Don't sweat it, J.T. It's not your fault. We're cool. You didn't embarrass me or anything. I'm just nervous."
"About what," I asked. "You won't get in trouble with Susan." Susan was Al's bride-to-be. "I told her I wanted to take you to a tittie bar and I made sure it was okay with her. She said it wasn't a problem as long as you didn't get out of line. And you didn't. If she asks me tomorrow, I'll swear to it."
Al was quiet for a moment as we drove along 23rd Street. Then he said, "That's what I'm nervous about, man. The whole 'get out of line' part. I'm so afraid that if I fuck up in any way, she'll leave me and call the whole thing off."
"How would you fuck up," I asked.
"You know how," he said. "How do I usually act in strip clubs? Around women generally? I'm always trying to get into their pants. I can't do that shit anymore. I have to behave myself or Susan will leave me. What if I can't control myself? What if I make one tiny little slip up and fuck up the rest of my life?"
"Do you want to fuck up?"
"No. Of course not."
At that point, I did the one thing I thought I'd never do to my best friend in the world. I slapped him on the cheek. I said, "Get your head out of your ass, you stupid idiot! If you don't want to fuck up, you won't. You're not some animal who can't control himself. You do what you want and you act the way that you want. If you want to act like a randy son of a bitch with your friends, do it. If you want to toe the line with your wife, do it. You can do it. None of this "I can't control myself" bullshit. You're a grown man. If you don't want to lose her, you know how to do that, and you do it. But don't deny who you are."
Al clutched the steering wheel. I hadn't tried to slap him hard, but something was stinging. I said, "Anyway, if you do act like an ass, I'll swear to Susan and her parents and your mother and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir you were a perfect gentleman. 'Oh, absolutely Al behaved himself. We just hung out in the Christian Science Reading Room all night, and on our way home we found homes for a litter of abandoned puppies.'"
Al smiled at the image.
I said, "I've got your back, Man. If Susan means that much to you, I'll make sure you don't fuck up. And if you do fuck up, I'll give you an airtight alibi. That's what friends are for. You sure you don't want to go back to that sleazy little titty bar and give yourself a reason to go to confession on Sunday?"
Al laughed. He said, "Thanks, J.T. Shooting pool's fine with me."
So we shot pool the rest of the night. It was a nice, airy room with lots of people and cheap beer. A couple of young ladies were shooting pool a couple of tables over, and one of them kept bending over the table to show off her pink panties under her denim skirt every time Al was in a position to look at her. She even smiled at him several times.
Al smiled back, but he did nothing else.
Looking back now, I realize something was seriously wrong, but at the time I just figured it was what my friend wanted. And I just wanted him to be happy. So I let it all go.
We left the billiard hall at three in the morning, got up early, and Al and Susan got married that afternoon. At the reception, I toasted them and said, "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you'll never be as happy again as you two are today. I hope you two are wrong a thousand times over."
He hugged me. Little did I know that my toast had been dead wrong. That had been the happiest moment in his life, and none of the moments since then had come anywhere near close.
And now, we were somewhere in the middle of Washington, with half a bag of Doritos, a quarter tank of gas, and a serious need of some coffee.
But we also had a plan. I said, partly to myself, partly to Al, "Phase One of the Plan to get your balls back is to find a heavy-duty strip club, Buddy."
Al said, "Okay. Sounds good to me."
The sun was beginning to peek over the Cascades. It was going to be a gorgeous sunrise, the perfect way to start a gorgeous day.
