Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (36 page)

THE LEFTOVERS

TUCKER GOES TO MUSLIM WEDDING, DRINKS ANYWAY

Occurred, August 2002

One of my best friends from college was a tiny little Muslim girl, Famina. We couldn’t have been more opposite—she was sweet, compassionate, caring, conscientious, while I was, well, me. But despite these differences, we were super close all through college (and no, we never hooked up, and yes, it’s possible to have platonic friendships—especially when the girl refuses to hook up with you).

So when her wedding came along, of course she invited me, even though it was going to be a traditional Muslim wedding full of traditional Muslim people. That means six hours of no alcohol, no single girls who will have sex with me, and nothing but Indian food. Oh happy joy!!

To make matters worse, the girl who I was supposed to bring as a date canceled on me five hours before the ceremony. Why? I don’t know. That’s the problem with being a narcissist: Things you do that don’t even register to you can sometimes be huge insults to other people. I mean, how was I supposed to know she didn’t want to know that dress really did make her look fat? Oh well, if she can’t take a joke, fuck her.

Wedding starts at 6pm. I crack my first beer at 2pm and call Famina’s maid of honor, Samira, who is also a good friend of mine from college. I don’t say hi when she answers, I just let out a loud obnoxious belch.

Tucker “BBUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!!”

Samira “Tucker! Have you been drinking?! Before Famina’s wedding?!?”

Tucker “Hey, these beers aren’t going to throw themselves up.”

Samira “TUCKER!”

Tucker “You guys were kidding about there being no liquor at the wedding, right?”

Samira “No, silly! It’s a Muslim wedding!”

Tucker “Well, is it B.Y.O.B.?”

Samira “NO! It’s B.Y.O-NOTHING!!”

Tucker “What? That’s kooky talk. How am I supposed to go to a wedding without drinking?”

Samira “You can’t drink! Almost everyone there will be devout Muslims.”

Tucker “So you get to fly planes into our buildings, but we can’t drink at your weddings?”

Samira “Tucker! We’re Indian, not Arab! You know this!”

Tucker “If it’s brown, shoot it down.”

Samira “Tucker!”

I figured that settled the issue. Famina and Samira have known me for eight years, since I was a freshman in college and I would stay up late with them during Ramadan, eating awful Indian food they would cook on hot plates. They know what I’m like.

I run through all the beer in my apartment and start on vodka and club soda. By 5:30, I’m pretty blitzed. I don’t own any nice clothes, so I have to “borrow” my roommate’s black Armani suit to wear to the wedding. And because I don’t even own a button-down shirt, or a tie, I put on a white t-shirt underneath. I put the flask of Popov vodka in one back pocket and flask of Montezuma tequila in the other. I looked like I should be running numbers for a Russian crime syndicate.

I arrive at the reception hall, and I am literally one of about 14 white people. Everyone else—all 250 plus—are Indian. And these aren’t casino Indians. That’d be great—then you’d know there would be liquor there. Native Americans take their firewater seriously. No, these are dot Indians. Mostly Gujarati, but from what I can tell, there are also Hindus, Haris, and Bengalese. And all of them are either Hindu or Muslim.

I immediately go to the bar. It has a wide selection of water, juice, and soda. The bartender looked like the type who was probably the star of his high school play. I ask him for two glasses of ice, one with a little Sprite, the other with a little Coke, “Not filled to the top.” He gives me one of those judgmental sneers that only gay guys can do right. Fuck him.

I carry my drinks to the bathroom, where I have to ask some dude in a full-on, Afghanistan-style beard for assistance in opening the stall door, because you know, my hands are full. Govinda eyes me suspiciously. Fuck him.

I down my first couple of makeshift highballs, trying to avoid the dull reflection in the toilet seat dispenser. God forbid I’m forced to consider that perhaps my life is in shambles if I am sneaking liquor into a Muslim wedding and drinking it on a toilet seat. I drench this thought with vodka and tequila and drive on.

Wandering around trying to find someone to talk to, I realize that I know very few people at this wedding. All of the people I know are either relatives of Famina, and thus hate me, or are from the University of Chicago, and thus hate me. So I find the people who either work with or went to college with the groom, Barry.

Within 15 minutes, they hate me. Why? If you know anything about Indians, they are all about status; in fact, pretty much universally the first question they ask you is, “What you do for a living?” Well, I had just started writing at the time, and I didn’t really have a job, so I decided to fuck with them:

Girl “I’m a dancer.”

Tucker “Really? Pole or ballet?”

Girl “What?”

Tucker “Nothing.”

Girl “So, what do you do?”

Tucker “I’m not really sure.”

Girl “You’re not sure? What is your job then?”

Tucker “Well, I guess I’m a writer.”

Girl “A writer? Would I have read anything you’ve written?”

Tucker “If you’d read something of mine, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

Girl “Well, what have you published?”

Tucker “Umm…I wrote a children’s book.”

Girl “Really? What’s the title?”

Tucker “It’s called
The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables
.”

Girl “What??”

I convinced this one girl that I lived in Cabrini Green (a legendarily awful, crime-infested housing project in Chicago), and invited her to come visit me.

Her “If I go, won’t I get shot at and murdered?”

Tucker “No, that’s ridiculous, of course you won’t get murdered. Pretty girls like you get raped.”

She didn’t find this very funny. So I started talking to this very old Indian woman who looked like she was made out of juiced grapes, and turned out to be the previous girl’s mother:

Woman “What do you do?”

Tucker “I’m a fluffer. You know, for porn movies.”

Woman “What is a fluffer?”

Tucker “Ask your daughter, I bet she’ll know.”

To a bridesmaid:

Bridesmaid “So what do you do?”

Tucker “I’m a freelance pet euthanizer for local animal shelters.”

I thought she was going to cry.

Tucker “Don’t get upset; I do it quickly. I only make the ugly dogs and cats suffer. I kill the cute ones quickly. It all depends how high you hold the bowling ball before you drop it on their skull.”

I didn’t see her at after that.

After the “cocktail” reception, we all filed into the auditorium for food and speeches. They were pretty much across-the-board terrible, but one stood out: the best man’s speech. It was like watching Stephen Hawking try to swim. The dude tried to be funny, but his idea of comedy was so awful he might as well have just asked us to watch a stillbirth. Actually, that would have been funnier.

Then we ate. The English
LOVE
Indian food—that should tell you all you need to know about Indian food. It sucks. But this was okay for sucky food, I guess. Most of it was vegetarian though, which confused me. I kept asking everyone, “If we aren’t supposed to eat animals, then why are they made of meat?” No one had a good answer.

After dinner, Famina’s dad put on a slide show. I think it was her dad; I don’t really know. Everything got blurry right around that point, which coincidentally was right about the time I finished off both pints I brought with me. Perhaps tellingly, I didn’t even think I was that drunk. I didn’t feel drunk. But who really ever knows how drunk they are, right?

Well, everyone at my table knew, because I passed out in my seat during his slide show.

NANTUCKET SUCKS

Occurred, July 2005

I have a lot of great stories that revolve around drinking, sex, and partying. This is not one of them. I was going to Nantucket for a weekend. My buddy Chevy was staying at his parents’ house there with some friends, and swore to me I’d have a great time if I came out.

I was in LA for the summer for work, so I had a long flight ahead of me. I figured I’d just read and nap. I took my seat and it became immediately evident that napping wasn’t going to happen. I had a middle seat. In coach. In the window seat was a guy who looked and smelled like he was about to ask me for some spare change. In the aisle seat was an obnoxious slob, spilling grease all over his shirt as he stuffed nasty Sbarro pizza in his face and yelled at his dopey, ill-disciplined children across the aisle.