The Silver Fox and I spend a lot of time together.  Admittedly, not as much as before I went back to work.  The poor bastard had to leave the country and hide out in Cuba for a couple of weeks earlier this year to get away from me, after all.  That said, one of the things we do multiple times weekly is grab a morning cup of coffee.

Sometimes we have tons to talk about because we haven’t seen each other in days.

Other times, we’ve recently seen each other multiple times daily and our meet up is purely companionable.

Most of the times I’m grumpy.

It’s kind of my thing.

I love him for putting up with it.

Whatever the dynamic between us, we can count on something weird or amusing happening while we are together.

It’s Portland.

Friday morning was no exception.

One of the things that gets me through my long days at work when I close up shop on the weekends is doing something nice for myself before I head in and again when I get home.  This particular morning that nice thing was – unsurprisingly – coffee with The Fox.

As we have been doing recently, we walked most of the way to Black Rock Coffee together, and then I peeled off in the last 100 feet of the journey to get my coffee at Barista and then meet him at Black Rock five minutes later.

What?  I really don’t like their coffee.

We chatted for an hour or so while we sipped and then I announced that I was hungry and wanted food.  He didn’t, but decided to come with me anyway.  This usually means he’ll order something he’ll regret eating later.  We headed out of the coffee shop, me heading right to the door to drop my cup in the trash on the way out, he – as is his forgetful ritual – walked to the far corner of the shop to the trash can by the cream and sugar station to toss his cup there.

No, I didn’t let that go without comment.

Not.

One.

Time.

This time, he swore it was to check out someone he called GH – which I learned was short for Greasy Hair – a guy that goes to our gym.  I didn’t recognize him, but had noticed him and his muscular physique when I arrived.

Since we were going to Tilt, I started laying the groundwork for the breakfast slice of pie I expected him to order while we walked the three blocks to Tilt.

As we crossed the final cross walk to our destination, a pack of bros rounded the corner in the same direction we were headed.  There was about 10 of them.  “Please don’t go to Tilt, please don’t go to Tilt” I began chanting under my breath.

“They’re on the wrong side of the street” The Fox comforted as they jaywalked across the street on the diagonal and headed for the stairs to Tilt.

“Goddamnit!” I ejaculated as The SF laughed at my flash of rage.

We both knew that this meant there was going to be a bunch of basic bridge and tunnel bros taking forever to order ahead of us.  He knew I hated that.

All I want is a breakfast biscuit that has 3000 calories in it (probably) and now this.

I found the silver lining as I strategized them ordering before us would allow us to sit as far from them as possible.

Half of the group – ok, 40% of the group had stopped to read the plaque explaining the large piece of equipment at the door to the restaurant, a tip of the hat to the former business that had been in the building.  Employing the “You snooze, you lose” rule, I got into line behind the other six guys who were proving my theory that it would be lunch time before I had my eggy biscuit in hand.

I watched as nothing happened with the line in front of me.

The cashier stood there awkwardly as the silence stretched out.

Bros all standing there, heads tipped up as they stared at the menu hanging from the ceiling, breathing through their slack jawed mouths.

Some of the other four co-mingled with their brethren as The Fox indulged my grumblings that this was not happening.  Either I grumbled louder than I thought or they were raised correctly, because they eventually left the group at the front and got in line behind us…leaving only a brilliant imprint of their hot bro selves on my retinas.

Alright, probably I eye-fucked more than one of them…but bros are so varied in their same-ness that I can’t choose just one type to be attracted to.

One of them finally left the counter with a buzzer and a beer as the cashier instructed him to pick up his coffee at the end of the line.

Beer and coffee.

I was warming up to this group.

At about midnight, when it was finally my turn to order, I greeted the cashier and asked for two cold brew coffees, a fried chicken and egg biscuit and whatever slice of pie The Fox had decided on.

And he passed on the pie!

Staring in wonder, I collected myself, closed my own jaw then turned back to the cashier and said, “I guess just the sandwich and coffees then.”  Shaking my head and chuckling.  I followed that up with an quiet aside about the chain gang we were in the midst of and she shared – lamented – that it was a bachelor party.

Props.

It was 10:30 on a Friday morning and they were getting the party started.

The coffee was awful.  Truly disappointing.  My buzzer went off and I decided as I was picking up my food that I was caving and getting cream and sugar for mine.  The Fox agreed that was the only choice we had in the matter.

Sadly, it did not help the coffee fail.

I felt bad for The Fox.  At least I had my sandwich, he didn’t even have pie to offset his disappointment.

So, in an effort to cheer him up and a demonstration of my narcissistic largess, I told him one of my theories.

A Chrisism, if you will.

A game I like to play when I encounter Bachelor Parties.

“Picking the one you’d sleep with?” The Fox interjected?

“No, close, though.  The tall one, by the way.  It was between him and neck tattoo.”

“That weak chin doesn’t do it for me”, he mumbled.

“The other end is what tipped the scales for me.  And what’s most important in this scenario.”

As The Fox’s eyes wandered to the tall Guy’s derrière and registered his qualifications, I explained my theory.

There’s two things I look for in every bachelor party:

The secretly gay one.  There’s always one closet case.  Especially in a group of 10.

The other thing I amuse myself with is trying to guess which one ends the weekend with an STD.

Or in jail.

The trifecta, of course, would be finding the one who could pull off all three.

Him, him I’d take home to mom.