Wrong Foot

There isn't much I can report of my bachelor party without potentially incurring the wrath of any number of my partners in crime.  Pretty much the only thing I can mention that could possibly transcend the typical 'we had so much fun'  and 'I almost died' generalities revolves around my tendency to fly off the handle at a moments notice.

As I placed my luggage on the conveyer belt beside me and struggled to take off my shoes and take inventory of all of the accessories and pocket items that might set off a metal detector, my cell phone rang.  Already faced with the daunting task of multiple tasks -not one of my strong suits- I picked up the phone.  It was Marty, a close friend of mine and the other bachelor we were simultaneously celebrating that weekend.   He was already in Montreal, along with his brothers, my brother, and an assortment of mutual friends that had also been able to take the day off from work.  I had actually received a flurry of text messages from them throughout the day, each of the 'Almost everybody is here- you should be here', 'We're having drinks' and 'When does your flight get in?' variety.  Needless to say, I was chomping at the bit to get on that plane.  I could not frigging wait.  

But I digress, after telling Marty to hold while my phone was screened for weapons of mass destruction, I picked it back up on the other side, greeting Marty while clumsily fetching my belongings and redressing myself.  His tone was business-like, but this didn't strike me as odd. Marty's verbal cadence is almost always terse and barked with benign impatience.  

"You gotta do something about your brother," he said. 

My gait slowed to the point where I was no longer moving.  I could feel the blood either rushing to my head or away from it as I responded, trying to mask my frustration with his timing and purpose beneath a veneer of calm.  "What do you mean?"

"Those of us that are already here went out for lunch.  We all had a couple beers, but your brother started right in with vodka drinks."

My brother used to be a bit of wild card.  While he's done a fair amount of growing up since he turned 21 (he's now 24), it was not difficult for me to picture him in Montreal, overexcited to be in another country for a bachelor party, sprinting out of the gate instead of walking.  Be that as it may, feats of true belligerence are behind him.  Or so I thought.      

"So what? It's a bachelor party," I responded as cavalierly as possible while my heart rate picked up in anticipation of what he might tell me next.  

"He's hammered.  And he's out of control.  He already tried to fight one of my friends."

"Well, where is he now?!"  I yelled from the center of an intimately sized and near silent terminal. "I obviously can't do anything about this until I get there. "

"I don't know.  When we left him he was running around... picking fights with strangers, making fun of their French accents, telling everyone they're pussies.  He's being a dick."  

"Are you fucking kidding me?  Why are you telling me this now?  Can't you just deal with it?!" I yelled, volume sputtering out of control in accordance with my temper.  I could feel looks of disgust being shot at me from every direction.

My other buddy, Ryan, took the phone and told me much of the same, adding, "You really do need to reign him in, dude."                          

All of the excitement and anticipation I had been feeling leading up to this moment was gone.  Originally, I'd foreseen nothing but a weekend of lighthearted revelry in good company.  Now my primary objective was to find my brother and prevent him from being arrested.  If I wasn't too late.   Never mind the looming task of choreographing some sort of reconciliation, his having successfully alienated some of my closest friends upon arrival.     

"Dude, you should give him a call.  At least to make sure he's OK.  He won't listen to any of us.  Seriously."

"Fine."  

I hung up the phone and called my brother in one fell swoop.  By now I was simultaneously embarrassed about my behavior and too pissed off to give in to self-consciousness.  As the phone started to ring my mind raced.  If he's really fucked up, I might need to tone down my anger or it could send him off the deep end and make things even worse.  Then, who knows what could happen?     

My hands trembling, I started right in.  "Dude, where are you?"  

"In Montreal" he slurred. 

"Where in Montreal?"

"What's our hotel called again?  I don't know where I am?  Everyone left me.  Where the hell did they all go?"  Individual consonants and vowels alike were painfully prolonged.   

The motherly patience I'd somehow mustered to make the call was wearing thin.  "Did you try to fight Marty's buddy?  I don't remember what the hotel is called.  It's French.  I can barely pronounce it when it's written in front of me.  You're there!  You've been in the hotel!  You don't know what the fucking hotel is called?!  Or where you are?"

"He was fucking with me, Seamus.  You know how I get when people fuck with me.  Seamus, you know how I get.  What's the hotel called?  Do you know what it's called?"      

On some strange level, I actually empathized.  There he was, in another city with my friends and Marty's, some he knew and some he didn't.  He was at least 4 or 5 years younger than everyone.  It was almost not even his fault.  I was barely even angry anymore.  Resignation set in.  I just didn't really want to go to Montreal anymore.

A brief but painful silence was broken when everyone in the hotel room broke into hysterical laughter.  

"Seamus?"  my brother asked, drunken drawl suddenly gone, "You there?"   

From amongst the crowd, Kevin grabbed for the phone, laughing while he tried to initiate a conversation.  

I hung up on him.  I hung up on all of them.  It took me at least 45 minutes to cool down.