Wally Balls is an old friend of mine.  Big and I have know Wally since high-school.  After a few years of community college, Wally moved to Rochester to attend RIT.  Since then, I can count the number of times I’ve seen Wally on two hands.

A week ago I found out Wally was back in town.  We got together for lunch and made plans to go out Saturday night.  Unfortunately, a plan is just a list of things that never happen.  I left several messages with Wally on Saturday morning.  By afternoon he called me from the road to tell me he had left town early.

I was not happy.

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I can still feel the Icy Hot on my back.  I took the back patch off and showered, but the menthol sensation persists.  This is a good thing – between the residual effects of the pain patch and a bit of whiskey, I’m just numb enough not to care . . .

It was a working weekend for me.  A long weekend.  Hack and I were hatching plans the other night.  Vegas.  Montreal.  Anywhere the action is.

I’d take Montreal over Vegas, I think.  Hookers are much cheaper there.  Strippers too, for that matter . . . not that there’s much of a difference.

A stripper once complained to me about professional football players.  I tried to pay attention, squinting to look interested.

“Those cheap bastards only tip like $30 bucks on a dance!  Even some of the regular dirtbags in here will tip a girl $300 . . . “

For a lousy wiggle?  I thought.  You’ve got to be kidding.  You don’t even take your tops off in the lapdance area.  That ain’t a good deal

“You’ve never been swimming in the ocean!?”

Hack didn’t believe me.  I lived on the Gulf for almost a year and never once touched the water there.  The beaches are man-made, the water brown and filthy.  Swimming was low on my to-do list.

Rhode Island, on the other hand, was beautiful.  Despite the rocky coast, the beaches were sunny and warm.  We hunted unsuccessfully for lobster.  The only clawed shellfish we could find were two mating crabs.  We harassed them, but they refused to separate.

As it turns out, I don’t even own swimming trunks.  I’ve purchased several pairs, but I have a habit of frequently paring down my wardobe to eliminate anything that isn’t a black Hanes T-shirt.  I put on a pair of grappling shorts and charged into the water.

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