Meanwhile…
While I was still reeling from the destruction I had witnessed, Ryan was partying with Jamaicans on an island. It wasn’t exactly what you would consider a tropical island though, unless you are a penguin.
His bumps started well before mine. It was a three hour drive north to get to his job and as always it was down to the wire. He tried to explain this urgency to the state trooper but failed to get his point across. The cop was nice enough to take the infraction down from “95 in a 70″ to “77 in a 70″. However with the broken tail light and failure to sign the back of his registration, Ryan still managed to clear $300 in tickets. Nothing like working for free.
And he was still running late. This was compounded by the fact that all of his equipment had to be loaded on to a ferry, shipped over to the island, loaded on to a flatcart and then hauled to the hotel. By horses. Welcome to Mackinac Island.
For those of you outside of Michigan, let me state for the record that “Mackinac” is pronounced MACKINAW. Why? Because that’s what the French settlers were told by the Mishinimaki Indians, presumably after they had shared several bottles of Cognac. Back in the 1600’s there was absolutely nothing to do on the island but get snookered. Not much has changed since then as Ryan would discover.
Mackinac has steadily refused to enter the 19th century and continues to ban all cars on the island. Their pollution is considerably lower than the rest of the state, unless you count the 300 tons of horseshit covering the island. So Ryan’s equipment was pulled uphill at a blistering 5 miles per hour. Miraculously, he still managed to start the job on time.
His event, a corporate party of some kind, went without any of the drama I had experienced. He was a little grumpy at not receiving a tip to cover his speeding tax. The Jamaicans were quickly able to cheer him up. Ryan was wearing a Jamaica tshirt from his honeymoon, and that was all it took for him to bond with the Jamaican waitstaff. What the hell Jamaicans were doing on Mackinac Island is anyone’s guess (bobsled training maybe?)
They invited Ryan to “POWER HOUR” at a bar called the Pink Pony. When he told me this on the phone I insisted it had to be a gay bar. As priceless as that would have been, it was just a regular bar. The only thing that set it apart was it had it’s happy hour from midnight to 1am. Any and all drinks = $1. POWER HOUR baby!
Ryan only caught the last 30 minutes of POWER HOUR. In that time he still managed to ingest more alcohol than I have consumed in four years. 13 Jager Bombs and 5 Crown and 7’s. He even took time to make out with one of the patrons. He refused to hookup though, as he was married and she was not. Ah drunk logic.
POWER HOUR ended and Ryan decided to head back to the hotel. The horse taxis were done for the night though, so his only option was to “borrow” one of the bicycles strewn in front of the bar. Now remember how hard it was the last time you tried to ride a bike after 13 Jager Bombs? Just imagine trying to do it in the dark. It was a miracle he made it as far as he did before hitting the rock.
A few stitches in his shoulder later, Ryan finally made it back to the hotel. He found his room covered in ice. The staff apologized and said they would have the heat up and running again in a matter of hours. Sleep was not an option, so in the best traditions of the Mishinimaki, he poured himself another Crown and 7.
If you would like more information on Mackinac Island’s rich history, or how to make a Jager Bomb, please visit your local library.