Jésus, The Passion of the, Book I

(Note: All names have been changed to protect the guilty, and really we are all guilty of something.)

It all started out like a normal weekend; a long bus ride to Boston. The boy and I were staying at the Westin in Copley on Friday and were planning to stay with Monanna on Saturday. We met up with Mon at a friend's for meat-on-sticks, awkward sexual tension between Mon and Francis and the Sox game. Then we met up with Andy at a place called The Purple Shamrock, the coochiest frat bar I've ever been to, filled with lite-n-spikeys, hemp necklaces and the absolute worst wedding band I'd ever heard.

Monanna and Andy left to meet up with another friend and Larry and I went back to the hotel for some, um, pinochle. Our plan was for Monanna to pick us up at the Starbucks on Boyleston at noon the next day. After a relaxing evening of, um, pinochle, we hauled our luggage to the 'Bucks and waited, a little worried because I couldn't get ahold of Mon on her cell. Knowing her all too well, I figured she'd passed out from partying and had overslept. Reliable she is but on time she is not. No matter, I had my caramel macchiato and a good view of a bunch of overweight men trying to build the finish line for the marathon.

Sometime after noon a 'Bucks employee comes up to us and says, "Excuse me, are either one of you Larry or Michael?"

"Why, yes," we say, "We both are." He hands us a phone. Apparently we have a call. At Starbucks. I'm beginning to feel like a celebrity.

Larry fields the call. It's, of course, Monanna. She left her cell phone and purse at a bar last night and didn't have my phone number. Or her money or ID. She'll be about an hour. She wants us to meet her on Newberry Street at Stephanie's for lunch. The Starbucks employee is hovering over us as if the second we get done with the call we're going to bolt down the street with his phone.

Larry gives the phone back and looks at me intently. "I really wish you'd talked to her." I ask why. "Well," he replies, "Apparently she woke up this morning in a hotel room. With a sailor. In Portsmouth." Beat. "New Hampshire." My first thought was not, 'Oh my God,' or 'How did this happen?' or 'What was she thinking?' No, my first thought was, 'well, this one's new.'

I immediately call Andy: "Um, what did you do last night after we left?"
"Monanna lost her earring so we spent a half hour last night looking for it, then I went home. Why?"
"Apparently that's not all she lost."
"Excuse me?"
"So where did she go after you left?"
"The Hong Kong, I think."
"By herself?"
"Yes, why?"
"So you have no idea how she ended up in a hotel room with a sailor in New Hampshire?"
Pause. "Excuse me?"

Larry and I are now left to ponder a few things: Exactly how did Mon (aka Wham Bam Dawson) end up in Portsmouth? If she had no purse, how was she getting back? And how did she think she'd get to us in an hour? And when she did, would she have transportation to get us to Cambridge or were we going to have to drag all of our luggage through the T? And how did the Starbucks employee know exactly who we were?

However, I am quickly distracted from our predicament by the sight a few tables over. I point it out to Larry, who cries a bit too loudly, "Holy shit." A sixty year old bald queen is sitting at one of the tables. He is wearing brown loafers, checkered golf pants, a navy mock turtleneck and Andy Warhol glasses. This, in and of itself, is not a "holy shit" moment. However, sitting on the chair next to him is a My Buddy doll, wearing brown loafers, checkered golf pants, a navy mock turtleneck and Andy Warchol glasses. I kept waiting for Catherine Zeta-Jones to freeze time and hand me a picture phone. At this point there were no words to describe how my weekend was turning out.

As Larry and I strolled over to Newberry, we had no idea what was in store for us...