"You suck!" Buck's voice booms. "It's 11:45 and you're sleeping your Saturday away. I wanna get lunch. I'm dropping my equipment off at the shipyard and coming by. Yesterday was my birthday, you know, you bastard!"
I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and hit the erase button. Buck sounds equally irritated on the next message, which he leaves only minutes after the first one. I'm a tad hung over from one too many mojitos the night before, but not so bad that I don't get a kick out of his hissy fit.
"Wake up, you lazy bastard!" Buck hollers. The messages are on my cell phone, but he yells as if it's a conventional answering machine; he yells as if I might be able to actually hear him while lying in bed. This cracks me up.
Buck works most Saturday mornings, a period that rarely finds me conscious. Quitting time for him usually comes around noon, and by then he has been up for about seven hours busting his ass in the hot Florida sun. By noon, he's ready for a hearty meal and multiple rounds of beer. Today, I'll oblige him. After all, his big "Still wild at 30" surprise birthday bash tips off at 7:15 sharp.
I slowly rise from bed and take inventory of the night before. Friday evening found me at a house party in honor of our summer interns. The two male interns, the ones from Yale, are the brave little fellas who posed naked for this week's cover story. Luckily, they kept their clothes on at the going-away bash. So did I. Which is good. Because not only were my editor and publisher in attendance but so was our corporate CEO.
Relieved that I have nothing to worry about when I walk into work Monday, I call Buck. We meet at the Deck Pizza & Pub. Because there is no water in my fridge (I refuse to drink South Tampa tap water) the first fluid I put in my body is Miller Lite, from a pitcher, from a keg that must have just been tapped, because the beer is warm. I take a long hit anyway. We scarf down several tasty slices of thin cheese pizza and watch the Little League World Series. Canada kicks the shit out of Saudi Arabia. We applaud.
By the time Mexico is battling The Netherlands, Buck has put away three slices and enough beer to set him down a path of daylong debauchery. The plan is for our pals Casey and Jay to take Buck bowling and then bring him to the Green Iguana on Anderson Road, where the surprise party will go down.
Errands to run. Work to do. That's why I can't hit the lanes, I tell Buck. In reality, the pizza and beer breakfast has made me sleepy. I need a nap before the long night ahead.
"Come on, man, come bowling, I feel like tying one on today," Buck whines.
I remind him that his wife has a special evening planned for them. He thinks they are going out to dinner. But I can tell by the look in his eyes that the drinking will continue with voracity through the afternoon and evening and night.
"It's my 30th birthday," he says with a shrug and a grin. "I see no reason why I should not get completely loaded."
I finally break free so that Buck can be picked up to go bowling. When I arrive around 6:45 at the humungous Green Iguana off Anderson, it comes as no surprise to me that Buck's devoted wife has set up a sectioned-off bar area that includes free beer and a buffet of food — plus plenty of noisy party favors, confetti and balloons to fuck with as the night progresses.
Dozens of family and friends await Buck's arrival. I tell Bernie and a couple other guys Buck and I have known since our days at Gaither High School that the birthday boy has been knocking 'em back since noon.
"I'm afraid Casey and Jay are going to have to carry his ass in here," I tell Bernie.
"[Buck's wife] won't like that," he replies, laughing.
Fortunately, Buck, like most of the rest of us in attendance, has the tolerance of a rhino and appears genuinely touched and surprised as he walks in through the door.
"You guys are the best," Buck says while hoisting a bottle of Miller Lite. He then somehow manages to blow out the 30 candles that line his chocolate cake. After catching up with old friends and throwing back a few mandatory shots with the birthday boy, I say goodbye around 10:30, with most of the crowd still yukking it up.
"You knew about this all along?" Buck asks me.
"Yeah, man, [your wife's] been planning this for more than a month."
Buck shakes his head and smiles, his eyes glittering from a long day of good times.
Deck Pizza and Pub, 2202 W. Platt St., Tampa, 813-250-1525; Green Iguana, 9802 Anderson Road, Tampa, 813-288-9076.
This article appears in Aug 22-28, 2007.