by Chuck Vadun, from Mike Meyer’s notes
(In which three single men leave the workaday world behind for seven days and nights of gluttony, alcoholism and other hedonistic pursuits. These three men would probably not want their full names or home cities mentioned. Their full names are Tim Wade from Reno, and Mike Meyer and Chuck Vadun from San Diego.)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
At work, Tim had placed himself on termination, Mike’s project was probably going to be cancelled, and Chuck had just been assigned to a new division. However, things were looking up on the women front: Tim was interested in gorgeous Jennifer from Vegas, Mike had recently met the attractive Heather H. from Los Angeles, and Chuck was dating beautiful Heather S. in San Diego.
The guys had been working hard and needed a break, and none of their love interests was likely to collapse from grief at the thought of being separated from them for a week. It was the perfect time to head for Tim’s timeshare at the Royal Mayan, Cancun, Mexico.
Mike and Chuck’s flight was uneventful. Both chose unconsciousness over the in-flight movie: "Grease." The two San Diego guys were dropped at the wrong resort by their driver and humped their own bags from the Royal Islander to the Royal Mayan. They attempted to check in, but were denied due to lack of a letter from the owner (Tim). Chuck produced a hard copy of the e-mail Tim had sent him saying they should have no problem checking in. The front desk person looked at it and told Chuck she would need "another" letter.
Mike and Chuck left their bags with the bellboy, changed into their one-piece swimsuits, and crashed by the pool. The weather was sunny and warm with a pleasant breeze that brought sleep almost instantly.
Tim arrived at 2 and soon the San Diego guys had their first look at Tim’s Royal Mayan pleasure palace: an air-conditioned two-bedroom suite with an incredible view of the Caribbean. The three dropped their bags and headed back to the pool, where a particular young lady amused the three by sporting as pissed-off a look as you’d ever see. "Jeez, lighten up, this is vacation," Chuck said, under his breath.
For dinner, the guys bussed to Stefano’s, an Italian restaurant on the edge of Cancun, where gringos don't usually venture. The three conversed until their main courses arrived, at which point a silence fell over the table, broken only when forks were set down after their last bites. Dessert was tiramisu and a complimentary shot from the waiter.
Next, the guys bellied up to the bar at La Boom. It being only 9:30 p.m.—early by Cancun standards—there wasn’t much happening. So the boys fixated their attention on an attractive woman across the bar, chatting with a guy.
"Think they’re together?" Chuck asked.
"No," Mike answered.
"There’s no contact," Tim added.
No Contact Guy was merely the first of several men the Soap Opera Woman (so dubbed by the three) was to entertain that night. There was also Bartender Guy and Mauling Guy: Soap Opera Woman engaged in fierce tongue-wrestling and dirty-dancing with the latter. In the meantime, the guys amused themselves by watching the women who’d jumped up on the bar and were spraying tequila shots into the other patrons’ mouths. "Short skirts and bad aim," said Mike. Tim spotted another woman watching the entire scene with a disgusted look on her face.
The guys burned out early and left for home about 11:30. They met some women from New Jersey on the bus back. When Chuck asked, "What exit?" they all replied, "How did you know to ask that?" "Forgetaboutit," Chuck thought. Distracted by the boys' combined charm, the Jersey Girls missed the Señor Frog’s bus stop. Oops.
Sunday a familiar pattern was established. Tim would get out of bed at 7:30 and courteously allow his slacker buddies to sleep for another hour before waking them for the finest breakfast in the Western Hemisphere. (Mike ate fruit to help stave off his cold symptoms, Tim ate beans to ensure self-amusement throughout the day, and Chuck adjusted his already-dangerously-high cholesterol level by forking down heaps of scrambled eggs.) After breakfast, the boys hit the sports desk for towels around 9:15; Tim was at the pool and Mike and Chuck at the beach by 10.
Today the routine was interrupted by the Royal Resorts Welcome Party. The party had previously featured canoe races in the lagoon across the street. This year the highlight was a water-balloon toss. The three quickly decided to forego this lame activity. Mike and Chuck headed back to their sun chairs, while Tim returned to the suite to watch the Lakers crush the Sonics like bugs in the NBA playoffs. (One can only imagine Tim’s disappointment when the Lakers were swept like dust in the Western Conference finals by the Jazz a week later.)
The guys enjoyed dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steak House, in Chuck’s opinion the best oddly named place to get a steak south or north of the border. After-dinner beers were sampled at the new Santa Fe Brewery. A pissed (in the British sense: drunk) gent from Liverpool introduced himself to the three and chatted for awhile. The biggest laugh came when the Liverpudlian slurred, "So you’ve heard of The Beatles, right?"
Next up: Señor Frog’s. Tim’s disgust at the bar’s tasteless Dos Equis was soon mollified by the sight of a topless woman atop the waterslide. Chuck decided to practice his atrophied social skills, and ended up chatting with two separate sets of sisters from Toronto. "Pretty cool, eh?" he said. He also met a woman from Minnesota—whose snotty attitude made "Jenny" the first mean Minnesotan he’d ever encountered (other than the St. Paulites that spat on the guys’ rented minivan five years previously … but that’s another story).
The house band at Señor Frog’s, "Volcano," would play three songs, then take a "break" for an hour or so; women would then crowd onto the stage to dance. A group of three women were standing in front of the guys. Tim observed a set of other guys trying to pull off the "divide and conquer" strategy with the three women. "It’ll never work," the boys figured. However, one guy appeared to be making progress: he poured several shots down the throat of one of the ladies, following one of which she put her hand over her mouth and sprinted for the bathroom. She returned about fifteen minutes later, looking much better and more sympathetic to her benefactor’s moves.
The three returned home at 2 a.m., suitably buzzed and amused.
During the day, Mike observed topless women strolling along the beach. Chuck missed out as he slept to various CDs (the latest offerings from Madonna, Yes, The Verve and Page/Plant, to name a few).
For dinner, Chuck suggested the Fisherman’s Table. "A guy handed me this card in the airport and said the place serves the best seafood in Cancun. He wouldn’t lie about a thing like that," he said.
Bad idea. The Fisherman’s Table produced the first shitty meal of the trip. Bland, dry fish, unappealing rice and microwaved baked potatoes. The boys headed back home to await the night’s main event: a free trip to the Coco Bongo disco with other folks from the Royal Resorts.
On the bus ride to Coco Bongo, the boys met Corinne and Tom (from New Mexico), Karen (Tennessee), Kimberly (San Francisco; Karen’s sister and Tom’s former roommate) and Juan (Chicago; Kimberly’s boy-toy for the past two evenings). Once inside the voluminous establishment, this combined group staked out a spot at the top level overlooking the floor and began swilling Absolut, Dos Equis and tequila as if all three were going out of style at the speed of light.
Corinne insisted that each of the eight remove their shoes (Why? I never found out) and singled out Mike to strip to the waist (he declined). One musical highlight was Madonna’s "Frozen", during which Mme. Ciccone sings "If I could melt your heart/we’d never be apart." Shit-faced, Karen took Chuck’s hand, placed it on her sternum and told him, "Take mine! Take it!" Chuck laughed along with her, then turned to Tim and the three of them ordered more shots for everyone.
The group split up upon leaving. Tim bailed solo, Kimberly and Juan disappeared, Chuck rode the bus back with Karen and listened to her tales of managing a Subway and going to nursing school, and Mike provided bus fare for Tom and Corinne, also making sure they got off the bus at the right place.
After breakfast, the guys hit the beach and pool again. Tim and Chuck bumped into their friends from the previous night, lounging around the pool at the Royal Caribbean. Kimberly was contemplating buying a timeshare at the R.C. She said that she and Tom had once spent an afternoon in San Francisco drinking margaritas, after which she made the impulse purchase of a new BMW. "Where I live—Marin County—that stands for ‘Basic Marin Wheels,’" she said. She invited all three of the guys to Marin for her 30th birthday party at the end of June.
That afternoon, the combined group gathered again to take the Pirate Cruise to Isla Mujeres. The draw was all-you-can-drink-and-eat for $40 U.S. The boys donned dippy-looking pirate gear and boarded the boat determined to shanghai as many margaritas as possible. Tim looked around and wondered aloud if this was the geriatric version of the pirate cruise: "Some idiot woman even brought a pair of kids!" he observed. "Does this look like a good place for kids?"
The pirate ship’s crew, however, was a lively one. They led the guests in fast dance moves designed to speed the alcohol to the brain. Chuck, for one, could barely stand upright as the boat swayed, and marveled at the crew’s ability to dance on a roiling surface without falling or puking. Tim had already spotted pirate-girl Wendy, a blonde, petite Spanish version of Jennifer. Visions of Wendy un-swashbuckling his pantaloons and polishing his cutlass flooded Tim’s mind.
When at last the ship reached Isla Mujeres, the group walked the plank to a makeshift pirate village and queued up for a buffet dinner. Chuck remarked to his companions that eating hot refried beans in the 100-degree-plus temperature of the buffet enclosure was an experience he wouldn’t soon forget. The pirate crew performed a skit, mostly in Spanish, that failed to hold the interest of the group. Luckily the drinks were still flowing freely.
After dinner, it was time for another change of venue—down to the pirate harbor and pirate ship—and another round of skits. The best moment came when two women were twirling bolas with flaming ends—and one accidentally let go of one of hers. The bola flew onto the deck of the pirate ship, setting the deck on fire and sending pirates scrambling for fire extinguishers.
Once the fire was out and the skits completed, it was Limbo Time! Mike and Chuck’s showings were as pathetic as you’d expect from two straight white men. However, equally-straight-and-white Tim amazed the crowd by successfully limboing his six-feet-plus frame beneath the stick! Mike and Chuck congratulated him, but Tim was busy thinking of a way to commandeer Wendy’s vessel.
Controversy arose as Karen slow-danced with one of the Mexican pirate boys, and announced to her sister her intent to bring him back to the Royal Caribbean that night. The boys shied away from Kimberly’s ensuing shit-fit and gambled away their "doubloons" at faux-blackjack as the ship departed for Cancun. Chuck struck up a conversation with two women from Indiana, Monica and Sue, as the gambling tables were put away and the pirate crew began choosing people for that most horrid of "entertainment activities"—yes, karaoke.
The group disembarked, Chuck checking his ears for blood loss, and more controversy followed as Karen prepared to leave with her pirate guy to his place. Chivalrous Tim set the matter straight by pointing out to the pirate guy that he, Tim, was a much larger person and would be eager to kick the shit out of him should any harm come to Karen. That settled, the boys hoofed it to nearby Fat Tuesday’s without Tom and Corinne, who went AWOL. Once at Fat Tuesday’s, Mike chatted with Sue from Indiana, Chuck with Monica from Indiana, and Tim with Kimberly. This new grouping finally left Fat Tuesday’s at the crack of 2:30.
Mike awoke with a headache, but that didn’t stop him or the other guys from hunting down breakfast at 8:30 a.m. Another day of beaching and pooling ensued, with Chuck taking a break to chat with Monica and Sue. The boys planned to meet incoming pals Ann and Shannon (more about them in a moment) for dinner; the Indianans were invited too.
Ann and Shannon probably wouldn’t want their full names or hometown repeated here either. Their full names are Ann Anooshian and Shannon Keithly, and they’re both from Santa Barbara. Shannon won the trip for two to Cancun. The ladies had arrived Tuesday night and were eager to hook up with the fun-loving protagonists of our story.
The restaurant chosen for the evening was Los Almendros, located just across from the bullfighting ring in downtown Cancun. It was a good long walk from the bus stop, and Monica and Sue, who weren’t taking cabs anywhere if they could help it, never showed. "Probably because of the location," Mike said. "Why else wouldn’t they come?" Chuck asked rhetorically.
The boys weren’t unencumbered by female companionship for long. Ann and Shannon arrived at the restaurant—via taxi—and greeted the guys warmly. Dinner was disappointing, however; the menu promised central American-style cuisine with traditional spices of the Yucatan but the gang’s meals were bland across the board.
Tim had warned the guys that Ann and Shannon were epic partyers. Ann began the night’s drinking with a shot at the restaurant, then got everyone into the act once the gang arrived at La Boom. It would be the first of two open-bar nights with the ladies, and the five set out at once to get their money’s worth. Plus, it would be Ann’s 30th birthday at midnight—another excuse (as if one were needed) to throw back a few.
The music was good, the best so far—a decent mix of 80s and 90s rock and dance tunes. However, when "Semi-Charmed Life" came on, with its annoying-as-fuck "doo, doo, doo, doo-doo doo-doo" chorus, Chuck vented his spleen: "Christ, I hate this song!" Tim and Mike laughed at the annoyed Chuck and said they liked the song just fine. The next song was "Two Princes" by the Spin Doctors and the boys did agree with Chuck when the tequila spoke through him and opined, "Listen to this—it’s the same fucking song!"
Eventually the five all found their way to the dance floor at the same time, grooving, drinking, and laughing at Ann’s frequent trips to the bathroom. Shannon told Chuck, "You dance pretty good for a white boy." Shortly thereafter, several of the five spotted a woman dancing topless on the bar. One more piece of evidence, the guys agreed, that Cancun is indeed a magical place.
Eventually the five left and ended up at Ann and Shannon’s hotel, bathing their tired feet in the swimming pool. The exhausted Tim crashed in a deck chair and, later, in the girls’ room. Being (or at least aspiring to be) gentlemen, Mike and Chuck revived the groggy Tim and cabbed back to the Mayan, arriving at 3 a.m. to find the walls of Tim’s timeshare spinning rapidly.
Thursday showed the boys were not bulletproof. Eight-thirty came and went with them still in their racks. Eventually they made it to breakfast after Ann and Shannon called to say they’d be over, but not soon. The five eventually all gathered at the pool, where they chatted about how hot it was and teased Ann about her thong bikini. Chuck offered up the thong joke he’s told a thousand times: "I have one of those, but I like to wear it backwards." Ann and Shannon were predictably grossed out.
Tim had been honing his volleyball skills each afternoon. On this day, Ann, Shannon and Chuck joined him at the beach court for a couple of games. Shannon and Chuck soon bailed out from the heat, but Tim and Ann made a respectable showing. After a quick dip in the Caribbean, it was back to the pool, where some kids were playing "Marco Polo." This would have remained merely annoying had the father of one of the kids not decided to join in the game. "MAR-co," this clueless fuck bellowed again and again, oblivious to the dirty looks being shot at him from all directions.
After a quick respite in the air-conditioned suite, the five went to enjoy Happy Hour, with Bushwackers, Coronas, chips and salsa. Ironically, this was the only time the gang had a serious conversation, talking about relationships, jobs, goals, family—all that stuff late twentysomethings and early thirtynothings are interested in.
The group’s energy level ebbed as they played cards for tequila shots, and then dutifully watched the final episode of "Seinfeld"—an anticlimax if ever there was such a thing. Heroically, the five set out for the bars. Shannon hadn’t eaten anything all day, and the rest of the group realized they were hungry, too, it being close to 11 p.m. They settled for the Rainforest Café, a place with two strikes against it as it was a) a chain restaurant and b) located in a mall. However, the food was excellent and the dining experience enjoyable. Chuck told the others that the rainforest-style décor made it "like eating in a real theme restaurant."
The group went back to Coco Bongo, where a good time had been had on Monday night, but it wasn’t the same. Expensive drinks, lousy music and annoying people—though Mike won a territorial dispute with another dancer—made this night the only semi-bummer of the trip. The five were home by the early hour of 2 a.m.
One last day. The guys had to make it count. They got up on time for breakfast and promptly assumed their positions at the beach and pool. Ann and Shannon joined them a little after noon. Tim and Chuck participated in the volleyball tournament at 2 p.m. Tim told Chuck they should split up to have a better chance at one of them winning the ultimate prize: a free t-shirt. Chuck’s loyalty to Tim, however, proved stronger than 100% combed cotton, and the two joined up with what looked to be the better players for the five-on-five tournament.
As there were only enough players for two teams, the best-of-three finals began immediately. Tim and Chuck’s team was beaten like stepchildren in game one, yet rallied to win game two. By now Tim and Chuck (and everyone else on the court) were wilting from the intense Cancun heat. Game three, however, proved fiercely competitive, with Tim and Chuck’s team losing 15-12. Chuck figured, oh well, wait until next year; Tim’s thoughts were more like "FUCK FUCK FUCK." The guys wasted no time plunging into the refreshing Caribbean.
The whole group reconvened under Mike’s chosen palapa (umbrella in gringo-speak) and planned the evening’s events. Then it was back to the pool, where some children were engaged in an only-mildly-irritating game of "Marco Polo." Back at the suite, the five alternated between showering and sleeping in preparation for the guys’ last night.
Dinner was at the Royal Mayan’s own restaurant, just steps away from the suite. The five didn’t have a reservation, so Tim promised the maitre d’ the group would eat fast if they could be served. Ann and Shannon’s natural energy was stifled somewhat by the formal atmosphere of the restaurant: "I feel like we have to behave in here," Ann said. The meal was excellent and the group was captivated by the tableside preparation of Mike’s dessert: bananas flambé.
The group got on the bus and was treated to their fastest ride yet. Their destination: the club Dady Rock (nope, no typo). The cover charge was $15 U.S. for open bar (no charge for the ladies, of course) and, led by Ann and Shannon, the boys quickly earned back the price of admission. One estimate had the each of the five putting down four tequila shots, three kamikazes and two beers within the first hour. (This estimate becomes more plausible when you consider the first hour was also spent suffering through karaoke.)
The alcohol worked its black magick, and soon the five were dancing on tables, climbing ladders for shots, and buying shots from passing waitresses. Chuck returned to the group’s table to the evening’s most incredible sight: Mike with his head between the breasts of a tall woman wearing a black tank top and blowing a sports whistle. Turns out the woman was a waitress who’d "convinced" Mike to enjoy a series of "body shots" with her. Mike imbibed from shotglasses strategically placed not only in the woman’s cleavage, but in the front of her waistband and her butt-crack as well.
Next, it was the waitress’s turn, and the group howled with delight and eagerly snapped photos of her taking shots off of Mike’s body. Tim and Chuck were the next "victims" and much glee was expressed by all. Mike counted 23 body shots taken between the three guys.
Shannon ran off with a guy she’d met. The boys alternated dancing with Ann and playing air guitar along with the band. Around this time, Tim’s and Chuck’s memory banks quit accepting deposits. According to Mike, Mike took two powerful "syringe shots"—drinks sprayed directly into his mouth by yet another helpful waitress. Also, a particular woman began pointing at Mike and mouthing words at him. The same woman cornered Chuck and began to talk to him while still pointing at Mike. Chuck had no recollection of this woman when told about her the next day. And when Tim was told the next week that the guys were playing air guitar with the band, he replied, "There was a band?"
Alas, all good things must end. Chuck vaguely remembers being told "We’re leaving" by one of the group. Once back at the suite, Mike figured the guys had three hours of sleep time before having to get up and get ready to leave. When the alarm rang at six a.m. Mike hit the snooze button and got into the shower. He got out a few minutes later and found the alarm blaring right next to the still-unconscious Chuck’s head.
Mike woke Chuck, and eventually the San Diegans bid Tim a mumbled farewell. Vacation 1998 was all over but the returning home. "It’ll be good to get home, don’t you think?" Chuck asked Mike. "What, are you nuts?" he replied.
Some vacations open up new horizons. Some vacations soothe the soul. And some vacations just kick ass. By doing the latter, the Cancun 1998 trip managed to accomplish all three.
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Copyright © 1998 Chuck Vadun. Anyone who believes that this story offers the complete, unmitigated, objective truth should contact the author for some excellent real estate deals.