“Excuse me,” I said, “do bras come in size perfect, because I’d buy that for you.” She didn’t answer me. I didn’t take the hint. “Seriously, what’s your cup size?” She turned to face the brick wall.
I went up to the next single woman. There were two of them sitting together. I studied my imaginary watch and said, “Our long term relationship starts…. now.” She and her girlfriend both got up and walked away. Suffice to say they weren’t impressed.
How did Alex do it?
I told one woman there wasn’t a word in the dictionary for how good she looked. I asked another for the time, but before she could give it to me I said, because I have the energy. I told another woman I made more money than she could possibly spend, and then I asked another if she liked the Beatles. Apparently she didn’t like the Beatles.
There was even an elder woman who looked like she could have been around in the sixties or something. “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” She nodded her head in total confusion and swiveled on her chair until the broadside of her back was facing me. And here I thought all old ladies liked that line. Maybe I shouldn’t have given up so easily on the Beatles. Surely she liked the Beatles. Nothing was sticking. I was quickly running out of material. I made up my mind to approach one last woman. I told her I may not look like much now, but I was drinking milk and getting strong.
“I saw you with a marriage ring on,” she said.
“Um, you must be thinking of someone else.”
“No,” she said loud enough for several others to hear. “I saw you take a wedding ring off of your finger and stick it in your pocket.”
A couple of guys laughed.
“I’m divorced,” I said.
“I saw you right over there. You had a wedding ring on not ten minutes ago, and nobody’s served you any divorce papers. The only thing you’ve been served all night is Johnnie Walker and rejection.”
More laughing.
I couldn’t recall a time when I’d been so humiliated. I left Cain with my head sunk down, hands slugged in my pockets, and thoroughly ashamed of my behavior. This wasn’t me. Maybe I wasn’t a New Yorker after all. I imagined God was probably crossing his arms and shaking his furious head right then. But my redemption would come. I walked halfway back to Cousin Joe’s townhouse with the hope that Leah Bishop would call. I knew she would, any minute now. We would finally be back together, and when that happened life would be wonderful again. I checked my cell phone. She still hadn’t called. I walked the rest of the way to Cousin Joe’s townhouse with terrible the realization that she’d probably been playing me for a fool all along.
13
Just as I’d suspected, Alex was a wreck throughout the wedding. He showed up two hours late, sunglasses glued to his eyes, and gave the impression to almost everyone that he didn’t want to be there. We photographed an early morning session of the bride and groom’s first meeting in Rockefeller Center with a ceremony afterwards just around the corner at Saint Patrick’s cathedral. I threw all of my emotion, anger, loneliness and rage into my performance (I told them to work it several times) and I must say, the photographic results were stunning – probably some of my best work ever.
The reception venue was held in Chelsea Park with a sweeping view of the Hudson River. It was different scenery but the landscape within was wholly familiar. I’d seen it all across America, one coast to the other. A line snaked around the room for the open bar. Wedding singers belted out Billboard toppers with as much passion and familiarity as though wailing private songs from their own diary. Grandma and Grandpa sat in their chairs staring at centerpieces while the young dominated the floor and Mother proudly showed off her new husband to old friends Oh, and haven’t you all heard? Bill has an advanced degree. I’ve heard that same line countless times before, only a different name. Her ex husband was on stage, half-slugged bottle in his hand, feather flapping like a crazy mad man with his dilated eyes hinged on the wedding singers scrumptious legs, exquisite butt, succulent breasts and thighs. I’d seen this wedding before in cities across America, same indoor scene – different venue.
Not so thrilling was the reception across the hall. I stumbled upon it while wandering around seeking out a men’s restroom. I peeked my head in. Children were dominating the floor as the disk jockey jammed the Hokey Pokey on his turntable. Not exactly what I was expecting in New York City on a Saturday night. Dozens of young adults were held hostage in their chairs, numbering the minutes until it was over. I counted several yawns among their ranks. I figured the pick-up lines had to be easy. Do you like the Beatles? I sure do. Let’s skip this joint and screw in the bathroom. I finally found the restroom, alone mind you, and returned to my reception. Nobody was having sex in it.
“Joshua!” A woman said.
It was Linda, the bride whose union I’d photographed in Chicago only several weeks before. She waved hands from her table and beckoned me to come over. She rose from her seat, wrapped her arms around me, and kissed my cheek, then returned to her newlywed husband Daniel (he was a shortstop for the Chicago Cubs). Her younger sister sat at her side. Erica was the maid-of-honor yet again, just as she was at the last wedding. They’d be a fool not to.
“I saved you a seat,” Linda said.
I didn’t argue.
“You two look handsome a couple as ever.” I clamped fingers over my tie and tucked my camera on my lap as I scooted into the chair. “Still fresh off the honeymoon and everything, and all the way from Lake Michigan.”
“Yes, it is a small world after all.” Linda smiled.
“I must admit I’m a sucker for that ride.” I turned to Linda’s younger sister. “And Erica, I’ve been saying this all day, but I’ll say it again – always a pleasure.”
“Please don’t stop now. I forget easily.” Erica blushed. “And besides, the feeling is clearly mutual.”
I liked the way she blushed, sitting there as cute as a bug in her stunning dress. She was so young and teeming with life and yet the bridesmaid gown gave her the gift of maturity beyond her years.
From across the reception hall Alex was watching us.
“It’s so good to see you. I know it hasn’t even been two months yet since our wedding, but whenever you come out to Chicago, promise you’ll let me know, even if we can only get together for breakfast or dinner or something. But I have this feeling, since you’re here to photograph the wedding of a bridesmaid from my own wedding, and now my younger sister is her bridesmaid, and I still have six others engaged or soon to be engaged – that I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.”
“The pictures looked great,” Daniel said. “We couldn’t be happier with them.”
“Yes.” Erica smiled like the cute little bug that she was. “I’ve never had anyone take my picture quite like that. I posted them on Facebook, if that’s OK. Everybody keeps raving about them and saying I should become a model.”
“Erica, I’ve never once bought a single copy of COSMO. But if you get your picture in there, I’ll be a subscriber.”
“The way you capture things, I don’t know how you do it,” Linda said. “I guess I’m being cheesy here, but I get this feeling that we’re somehow eternally connected, you and I. I don’t know, maybe it’s just the photographs.”
“I don’t think it’s just the photographs.”
“How is it,” Alex jumped into our conversation, “that everywhere I go people keep talking about how eternally connected they are with this guy here? I’m practically married to Joshua these days, and let me just tell you…”
“It’s because there’s something so spiritual,” Erica interrupted him, “not so much about what Joshua does for a living, but the way he goes about clicking them. Each shot, they’re dripping with spiritual contemplation, artistry, and emotion.”
“I have to say,” I slumped back into my chair, “and I’m not trying to be silly, but I truly believe the best worship sessions I’ve ever had were behind the lens of a camera.”
Linda sunk into her own smile. Daniel seemed pleased with my contemplation, and Erica, well, she just looked cute as a bug if ever I’d seen one. I liked the way Erica had been eyeing me all throughout the day, just as she’d done at her elder sisters wedding. I wanted to ask her if she’d like to see me afterwards, but the courage just hung there in my throat. There was nothing left for me at home, but if the Boston bridesmaid didn’t work out, there was always the cute little bridesmaid from New York.
“You truly are an incredible person, Joshua,” she said.
“The feeling is mutual.”
As I stood back up on my feet to make another round of photography I caught sight of the wedding photographer from the Hokey Pokey reception across the hall. He was prying his head in for a better view of our party and looking thoroughly demoralized, the poor sap. I guess the grass sometimes really is greener on the other side. Weary dancers were still maneuvering the floor to the words and tunes of the wedding singer (she was singing Addicted to Love), drinkers guzzled alcohol from the all you can chug bar while Mother showcased her second husbands advanced education and Father hawked a fine seat warmer. The photographer lowered his head and left to return from the funeral where he’d just come. If I had to put money on it, the DJ was probably playing the funky chicken dance.
But I suspected our wedding reception was old news by now, because what happened next was a scene that I’d never photographed before. Wedding crashers. Victims from the Hokey Pokey funeral across the hall were apparently taking flight like dust bowl croppers from a Steinbeck novel…. and staking their refugee camp here. I stood next to the bride and groom as they fingered the vastly expanding number of guests crowding the line for their open bar.
The groom smiled (he worked for one of the top publishing houses in the country). “Did we ever invite quite so many guests tonight?”
14
“Tell me again,” Alex said on our late night walk back to Cousin Joe’s, “why you and other people grow so attached to each other. Its just photography.”
I waited until the crazy guy shuffled past us, violently twitching his head and talking to himself. “It’s not just photography, Alex. And secondly, there’s a reason why that guy was just conversing with himself.”
“Because he’s crazy.”
“That, or because nobody wants to go through life alone.”
15
It was a lazy Sunday and I was in my usual day after the wedding coma. Cousin Joe and Natalia had taken Alex and I to a hipster bar in Greenwich Village for lunch called Drink.Well. We were seated at an outside table and Cousin Joe wanted to discuss my lackluster performance at Cain the other night. It was apparently his newfound mission in life to get me laid, now that Elise was practically out of the picture. I wanted to drop it, but since the topic had gone viral, Alex persisted. I guess it was his mission in life too.
“Look, who cares about pick-up lines?” I finally said. “I don’t think I could have gone home with any of those lovely girls had I wanted to.”
“What are you, an eleventh century Galahad who fell into a thousand year Rip Van Winkle and woke up in the twenty-first century?” Alex scowled.
“I love that book,” I said.
“Chivalry is dead.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Come on, Joshua. You’re a dinosaur,” Joe said. “Your latching onto these crippling values, and meanwhile the world is passing you by.”
“You know, the democrats and republicans are looking a lot alike right now.” I cross-examined both Alex and Joe.
Natalia just sat there silently at the table staring at me.
“I’m not saying that morals and values aren’t important,” Joe continued, “but so many of them go against the grain of evolution. Society itself has picked apart the unnecessary chains of medieval thinking. Meanwhile the religious community is doing everything in its power to dig them out of the trash and hold us accountable to them. It’s like Alex said. Chivalry is a lost cause.”
“What good is it if I conquered the whole world and lost my soul?” I said.
Alex and Joe laughed at the very thought of it.
Cousin Joe leaned back into his chair. “Don’t tell me that you actually believe in hell and stuff.”
“It depends on what you mean by hell.”
“Fire and brimstone.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” Alex said.
“No I’m not. I believe there’s a hell as much as I believe there’s a heaven. At the risk of sounding old fashioned….”
“Too late,” Alex snorted.
I ignored him.
“Jesus made a clear-cut promise. A day was coming when he’d return as the groom to marry his bride, and I believe that. It was a favorite topic of his. When that happens the wedding feast is going to be the party of the ages. It’s going to be a packed house with the finest prime rib, the most exceptional wine, merriment, and dancing. And here’s the kicker. Whenever Jesus talked about this feast for the ages, he’d emphasize the individuals who continually rejected the invite and stood now outside after the doors were locked, grinding and gnashing their teeth.”
“Grinding and gnashing their teeth?”
“That’s it. That’s hell, anger, envy, resentment, and above all else, a deliverance not from but to our own self-destructive misery. Look, I don’t know if there’s fire and brimstone and frankly I don’t care. I do however want to be at that party.”
“And that’s hell,” Joe said. “Rejecting the party invite. Teeth gnashing.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Well, I believe in a loving God.” Alex smirked. “And a loving God wouldn’t send anyone to hell.”
“And you believe this,” Natalia finally said. Her accent was thick with Moscow. “That Jesus is going to marry the believers and throw one big feast.”
“You don’t?”
“I was born in the USSR. My father was a communist to the day he died.”
“Not only do I believe it, I hope I’m able to photograph it.”
“Oh, I get it.” Alex snorted through his nose. “The wedding photographer.” He looked to Joe and Natalia for approval, but neither was willing to give it.
Natalia even rolled her eyes at him.
“Alex, all I’m trying to say is there are consequences to our actions. What we say and do and think matters. Forget the fire and brimstone for a moment. What those rich, successful, selfish fools on the outside of the wedding feast wouldn’t do, in all of their envy and misery, and most importantly separated from God’s presence, to trade their worldly lap of luxuries for the eternal riches of the wedding guest.”
Alex brushed it off. “You’re acting high and mighty. Just a couple of days ago you were going off with that flight attendant. What makes you so different from the people on the outside?”
“In many ways, absolutely nothing. I’m a Christian because I believe I’m the chief of all sinners. Paul said it first. I recognize that I’m created in God’s image and I fall short of that. That’s what people don’t understand. Christians, true Christians, aren’t the ones pointing their fingers at others. We’re pointing the finger at ourselves. But the beauty is God meets us where we’re at in the mire, and it’s because of this that I want to live an honorable life.”
“I like this,” Natalia said. “What you say about God meeting you in the mire.”
“I’ll meet you in the mire, baby,” Cousin Joe smiled.
Now Natalia rolled her eyes at him.
16
The weather forecast promised a high of 84 degrees as I jogged across the Brooklyn Bridge with countless other runners and bikers, dripping of sweat. Cousin Joe and Natalia had decided to come along. Natalia wasn’t much of a jogger, and her limbs moved in awkward, almost humorous rhythms and angles, but her ridiculously long legs kept up with us, even if she was slow for someone her size. We’d just made it to the Brooklyn side, rotated around and set our sight
s on the greatest city in the world (I took careful note of the two missing Twin Towers), when my cell phone rang.
It was Andrea, my mother-in-law.
“Andrea,” I spoke into the speaker as we started up the last half of our run. “Always a pleasure. That’s two phone calls in one decade. You’re spoiling me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re actually going through with this disaster.”
“You’re right. There’s a lot riding on the upcoming election. Of course, depending on the Electoral College and whom the majority of Americans vote for, disaster may just yet be avoided.”
Silence took hold from her end.
“What are you talking about?”
She sounded drunk. It was just after 3pm in New York City, which meant it was only noon back home in Long Beach. Of course, it was a Sunday, and that meant brunch. She’d probably been slugging down mimosas since the time that either of us woke up.
“Politics, you?”
“Politics? I was talking about my family.”
“Same thing.”
“I just thought you should know I don’t support my daughter marrying that man. I’m telling all of my children and their spouses the same thing, and that I expect them not to show. Don’t think I’ll go all the way up to San Francisco just to witness my daughter’s life get ruined.”
“His name is Charlie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The man who’s ruining your daughter’s life. Charlie. It’s on the invite if you don’t believe me.”
“Well, she’s making a horrible mistake. He’s a nurse, and probably gay or something. I guess there’s no cure for stupidity. And the fact that it’s being held at the Sisters home. Those two fat tubs of lard, they’ve hated me and plotted to ruin my family for years. They probably planned Josephine’s entire demise, those crafty skanks.”
“Hey, I just remembered something. Didn’t you protest my marriage with Elise?”
“I rest my case,” she said.
“How silly we all were. Actually, now that I think about it, the last time you called me up, it was to have me come over and break up my relationship with Elise, something to do with not paying for her college tuition if we stayed together. You should be happy to know that we’ve almost paid it off.”
Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1) Page 31