“That’s silly. I wouldn’t have said stork because storks bring news of babies, not weddings. You think we’re trying to tell everyone that she’s only getting married because she’s pregnant, like this is the woman-hating nineteen-fifties all over again?”
“Storks can perfectly well visit weddings if they please.” Aunt Patty turned her head to the side. “Are you stressing that we segregate storks from swans, like colored people, thereby catapulting us like barbaric man-beasts back into the fifties all over again?”
I closed the door to Charlie’s dressing room before I could hear Nancy’s reply. I had no doubt they’d come up with their solution by revisiting the sixties.
4
Josephine selected a woman as their wedding day photographer. Her name was Carmen, and she was on the floor taking pictures of Charlie at various crooked and sometimes upside down angles as I straightened his tie. I wondered if she thought of herself as womyn with a y rather than woman. I consider pouring her a cup of coffee and letting her fingers try the WOMYN mug on for size simply to see how she warmed up to it.
“What are the Sisters arguing about?” Charlie said.
“I don’t know, something about there being a stork and not a swan in the backyard. Don’t worry. As your best man, I’m on top of things.”
“They’re finding their solution in the sixties, aren’t they?”
“Last I left off, they were in the barbaric fifties. You can only assume the sixties will follow.”
Carmen’s oversized camera lens, a 400 millimeter designed for celebrity stalking from West Hollywood paparazzi angles (or Lionel and Cookie at the LA Zoo), zeroed in on my face, though I was highly suspicious that it was my chin she was aiming at, or worse, my nostrils.
“Good job selecting a wedding photographer. Not only is she beautiful, but she has a good taste in noses.”
“Don’t worry, best man, I’m an artist, and if there’s anything that I know, it how to take pictures of a nose.”
“And you hired an artist.” I grinned at Charlie. I turned to the photographer. “Wait, hold on. You’re not getting my best side.” I turned to my left. She clicked a series of shots. “I don’t know, now that I consider it, I rather feel that my right is my better nostril after all. What do you think?” I flared both nostrils.
The photographer lowered her camera. “I knew it. There’s always a weird one. But I wouldn’t worry, Charlie. I’m equipped not only as a photographer, but as a woman, to deal with these issues as they arrive.”
“Wait, do you spell woman with an A or a Y?”
“I probably should have told you,” Charlie smiled at Carmen. “He sort of does what you do for a living.”
“Mm-hmm sounds about right,” she frowned. “You can’t pay a photographer enough money to take pictures of another photographer.”
“I haven’t a clue as to what she’s talking about.” I flared only my right nostril instead of my left and simultaneously curled my tongue like a taco.
“Wow, I’ve never seen such skills in a best man before,” Carmen took several more pictures, the lens of her camera coming dangerously close to colliding with both of our noses at one point. “Good job in selecting your best man, Charlie.”
“How’d you like me to pat my head while simultaneously rubbing my tummy?” I turned to her. “I can grin my smile too. All the ladies take their clothes off as soon as I gun my Irish smile.”
“It works on me every time.” Charlie patted my butt.
Carmen lowered her camera. “Yeah, um, sure. Well, while you do that Irish grin-thing of yours, I’m gonna step outside, take some emotional shots of your two aunts arguing about the fifties…and throw up.” She winked at me when she said throw up, and then stepped outside. Yup, I knew it. She wanted me.
“I’m thrilled that you’re marrying Josephine, Charlie,” I told the groom as soon as she left the room, and continued wrestling with his tie. “And you do realize, we’re gonna have lots of up-close pictures of our noses.”
“I just wanted to let you know,” Charlie said, rubbing a hint of mist from his eyes, “that you woke up this morning as my best man, but tomorrow, my brother-in-law.”
“I don’t really like the word brother-in-law. How about you just drop the in-law and call me brother? Better yet, how about bro?”
“Yeah, I’ve been calling him bro for years. That’s kind of what tickles his pickle.” Michael finally spoke up from the bed, where he’d been reading Steve Martin’s recent autobiography, Born Standing Up.
Charlie wiped a tear from his eyes. “You got it, bro. And whatever happens between you and my new twin sister, Josephine and I both stand firm in our belief that you’ll always be a part of our family.”
Carmen re-entered the room ready at the helm to take pictures of our private moment, like good photographers do.
“Wait, can you please take pictures from the right side of my body? I’m afraid that my left side makes me look fat.”
“I don’t know. The last time I got that close,” she said, “you gunned one of your signature smiles and I had to run out of here wet and screaming and tearing all of my clothes off.”
“Nice,” I told Charlie. “You found a sassy one, too.”
5
The Sisters were still arguing over the stork on my way down the banister. Patty wanted a pink ribbon around its neck despite the fact that Nancy said pink was sexist. She had a point. Patty argued that Josephine had chosen pink as the color for her bridesmaid’s dresses, and it couldn’t possibly be sexist if, and she stressed if, their little girl had selected it. She had a point too. I weighed out both options on my way down the banister, but as I exited the front door I still couldn’t decide. I forgot about the issue entirely as I stood on the porch watching the vendors set up in the park across the street. I looked for the cute florist. I found Alex instead.
He was standing on the sidewalk staring up at me, camera equipment slung over each shoulder, hair messed up, and he looked exhausted.
“It was a long drive,” he finally said.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to show.”
“I wasn’t sure either.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Look,” Alex said, “I was an ass monkey in New York. The things I said.”
“And did.”
“Yes,” he thought about it. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“For starters you can apologize.”
“Joshua, I’m very sorry.” He looked me directly in the eyes. “And you can take that to the bank. No matter what I’ve said, I want you to know that I have your back. We knew going into this that I had some past issues. I’m trying to work through them and….”
“I haven’t given up on you, Alex.”
“I know. You haven’t given up on Elise, either. I couldn’t understand that at first. I figured since she hurt you that gave you the freedom to do whatever you wanted, but I see now that I was just trying to justify my own problems.”
I smiled at Alex. “I knew I hadn’t lost you.”
“I love my wife, you know.”
I didn’t answer right away. “Yes, I believe that.”
“I’m on very thin ice with her. She’s put up with the anger, and she’s put up with my desire to sever business relations with her father, but if she only knew my other problems. I don’t think she’d stick around for much longer.”
“Are you ready to get back to work?”
“It’s what I want.”
“The original deal still holds. In order for that to happen, you have to let me be an accountability partner. I understand you’ll stumble…”
“But you won’t give up on me.” Alex smiled.
“We’ve got a big day ahead of us. I’ll get you settled in here and then send you over to the hotel where Josephine and the girls are getting ready.”
“Wow, the girls dressing room. You’re graduating me to the big leagues.”
“Don’t get too excited. There’s
a woman photographer present, and believe me, she’ll make you behave. If she’s anything like her sister upstairs, she could simultaneously ward the sexual advances of Hugh Hefner, Fidel Castro, and Wilt Chamberlain, all while putting you in a headlock and giving you a noogie until you cried Uncle.”
“Sounds like my kind of woman.”
“We just had a breakthrough. Let’s not loose our footing so soon, Alex.”
“If I see Josephine’s boobies, is that the same thing as seeing your wife’s boobies?”
“Don’t be crass,” I said. “Alex, I’m being serious.”
“Sorry,” he genuinely frowned. “I’m trying. It just slips out sometimes.”
“I haven’t given up on you yet.” I patted his back.
“I appreciate that.”
I stopped him at the front door. “You’re not scared of dolls, are you?”
“Since you bring it up, Child’s Play was the most traumatic thing that ever happened to me as a child, why?”
“Oh, no reason.” I grinned as I opened the door.
6
Elise was the fifth and last bridesmaid to exit the limo (and the only girl in the wedding party who wasn’t a lawyer), ascended the stone steps leading up to the grassy lawn of Alamo Square, and walked the white carpet in a stunning strapless ankle-length summer dress of pink and airy ruffles. Her hips swayed. Eloquent earrings chandeliered each lobe while a glistening necklace rimmed her neck and collar bones and added an extra spectacle to the fatty tissue and upper crack of her breasts. Underneath her bouquet she was wearing her wedding ring. And I’m pretty sure she forever retired the ongoing competition of the bewitching wedding day matron. Much like Helen or Guinevere, no woman would outmatch her, ever.
Her mother Andrea looked hung over as usual. Sunglasses blanketed her eyes. Bob, her latest future ex-husband, stared down at fidgeting fingers the entire time, except when he wasn’t, and hawk-eyed each of the bridesmaid’s asses in their turn. Fingers, asses, fingers, asses, in that order, sometimes throwing in the combo of two or three asses before returning to his fingers.
Josephine ascended the stone staircase in a slim fitting yet airy and curvature bridal dress. Nancy and Patty escorted her from either side, fatty arms locked with the bride’s. The aisle had to be widened a couple of feet so that both obese sisters could easily maneuver their way through. From the looks of it, Andrea avoided eye contact with the Sisters, which meant looking down at Josephine’s feet as she graced the aisle, and within minutes she’d even refuse to be in pictures with them, even if they were on one side of the frame and she on the other.
As Josephine paraded the aisle, Elise set her gaze on me, sometimes smiling, and then looked away to her approaching twin whenever I set my eyes on her. This wedding day mating ritual continued while Father Williams read off Charlie and Josephine’s marriage vows. I kept staring back at her just to see if she was looking at me, which she typically always was, or given a matter of seconds soon would be. She quickly dialed away, and I wondered if she was shifting her gaze on me wondering the very same thing, if it was me that was always obsessively staring at her.
Time eclipsed. Elise was trying to tell me something with wide rolls of her mouth. I heard Father Williams clear his throat, and then I noticed Charlie standing there with the palm of his hand held out. Oh yes, the rings. I reached into my coat pocket and handed them to him, except I couldn’t find them. No, this wasn’t an unoriginal comedy act. I really couldn’t find them at first. Oh crap. Except I think I said another four letter word. Then I found them. Never mind. Elise smiled at me, laughing through her nose. If anyone else laughed or smiled, I didn’t notice. And the ceremony proceeded.
Charlie serenaded his wife with a swan-song, as he called it, on his glimmering saxophone, sounding like butt as usual and not at all like Baker Street, but Josephine cried despite its atrocities to the saxophone establishment. Elise cried, and then I cried (mostly from the pain of its sting), and I’m pretty sure everyone except Andrea and Bob cried. Elise smiled at me as we cried. We laughed, cried a little more, and the audience joined in…mostly because Charlie’s swan song was a gross abuse of the saxophone. That’s what he was, a sax offender. People in his neighborhood would probably move out once they learned that he’d been put on the sax offender list for fear that the innocent ears of their children would be harmed or that their property value would spiral down. Of course, they lived near a school, so they’d probably have to move anyways.
7
The reception convened at a hotel in the Civic Center. The best man’s speech went over pretty well. Thanks for asking. People laughed. People cried. They gasped for breath, at times covered their eyes. Josephine, Charlie, and Elise all blushed, and Michael whistled for the absurdity of it all. But in the end everyone stood in applause, including the Sisters, having never before been so entirely moved by a speech… anywhere. I happily accepted my Academy Award.
When it came to the wedding cake, and believe me, I’ve seen far too many cake casualties, Charlie was foolish enough to hand feed Josephine, smudging just enough across her upper lip and a dash of icing on her nose to ignite her bridal wedding day wrath. She smashed his entire face as soon as her turn to feed him came around. Charlie was a slow learner. But he’d learn. We all hoped and prayed to God that he’d learn.
8
Here’s the thing; the sort of steps that Elise and Josephine danced to whenever they maneuvered impeccable curvature bodies across the DJ’s floor have yet to be written down in any sort of how-to textbooks. Inventing them as they go is one kind way to put it. Arms rocketed clouds. Foreheads became rocking chairs. There was typically an opened can or two of whip-creamed hair, and I was almost certain that I heard them crow. Yes, I was pretty sure that was a crow if ever I’d heard one. I think they even called it the Peter Pan. They had names for all of them. Fists boxed at an invisible coin box or low-hanging cloud. Fingers feathered air. They kicked all five toes. And quite suddenly they were a pair of sprinklers before transforming into a womb-mate zombie scare.
“I bet I can dance with my wife better than you with yours.” Charlie told me from our table.
Those were fighting words. I scooted my chair from fine china and silverware and swiveled across the floor for Elise. Charlie grooved after. Walt Whitman’s choreographed Song of Myself followed.
My wife and I meshed our bodies to the DJ’s spell, shaking loose Elvis hips, passionately dropping to our knees. Elise wrapped one leg around my waist and bent backwards. Never two steps planned in advance, we invented them as we went. We pointed fingers at the newly married couple as a challenge to top that.
Charlie and Josephine stapled pelvises together. She arched backwards, pressing her palms and the crown of her head to the ground while Charlie pivoted his heels, maneuvered a blind man’s turn, and butterfly netted his wife as she lurched her entire body forwards. Wedding day guests cheered. Michael and Susan made their way out to the floor. Ellie too. The newlyweds pointed fingers at us.
Elise grabbed my tie, lowered her lips down to my thigh and shook her rear, first at the audience, then across my crotch, while I grabbed someone’s beer, stood there and chugged. She dressed legs around my hip and spine, hooked one hand around my neck and hung her arm like a vine, chewed my tie and gloved the air as I scooped her up and down, all while chugging my beer.
Charlie and Josephine leapt like two frogs over the other before becoming a Russian dance pair.
I rocked air guitar while Elise dug a World War 2 era escape tunnel under my scissor legs and poked her head through on the other side of the fence. My arms transformed into a jolting machine gun as she dodged each bullet and danced around the turret.
It went on like this for a good several minutes, maybe ten, I couldn’t be sure, with both twins and their husbands exchanging challenging glances at the other. The photographer’s had a field day. At one point Alex slid on his knees towards my waist for an up close and personal shot. I pronounced my crotch agains
t his lens while Elise spanked my butt in rhythm. Alex stood up and stared at me, apparently unamused that I’d given him a front row shower view, and in 3D. Finally, brows dripping of sweat, Charlie and Josephine tightened their faces.
“Tired yet?” Charlie loosened his tie.
“Let’s see you top that,” Josephine said.
Lungs burning, begging for a breath of air, the song abruptly changed, Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean. The entire crowd cheered.
“Sorry, Charlie. That’s where you’re wrong.” Elise tipped her imaginary hat. “We’ve only just begun.”
9
When Andrea slumped into the barstool at my side, it was apparent that she’d had far too much to drink. She leaned against the bar staring at her emptied glass of Tokyo Tea. “Can you believe it?” She finally said.
“I know, Reggie Jackson hitting three straight home runs off of three different pitchers in the 1977 World Series. I’m still trying to get over the insanity of that one.”
Andrea scrunched her face up into a ball. She looked confused. I hoped I hadn’t overloaded her brain. It would be horrible if her face were stuck like that. She waited until the bartender brought her another Tokyo Tea.
“No,” she finally said. “I’m talking about this.”
“It is a lovely bar. I’m impressed. Not many women notice these things.” I spread my hands across the counter. “Polished walnut. I heard it was restored from the turn of the last century, but back then it was in a bar on Market Street. Think of all the stories. If only counters could talk.”
Her face was still scrunched up when she finally turned to stare at me. I thought about giving her the timeless mother’s stern warning, but I’d decided some time ago that it hurt for her to think about anything other than banging boys for money and booze. But being a jack-of-all-trades is sort of overrated anyhow.
Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1) Page 38