by Tara Brent
“I knew it.” Says Michelle, her tone accusatory.
And Seb is all “What? No, I didn’t—”
“Bullshit. I knew you could never keep a secret.”
“You’re wrong, honey. I swear.”
She turns to me. “Which one of you was it?”
“...which...?” I manage.
“Who did Seb blab to. Was it you, Blake?”
“I don’t know what—”
But she cuts him off. “No, you’re worse than Seb.”
“He’s worse than Mom,” Seb adds. “I would never tell a secret to this gossipy old... gossip.”
“What secret,” Blake puzzles. “He didn’t tell me any secret.”
“So he told you then.” She’s looking at me. So sure I’m guilty she’s not waiting for the jury. “That makes more sense.”
That’s when the light dawns in my scrambled brain. “You really did it?”
“What?” Blake says, a bit slower on the uptake than I would expect.
I turn to him. “They eloped, dummy. For real.”
“Not to some gloomy old courthouse, though,” Michelle says, as if that is just toooo tacky for words. “That part you got wrong.”
“We went to Vegas,” Seb admits. “Chapel of Love.”
I see Blake try to hold it in, but he busts out with a huge laugh. Then I’m laughing. We’re all laughing.
They don’t need a preacher. They already got married, at the Chapel of Love in Las Vegas.
And then I think why am I laughing? That’s not such a terrible idea...
I can barely hear those goat hooves, as they clatter off into the distance, and disappear.
Chapter 20: I Do
When Dr. James Conroy makes that stroll down the aisle with Michelle, there’s not a dry eye in the house. Partly because we’re all outside. But Good Golly, Miss Molly, does this lab rat clean up real nice. She even looks comfortable in a wedding gown. That’s just not natural. She must have cast an alchemist’s spell on it. Nobody is that young and flexible. Michelle is clearly the most awesome human on display, and nobody can take their eyes off her.
Okay. Jimmy. He’s got his peepers glued to Harold, the Best Man.
Oh, yeah – and me.
I’m panting over the living God waiting up in front, as the bride and groom come in for a landing. I know I already mentioned how good Blake looks in his tuxedo. But God damn. if you stood a tuxedo-clad James Bond up next to Blake wearing dirty overalls and spitting tobacco juice, it wouldn’t be close. Take a hike, 007.
Now, before Michelle starts down the aisle (sixteen fashionable minutes late), I do hear the occasional mutter ripple through the throng. Where is the preacher? Shouldn’t he be up there? Speculation about who will do the bit about in sickness, in health, for richer, for poorer (like that’s ever going to happen). What about the having, the holding, the ‘til death do us parting?
But once Blake starts talking, he really pulls that rabbit out of the hat. Right from the get-go, he lets everyone know that this “wedding” is on instant replay. They eloped a month ago. The tension breaks.
In fact, as one could assume, I have been at a buttload of weddings. I may have pointed that out, more than once. But this is the first time ever that I witness eight hundred wedding guests rise as one, and deliver a standing ovation. It takes several minutes, in fact, for Blake to quiet them down, so he can get to the part where the rings get swapped. Because, he explains, to keep the elopement secret, they hadn’t been able to wear the rings, until now.
I do make a quick attitude inventory of the couple’s parents. Michelle’s mom and pop look relieved, if anything. I later learn that even though the kids had tied the knot already, Micelle’s folks were delighted. They assumed the kids wanted to put off a celebration until after Dr. and Dr. Conroy returned to terra firma again.
Joseph Okoye looks as proud as a man can be. Sure, he expected to feel the joy at his second son’s wedding. That would have been enough for him. However, what brought tears to his eyes was Blake. Seeing his eldest, not acting like a clown, but standing before all, to address the multitude with self-possessed assurance. With dignity. With all the confidence of a man in full – that was better than he could believe. For until that moment, he didn’t believe it would ever come to pass. And now, he was completed. He had not one ‘good’ son, but two. His first born, Blake, had grown up at last.
Cici tells my mom, I find out later, that she worried I might have gone overboard, and rented some high and mighty holy roller, like an archbishop, or a televangelist, for the gig. Not that anyone would want that. But just because it would be the most difficult thing to pull off – so naturally, I would take that as a challenge to be conquered.
But my Mom, by the way, was pissed at me.
“I can’t believe you’d keep a thing this important from your own mother. It’s like you don’t even trust me.”
“Not true, Mom, I can always count on you to be you.”
She hears damning in that faint praise. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you and Cici are besties for life. Right?”
“All the more reason you shouldn’t have kept me in the dark.”
“So you could have spared Cici from the shock and surprise.”
“Of course! That’s what a true friend is for.”
“Yep. That’s just what I thought. You couldn’t have kept this secret if your life depended on it. Could you?”
“Oh... pish posh.”
This is one crowd that knows they are here strictly to party. And D.J. Curtis (the bitch showed, praise be to God) got things rocking mighty quick. I have to say this for Jimmy – Curtis can sure spin the wax. He had Grandmas skipping the sate chicken skewers, just so they could get out there and boogie. Spirits flowed. Nobody even barfed. Well, not for a couple hours, anyway.
I keep trying to catch up with Jimmy in this bacchanalia. I’m weaving through a clotted sea of diamond chokers, Hublot watches, Neusa Fujimoto, Oscar de la Renta, Tom Ford, and even a gown with sequins of (I shit you not) genuine rubies. Me? I wouldn’t know Hugo Boss from Hugo Chavez. But there is one serious bling-fest going bananas here.
Finally, I spot Jimmy bobbing like flotsam across the multitudes. He has two flutes of champagne in hand. And I can see where he’s bee-lining. He’s got Harold in his sights, but I move to intercept him, and snatch a champagne.
“Hey! I’m bringing that to—”
“Harold. He can wait.”
“Shit, what went wrong now?”
“Nothing. We are sans goat. At least until the Roach Coach flotilla is sighted steaming for shore.”
“Then gimme back the shpritz.”
I hold it away, so he can’t grab it back, and take a swig. “Time for Harold.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“No. I mean give. Details. I demand full disclosure.”
“We had some nice swordfish at Oceanaire.”
“Sword being the operative descriptor?”
“There’s no reason to be crude.”
“What was that bit you said before? Something a propos of pots, kettles, and so forth?”
“We had a very interesting conversation, walking through the Gas Lamp.”
“All the way to the U.S. Grant?”
“I never said where he’s staying”
“Then a quick stop for a cocktail in the bar there?”
“How could one not?”
“And then...”
“Then we played cards.”
“Rummy?”
“No.”
“Hearts, then?”
“No.”
“Well...?” He knows I can wait him out.
“If you insist, he wanted me to play a game with him that he used to play in college.”
Will I let him stop there? Like hell. “Bridge?”
“Strip Poker.”
“Mmmm? Just the boys, I assume.”
“Hilarious, Kira. You’re a panic.”
&nbs
p; “I’m just trying to work out why you were so over the moon after that date with him. It wasn’t because he had such a beautiful hotel room?”
“The room is quite tasteful. Unlike my employer.”
“So he played strip poker in college. Interesting.”
“Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
“I’m guessing this was just harmless fraternity stuff. For laughs. Like a drinking game.”
“Why is this so fascinating to you?”
“Because Harold is so fascinating to you.”
“We’re just getting to know each other.”
“And I’m trying to get to know him too, Jimmy. Because I care about you...”
He smiles, with a little nod. “Well... thanks.”
“So, did you blow him?”
“No. And you know what? There was no touching, either.”
“So, he was still playing college rules.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Trying to figure out what makes him tick. You say he doesn’t even know he’s in the closet, right?”
“I’m not sure he knows what he wants.”
“He’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so. For him.”
“Never mind what Mike Pence thinks. You and I both know there is no such thing as conversion therapy. And that works both ways. Nobody else can make him gay. He is, or he isn’t.”
“I know that. I’m not trying to turn out some straight kid.”
“I know. You’d never even think it.”
“I’m underwhelmed by your confidence in my moral character.”
“Sounds to me like he knows what turns him on, but he’s in denial. That’s why the strip poker. He can handle it, because it’s just a game. It means nothing. Whatever he needs to tell himself.”
“I guess that’s about right. And I don’t want to push him.”
“Just play strip poker.” I drink some champagne. “So, tell me the rules.”
“Bullshit. You know the rules.”
“I know Hoyle’s Rules. A full house beats two pair, and so on, but I don’t know Harold’s rules.”
“Fine. First, we did the clothing count.”
“Meaning?”
“It has to be fair. So, you both have to start with the same number of items.”
“Table stakes.”
“Whatever.”
“So what did you start with.”
“Really?” Tick, tock. I wait him out. “Two socks, a belt, my shirt, pants...”
“And your bikini Calvin’s?”
“See? You know the game now.”
“I don’t know the box score.”
“What, you think I memorized every turn?”
“I’m certain of it. In fact, I bet you’ve replayed it a hundred times. And so has he. But that’s okay. Cut to the chase. Who won?”
“That’s enough now.”
“Close game, I bet. Down to the wire?”
“Okay, he won. He still had his boxers on, and I was naked.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I said. I was naked.”
“And he was what? Interested?”
Jimmy can’t help smiling now. “Obviously.”
“How obvious?”
“Tent pole obvious. I thought he was going to explode, but like I said, there was no touching. I wasn’t going to make the first move.”
“I get that.”
“Good...” He fidgets a moment. “So? What do you think?”
“I see five card stud in your future. And I wish you luck.”
He smiles. “You do?”
“I do.”
“Kira? Thanks. I’m glad you dragged it out of me.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Really? I thought they were just for blowjobs.”
“Well, well. Hello, Reverend,” says I, when Blake eases up and chastely rests a hand on the small of my back. Just for a moment. Discreet.
“You’re an absolute star, my child. A miracle worker.”
“Oh, Reverend. You’ll make me swoon.”
“I’m just concerned with your soul.”
“In that case, I’d like to make my confession.”
“How long do we have? That could take a while.”
“We have twenty minutes before the food trucks roll in.”
“Why don’t we step into my confessional? It’s right out by the pool.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.
Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds later, I have clothes back on my body, and a rosy glow on my cheeks. I am also getting really hungry. The bad news is that the hors d’oeuvre hour is petering out now. And the good news is that I just heard the sound of a horn playing a musical series of notes, Doodle Deedle Doodle Deedle. Like Pavlov’s dogs, my saliva starts flowing. That sound means only one thing. The first of the Roach Coaches is arriving.
Chapter 21: The Roach Coaches
Really, that nickname is hardly fair. Food wagons would be the more polite version. Besides, the way I had the boys from the Health Department crawl all over every one of these trucks yesterday, even a roach (known for the ability to survive nuclear fallout) could not be alive. The trucks gleam. Well, no. Actually, they only gleam where they should gleam, stainless steel and so forth. On the outside, they are custom wrapped or painted. Covered with more wild art than Shepard Fairey himself could pull off. And these trucks could even feed Andre the Giant, no problem.
As the wagons roll in, one by one, I am glad I’m not tripping. The assault of Day-Glo oranges and pinks, purples and greens, would drive you screaming back in a time machine to Haight-Ashbury to bury your head under Ken Kesey’s pillow. This truly looks like the Merry Pranksters have landed in battalion strength. Fat, swirly letters and human-faced dancing Rice Bowls, Leprechauns holding baskets of potatoes dueling for attention with an army of Sashimi Ninjas. Shish Kabob toe to toe with Gyros, Italian Sausages mixing it up with the Bratwurst, Ramen tangling with Linguini, Won Tons fighting Empanadas. There are eight million kinds of hot sauce in the Naked City, and every one of them could blister your lips like a dose of Herpes.
Food, glorious food.
And eight hundred plus guests who will be shouting Please sir, can I have some more?
Jimmy is out here already, directing traffic like George Patton on steroids. He has his aerial view Google Earth, with overlays, pulled up on his tablet. There is some logic to this madness. Asian blending into Pacific Rim fusion, then comes an ocean of seafood, followed by the heavy artillery in meats division. Argentine, Barbeque, even New York steaks. Next to Philly cheese steaks, of course. But this is just the answer to Where’s The Beef? The mammal meat spectrum goes Greek with Where’s The Lamb? The French have an answer called lamb chops, although the Brits make their push with mutton, and the Afghans worship lamb curry. There is an avalanche of pork varieties; Chinese pork dumplings, Vietnamese crispy pork with green beans, Japanese pork cutlets, pork chops right out of the Georgia pines, and a couple of thousand things wrapped in, stuffed with, or topped with the pig’s highest glory: Bacon. Then the parade of pork sausages, not to mention nine kinds of ham. And don’t forget about the platoon of baby back pork ribs: St. Louis Ribs, Texas Ribs, Cincinnati Ribs, Chinese Ribs, Whale Ribs (oops, sorry, fresh out today). There’s a virtual migration of fowl, Peking Duck, Southern Fried chicken, Hungarian Roast Goose, Turkey Legs. Even a rumored sighting of the legendary TurDucken. Rattlesnake tastes like chicken. Alligator tastes like chicken. Rabbit doesn’t taste like chicken anymore than venison does. We should have gotten a separate wagon just to administer a full spectrum of statin drugs for all this cholesterol. Maybe sprinkle the banana splits with Lipitor.
To lend an overall harmony, I had all the rolling restaurateurs to leave their paper plates, foam boxes, and plastic utensils home. As soon as each truck has berthed, my crack wait staff distributes the more elegant china, stainless steel utensils, cloth napkins, etc. Plus all one hundred and ten tables
have set ups. Of course there can’t be too many ramekins to hold sauces for every kind of dipping. It’s better than a County Fair – only (sadly) I did not stock up on deep- fried Snickers bars. There must be limits, after all.
My mother weeps at the cornucopia, clinging to Cici. Who doesn’t look like she can stay on her feet either. They have outdone themselves. I can take little credit for the panoply of feasts they have drawn together. Okay, yes I can.
By the time we open the floodgates to the ravening hordes, they are driven mad with the smells of roast meats, simmering soups, freshly baked pies, and spicy deli cuts. One might think at least some of the more patrician oligarchs present would turn up their noses at such fare. And by themselves, facing a single roach coach, they no doubt would, but I say this for the rich; nothing exceeds like excess. Like the old saying goes, you never know how much is enough, until you know how much is too much. It is wisdom I have lived my life by – and will until it kills me.
Blake and I fix our own plates. Heaped so high we both feel a little bit guilty. Only one cure for that. We return to the confessional.
I have never tasted a cock dipped in barbecue sauce before. You would think there’d be a roach coach for everything...
This bit of playful foreplay inspires us. Before long there is whipped cream on my tits. I experiment with how much cold his balls can endure with frozen yogurt. I am grateful there is a pool available for later, so I can rinse all the chocolate sauce off my lips. Labial, that is.
As Blake slurps sweet and sour sauce from my navel, he asks “Who can?” I have to answer, or he might stop licking me. “Abraham Ling can,” I recite in a husky voice.
“No he can’t. This buffet is all for me,” vows Blake.
We play around with caramel topping. I try for a Lady Gaga Haut Couture effect with a full platter of cold cuts. I don’t know how we could have forgotten mustard and horseradish, but we did. The reviews on my salami mini-skirt and corned beef peek-a-boo brassiere were solid. I will never forget how much we both enjoyed that pair of rare roast beef speedos. Not just finger-lickin’ good, I can assure one and all.
If anyone can think of a better way to use flan than we did, I’d love to hear it. You’d probably like to hear what we did come up with, but even I have a tiny shred of modesty. We never did figure out what to do with the M & Ms, though.