by Tom Perrotta
This isn't happening, Dave thought. This doesn't happen to me. He'd heard lots of talk about willing bridesmaids and musicians getting lucky at weddings, but he'd quickly learned not to take this sort of thing too seriously, at least as it applied to him. He wasn't the center of attention like an Ian or a Zelack; he was just an anonymous guy in the shadows, Joe Average in a tuxedo. Every now and then he got to sing “shoo-bop” or “la la la.”
Spoiling the moment in an effort to preserve it, Lenny rolled his video camera through the middle of the dance floor, his spotlight burning like the midday sun. Gretchen got lost in the glare, but reemerged a few seconds later, her eyes seeking out Dave's as she steered her partner back toward the stage. When she had positioned herself directly in front of him, maybe ten feet away, she mouthed a silent question he couldn't quite decipher. He shrugged and grimaced. She tried again, mouthing the words more distinctly.
“Are you saved?”
Shit, he thought, is that what this is about? He felt an urge to laugh, even as he registered the surprisingly sharp sense of disappointment in his gut. She really didn't look like the kind of woman who cared if a man was saved or not. He shook his head no, but the Best Man had already spun her away from him. The little guy's eyes were closed; his face looked lost and happy floating above her shoulder. Gretchen rotated him ninety degrees, looking up and repeating her silent question for the third time.
This time his face lit up with comprehension. She was making a much simpler inquiry than he'd thought, one he'd be happy to answer in the affirmative.
“Are you Dave?”
She wasn't too Surprised he didn't remember. She'd only been seventeen that summer in Belmar, one of a handful of high school girls who used to sneak into bars to hear Lost Cause, this Beaver Brown-type band he'd played in during his second, and final, year of college.
“Mark Frechetti's my cousin. That's how we knew about you guys.”
“Really? How's Mark doing?”
They were standing near the base of the stage, next to the small rolling cart that held the wedding cake, which turned out not to be a cake at all, but an elaborate cardboard facsimile, complete with three-dimensional bride and groom figurines on top. The rest of the band had slipped off to the conference room, and the Best Man had returned to the head table to confer with the happy couple.
“Okay, I guess. He moved to Seattle about five years ago. He was supposedly friends with Nirvana or something.”
“Wow.”
“I know.” Gretchen's eyes widened behind her glasses; he couldn't decide if she was impressed or amused. “My own cousin.”
Mark Frechetti wasn't the most talented singer Dave had ever worked with—he couldn't touch Ian's range, for example—but he was easily the most charismatic. Handsome, seedy, and weirdly intense, he was an orthodontist's kid who wrote incomprehensible lyrics and mumbled them into the microphone long before it became fashionable on the alternative scene. The last time Dave saw him, at an Alex Chilton show in Hoboken, he'd grown these ratty-looking white guy dreadlocks and lost one of his top front teeth. It was easy to imagine him hanging with Cobain during those last grim months, neither one of them uttering a word for hours at a time.
“We were groupies,” she told him. “Lost Cause was all we ever talked about. We were sure you guys were going to be famous.”
“Groupies? How come I didn't know about this?”
“I tried to talk to you a few times, but you always seemed preoccupied.”
More than ten years down the road, Dave could still vividly recall that Lost Cause summer. Seven guys sharing a one-bedroom beach rental, crashing anywhere there was enough floor for a body. Delivering furniture by day, getting stoned and playing music at night. It would have been a great time, except that Julie had just left him for Brendan, and he'd forgotten how to eat or sleep. No wonder he'd seemed preoccupied.
“We thought of you as the Sad One,” she continued. “The brooding loner of the group.”
“Just my luck. The one time in my life I have groupies, and I don't even know it.”
Her hand fell softly on his wrist. “It's so weird seeing you here. It feels like a dream or something.”
He studied her face, trying to rescue it from the messy file cabinet of his memory. Was there a folder up there marked “Frechetti's Little Cousin?” Or “People Named Gretchen?” Or “Girls I Should Have Talked to, but Didn't?” Gretchen didn't mind the scrutiny. She stared right back at him with an odd composure that seemed to say, Go ahead, look at me all you want.
Dave wasn't fully aware of the intimacy generated by this silence until it was violated by the Best Man. He barged into their moment without a word of apology, grabbing hold of her wrist as though he had some sort of preestablished claim on her body.
“Hey,” he said, “we need you back at the table.”
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze moved away from Dave to the fingers on her arm, then traveled without haste up to the Best Man's face.
“Are you touching me?” she asked.
The little guy pulled his hand away, his cheeks flushing with remarkable speed. His voice was reproachful and defensive at the same time.
“They're taking the table picture. Everybody's there but you.”
“Okay,” she told him. “I'll be there in a minute.”
The Best Man didn't know how to take a hint. He crossed his arms on his chest and let out a long, impatient sigh. Gretchen grabbed hold of Dave's wrist as easily as the little guy had taken hold of hers.
“Come on,” she said, tugging him toward the door. “I need a cigarette.”
He was happy to follow her out the door and down the hall, happy to leave the Best Man fuming on the dance floor and the less-fortunate Wishbones twiddling their thumbs in the conference room while he shared a quiet moment with a woman who somehow managed to pull off the nearly impossible feat of seeming sexy and intelligent in a bridesmaid's dress.
“I don't even know what I'm doing here,” she said, pausing at the top of the stairs to gather the front of her dress into two big billowy handfuls. “Staci and I haven't really been friends since we were twelve.”
“So how'd it happen?”
“It's complicated.” She began her descent, hugging her raised skirt like a grocery bag to keep from tripping. “My mother and her mother were like sisters. My mom died this year and Staci asked me to do this at the funeral. Neither one of us was thinking straight.”
“I'm sorry.”
“This dress is ridiculous,” she muttered. “I can't even see my feet.”
“About your mother,” he added, in case she hadn't understood him the first time.
Downstairs was a madhouse. Just as they reached level ground, an enormous conga line spilled out of the Birnam Wood Room and began snaking through the lobby. Rockin’ Randy led the charge in a wild Hawaiian shirt, waving his cordless mike and shouting “Hot! Hot! Hot!” The bride and groom were right behind him, followed by the wedding party and what appeared to be a never-ending line of women in dresses and men in suits, each one holding on to the person in front and chanting along with Randy. It was like one of those freight trains that just kept on coming, car after car after car. When the caboose finally arrived, it turned out to be Buzzy, who was holding on to an elderly woman's waist with one hand and brandishing an eclair with the other.
“Yo,” he called out, beckoning to Dave with the pastry. “Get on board!”
Dave turned hopefully to Gretchen, thinking a conga line might not be the worst way to break the ice with her.
“I need some fresh air,” she told him.
“Hot! Hot! Hot!”
Rockin’ Randy's freight train ran amok through the lobby in a series of overlapping loops and spirals, temporarily denying them access to the parking lot, the only source of fresh air he could think of.
“Hot! Hot! Hot!”
But then he remembered another possibility. There was a fire door at the opposite end of the building that ope
ned onto what amounted to a little patio enclosed by Dumpsters. Buzzy had shown it to him when he first joined the band, explaining that this was where the dishwashers hung out during their breaks. At the time there were even a couple of lawn chairs out there. It was at least worth a try.
“Come on,” he said. “Follow me.”
They walked toward the rear of the Manor, past the Sherwood Forest Room—Sparkle was apparently between sets, too—past the pay phone and rest rooms, all the way to the kitchen, which sounded like it was in full swing, bells ringing, dishes clattering, people shouting. An angry-looking waitress burst through the doors, a bottle of champagne in each hand, offering them a momentary glimpse of a sweaty Mexican man in stained white clothes holding a flyswatter above his head and staring intently at a table full of steaming plates.
The hallway took a sharp turn to the right, dead-ending about fifteen feet away in an unmarked gray door with an EXIT sign glowing above it. The door opened easily and they stepped onto the patio. At the same moment he saw the lawn chairs—they were right where he remembered them—the combined smells of fresh air, Dumpster funk, and pot smoke hit him in the face. Someone said, “Shit!”
He turned toward the voice and saw Zelack and Father Mike standing close together by the smaller Dumpster, trying to look casual. Zelack had one hand hidden behind his back, his jacket gleaming eerily in the moonlight. Father Mike looked mortified. “Don't worry,” Dave told them, the half-forgotten code of high school rushing unbidden to his lips. “It's cool.”
Father Mîke apologized for his choking fit.
“I haven't done this for years,” he explained, stamping his foot and coughing out little puffs of smoke along with his words. “I think it's stronger than it used to be.”
“No kidding.” Zelack produced this doofy little laugh. “I'm pretty fucking bamboozled as it is.”
Gretchen held the joint in front of her like a candle, eyeing it with a certain amount of skepticism.
“Where'd you get it?” she asked.
“My brother in Vegas. Every year he sends me a couple of joints taped inside a birthday card. It's kind of a family tradition.”
Gretchen took a hit and passed it on to Dave. Father Mike looked at Zelack.
“Your brother Charlie?”
“Steve. Charlie's in Atlantic City.”
“What's he do there?”
“Blackjack. Both my brothers are blackjack dealers.” Zelack shook his head. “What are the odds against that?”
Father Mike skipped his turn, passing the joint straight to Gretchen.
“Are they identical?” he asked.
“Fraternal,” said Zelack. “But it's hard to tell them apart.”
Dave tilted his head back and blew smoke at the sky. The moon was round and cheesy, just about full.
Hot! Hot! Hot! he thought.
“Twin blackjack dealers?” said Gretchen.
“Yup.” Zelack grinned. “Every mother's dream.”
“Charlie's a good guy,” Father Mike declared. “I'll never forget the day he broke his leg.”
Zelack took the joint from Dave but forgot to smoke it. He looked around the circle and smiled approvingly.
“Cool. Everyone's in uniform.”
All four of them traded looks, confirming this observation. The joint made two more circuits before Zelack consulted his watch.
“Shit,” he said. “Break's almost over.”
“How'd your brother break his leg?” Dave asked.
“He jumped off the Little League field house with an umbrella in his hand. Must have been fifty kids watched him do it.”
Father Mike took a box of Tic Tacs out of his pocket and offered some to Gretchen.
“Everyone's always in uniform,” she told him, as he shook the little white pebbles into her hand.
“Thought he could fly,” Zelack added sadly.
“His leg snapped like a pencil,” Father Mike reported. “It was a horrible sound.”
“Icarus,” said Gretchen.
“Tic Tac?” asked Father Mike.
Cretchen lit up a Parliament and exhaled through her nose, which, in profile at least, seemed a little too long and narrow, vaguely reminiscent of Jughead's. It was her one odd feature, the arresting detail that made him want to keep staring, to commit her face to memory for future contemplation.
This is what Julie's afraid of he thought. They were alone now, sitting on the dishwashers’ lawn chairs, listening to the clamor of the kitchen and the shushing of traffic on Route 22. Break was just about over, but the night felt too soft and peaceful to make going inside seem like a plausible course of action. This is what she meant by “out having fun.”
“I'm pretty buzzed,” Gretchen observed.
“I'm right there with you,” he assured her.
Julie seemed far away. He tried to imagine her sitting around the table with her parents and her aunt and uncle, all of them worshiping at the altar of the miraculous cheesecake, but he couldn't quite bring the picture into focus. He felt somehow liberated by this failure, as though it canceled out the fact of their engagement, at least for the moment.
“I never expected to get high with a priest,” she said.
“Father Mike's a good guy.”
Cigarette clamped between her teeth, she laid one foot on top of her knee, pulled off her green shoe, and dropped it unceremoniously on the ground.
“What's with the other one?” she asked, reaching down with both hands to massage her stockinged foot. “Did he borrow that jacket from Liberace or what?”
“Who, Zelack?” Dave tried to think of something cutting to say, but his fund of hostility seemed to be mysteriously depleted. “He's okay, too.”
Gretchen recrossed her legs and pulled off the other shoe, letting it fall beside its companion.
“How'd you end up in a wedding band?” she asked, just making conversation as she went to work on her instep.
Dave thought it over. It was one of those questions that had a dozen different answers.
“They asked me,” he said.
“You guys are pretty good. Usually I can't stand wedding bands.”
The mix of praise and condescension in her comment called him back to reality. He looked at his watch and grimaced.
“Damn,” he said, leaping up from his chair. “We better get back.”
She looked up at him with mild interest.
“I think I'll hang out here for a while.”
“You sure?”
Gretchen smiled. Inside the kitchen there was a loud crash, like someone had just dropped a whole tray of dishes. I could have it bad for her, Dave decided.
“Save me a dance,” she told him.
He was late.
The band had already taken the stage when he careened through the door, Artie glaring at him, Buzzy looking mock-scandalized, Ian pretending not to notice, Stan cleaning out his ear with the tip of a drumstick. In an effort to excuse himself, Dave winced and rubbed his stomach, feigning indigestion.
Everything seemed unreal as he snatched his guitar out of its stand and threaded his head through the strap—the room, himself, the bride and groom standing by the fake cake with the bride and groom on top, both of them clutching the handle of what appeared to be a cement trowel and squinting through the glare from Lenny's spotlight.
“Okay,” said Ian, glancing quickly at Dave to make sure he was set. “The big moment has arrived. It's time to cut the cake.”
In Dave's opinion, one of the major improvements in wedding music in recent years involved the phase-out of the traditional cake-cutting song (“The bride cuts the cake/The bride cuts the cake/Hi-ho the cherrio/The bride cuts the cake”) in favor of less idiotic tunes. Unless instructed otherwise, or unless one or both members of the happy couple happened to be approaching retirement age, the Wishbones chose “When I'm Sixty Four” for this interlude in the ceremony.
Staci and PJ. brought the trowel down on the fake cake and smiled like politicians cutting a
ribbon. Even as they did so, waitresses had already begun fanning out across the room, distributing slices of the real thing.
So, thought Dave, you really can have it and eat it, too.
The maitre d’ presented the bride and groom with their own plates for the completion of the ritual. To Dave's surprise, they played it cool, feeding each other small bites from a fork and smooching discreetly afterward, resisting the temptation to mash the cake in each other's faces or engage in some serious tonsil-licking with their mouths full of mush and frosting.
Its work done, a waitress wheeled the model cake out of the room, back to wherever it was things like that got stored when they weren't in use, some dank basement full of cardboard desserts and artificial flowers. The maitre d’ nodded at Artie, who relayed the message to Ian.
“At this time,” Ian announced, “I'd like to invite all the single ladies out onto the dance floor. And I do mean all the single ladies.”
No more than a dozen bachelorettes heeded the call, sheepishly clumping together at the far end of the floor, as if for protection. All the bridesmaids were present except Gretchen. Dave wondered if she was still hiding out on the Dumpster patio, massaging her feet and enjoying the almost-fresh air between drags on her Parliament. She didn't strike him as the type who'd get too upset about missing an opportunity to make a diving leap for a bundle of flowers.
The event went off peacefully, according to what appeared to be a prearranged plan. The moment Staci heaved the bouquet, all the women but one beat a hasty retreat, leaving Heidi Lambrusco wide open for an easy catch. It looked so much like a touchdown pass, Dave half expected Heidi to spike the flowers and bump chests with all three of her sisters.