Zhang was around my height. wasn’t sure whether he was originally from China, or first generation American. no discernible tells to give it away. roundish face. a smile that came and went at odd intervals. his eyes never really met mine. he seemed focused, inwardly haggard. running on the residual adrenaline of a 14-hour work day.
Brennan was 20, looked to be 6’2”. wide shoulders. wore his tux with superb elegance. pale face, thick lips, lengthy features. haircut that could run for congress. his eyes were mischievous and quick, though unevenly terse, as though accustomed to sizing up competition. i felt inclined to dislike him, but something in the way he carried himself gave me pause.
and during that pause, he promptly walked away without so much as another word.
i was suddenly far less inclined to dislike him.
beyond firm handshakes, Zhang and Brennan shared other core similarities. a sense of purpose. confidence not just in their reality, but in their reasons. this seemed to be the common thread linking those from the other side of Nick’s looking glass. all of us who had come before his flight to China were floaters. not physically unmoored, but with minds that drifted through an existence where decisions were opiates. on par with a fistful of lottery tickets.
no guarantees, though. for all i knew, these cats were every bit as displaced and unhinged as the rest of us. still, there was also no doubt they had done something with their lives.
in one form or another, they had all been to China.
then again, so had Chester.
Analysis crumbling around my scuffed dress shoes, so I poured myself another shot.
Brennan popped his head into the house. “photographer’s here, guys. let’s move.”
Nick circulated the boutonnières. tiny roses impaled upon pearl-topped pins.
no more clouds, and we scuttled out into the heat. struggling with our lapels. alternately asking one another for help, then going it alone.
“having a little trouble there, fellas?” the photographer asked.
he was a lanky, late-thirties conduit of positive emotions. trimmed beard protecting his interminable smile. floating in a bubble where all records were meant to bear the brand of perfect moments. no past, no future. only the eternal optimist’s now; exemplified by a dangling mane of thin braids, gradually giving in to a brutally receding hairline.
Nick leaned in close, whispered in my ear: “i think it’s sweet that his hair and the top of his head still hang out, even though they stopped seeing each other years ago.”
i punched his boutonnière, let the pins drive into his chest.
Nick hissed, grinning madly. “i deserve that.”
“let the depressing man do his job.”
“yes.”
the photographer was joined by a pink, overweight, androgynous man. face shiny as his black silk shirt. hanging back, documenting the event with a compact, digital camera. chubby smile suggesting the bridesmaids had made for better subjects.
we finally managed to settle the flower situation.
the photographer instructed us to stand on the stairs. 3 rows worth of impassive penguins. he tried to stack us, snapping pictures even as we struggled to get organized.
James and I flanked Nick on the first step.
behind us, Zhang and Brennan did their best to position themselves in front of Chester and Brian.
the photographer pointed in some kind of direction. “sir? 2nd row? if you could maybe move closer to the right?”
Brennan glanced around. “who, me?”
Nick raised his hand. “should we tell you our names to make it easier?”
“better still,” Zhang called out. “could you just refer to us by our ethnicities?”
“yeah,” Brennan agreed. “who moves, the whitey or the chink?”
the photographer didn’t have an answer for that.
Zhang and Brennan moved closer together, and that seemed to do the trick.
i glanced over my shoulder.
saw Chester on the top step. face an alarming beet-red, slathered in a thick membrane of sweat.
“good thing you’re a brilliant musician with a 9-inch dick,” i told him.
Chester blinked. “huh?”
“ok, let’s see some smiles!” the photographer sang.
in another moment of cross-cultural unity, none of us were able to comply.
a series of uncomfortable group pictures followed.
“now, cut loose!” the photographer encouraged. “look like you’re having a good time!”
i turned and licked Nick’s face.
“um…” the photographer hesitated. “i mean, that’s fine, and all…”
“ugh,” i wiped my tongue against a padded shoulder. “you taste like a sexual predator.”
“that’s Ralph Lauren,” Nick informed me. then added, “so yes. i do.”
Korben stepped onto the deck for a cigarette. “Lucky, i stole another one of your smokes. is that – ”
“yeah, it’s fine!” i called over my shoulder. “could you send a belt of vodka down my way?”
“yo.”
the photographer smiled, maintaining happiness on our behalf. “ok, now how about a few shots of the groom with each one of his groomsmen?”
Korben returned with my drink.
he stood alongside me, in the driveway, as the rest lined up to take their mug shots.
“how’s it going?”
“i licked Nicky’s face, and now the devil won’t stop fondling my crotch.”
i took my shot. Korben offered me one of my cigarettes. i accepted.
“what are the new guys like?”
“Zhang and Brennan?”
“yeah.”
i had a puff, let my lungs cry foul. “only know that Nick loves them. though i have noticed…”
“yeah?”
“neither side of China seems that interested in talking to each other… we’re both either very protective of our history with Nicky, or we’re absolutely at peace with the other’s influence on his own history.”
“well…?” Korben shrugged. “which one is it?’
“i think, barring Kayla’s little brother, that Nick has simply compiled a group of totally self-absorbed bastards.”
“weddings.”
“ain’t that the way it always is?”
the photographer called me over.
i put my arm around Nick. “looks like we got ourselves a lineup, here.”
the photographer took a series of shots.
the overweight cameraman continued to smile through the viewfinder.
“you should talk to Brennan and Zhang,” Nick said.
“is that what you told them? about me?”
“yes.”
“what’d they say?”
Nick batted the question aside. “Zhang used to run the Beijing offices for Random House.”
“so fucking what?”
“maybe Zhang agrees with you on that score.”
“i rather like Brennan.”
“interesting.” Nick unbuttoned his jacket for a more casual look. “most people can't stand that guy when they first meet him.”
“ok.”
“you still got it in you, you know.”
“no idea what that means.”
“means i really do wish you’d realize certain things.”
“why are we having this conversation?”
“because after tomorrow, i'm not entirely sure i'll have another chance to see you again before you die.”
in the distance, i thought i saw my dragonfly speed past.
the photographer changed cameras, crouched low. “now how about those smiles?”
Nick smiled. i stuck my tongue out.
“love you,” Nick said.
“well, we’re going to work on that,” i replied.
“and thanks for the toast.” Nick reached up and gave my neck a squeeze.
i did the same, praying to god the sun’s glare would keep that moment from ev
er being captured.
***
just under 24 hours had passed since rehearsal, and i was back on the crescent terrace overlooking the courtyard.
stashed my bookbag behind an orange cooler.
i tried to breath
the multitudes were gathering. some familiar. most, not so much.
resort staff setting up tables for drinks and food.
the women looked spectacular. the men, preoccupied.
to be fair, yes, the women also looked preoccupied.
long story short, the men all looked like each other.
didn’t want to know how i looked.
my tuxedo pressed against my chest. constrictive, duplicitous armament. the 2nd skin of an absolute fraud. metamorphosis complete. from Dean Martin, to Jerry Lewis.
i broke from the crowd. down the steps. out to the cobbled garden, where rows of foldout chairs had been set up for the ceremony. walked myself down the aisle. came to rest at the gates leading to the green. went through the rehearsal in my head.
came up with a scant 30 seconds worth of useful footage.
“i don’t know what the hell to do, either…” Chester was by my side. looking out onto the empty seats, awaiting the big production.
“want me to walk us through what i think i remember?” i asked.
“yeah, please.”
we passed through the gate, around to the bushes. hit our marks, one by one. Chester had a thousand questions. positioning, timing, arrangement. as we stood to the left of an imaginary bride and groom, i gave him a light body check. “i think there’s something graciously endearing about it, Chet.”
“what’s that?”
“you’ve stood on stage, you and your guitar. in front of amphitheaters worth of screaming fans. and here you are, sweating the most minor details in a venue that seats less than a hundred.”
“yeah.” he smiled. sighed. “this is probably more important than anything i’ve ever done.”
“what’s it like?” i asked.
“what?”
“when people listen. any words for it?’
Chester gave a chuckle. “no. no, i’ll leave the words to you.”
“we’re doomed.” i brought my hands together, clasped in front of me.
Chester did the same.
holding our pose, ensconced in orange radiance. awaiting the crush of the crowd.
we kept still for a while. preparing.
***
back on the balcony, the father of the bride brought us in for a huddle. distributed stacks of programs.
“gentlemen, it’s time,” Michael said. voice free of tension. smiling. pleased. “start leading people to their seats. groom on the right side, bride to the left. the first 2 rows are reserved for family, or close friends. we’re 10 minutes out from the start of the ceremony, so look lively.”
i took a handful of programs.
waded into the crowd. felt a doughy dread begin to rise. realized i hadn’t been paying any attention since i had arrived. not a clue as to who was there on behalf of which half. what was worse, i didn’t know who was family, never mind whatever constituted a close family friend.
to save myself the embarrassment, i approached only those who already had programs. got the friendly brush off each time, and nobody could say i hadn’t tried.
James Reckless darted past me. stiff gait leaving a trail of discombobulated grumbles.
i caught up to him as he approached his father.
Paul was all decked out in Harvard robes; his official digs for officiating.
“everything all right?” i asked.
“we’re having trouble locating the mother of the groom,” James said.
Paul shook his head. “ah. i think i know what this is about.”
“what’s going on?” i asked.
Paul tucked his notes away. “remember during rehearsal yesterday, when i said that Lacey would be reading from the I Ching?”
i doubted very much that he had. nodded anyway.
“i think she mentioned something about needing a translation in Chinese.”
James bobbed on his toes. “ok. great.”
“no worries,” i said. “let me sniff around, see if she isn’t just somewhere in the lobby. you know how she loves talking to strangers.”
Paul nodded. “could you?”
i ran a quick tour of the premises. blending best as a drunk in a tuxedo could ever hope to. heard an eruption of laughter from the dining room. sounded a lot like the reaction Lacey had garnered during her rehearsal speech. stood on my toes for no apparent reason and had myself a look.
a group of 12 were heading towards the stairs. all smiles and cross-promotional jokes.
i froze.
because there he was again. taller than i remembered, but my blueprints were some 10 years out of date, and there was no telling what made those features so unmistakably his. a face in the crowd. ghost in the machine.
i took 4 confident strides, imagining what would have to come next.
ok, Bobby, seriously, take a good fist full of this rented tux and just hold on tight while you pummel my face. mess it up real good. i got a wedding in fewer minutes than i can count, but if my face has to be peeled off my skull for the occasion, then have at it, because –
i bumped into a pair of young honeymooners.
sent their suitcases crashing to the floor.
both kind enough to accept my apologies, but at the cost of another lost hallucination.
by the time we mended fences, there was nothing left to see.
Bobby’s improbable apparition had vanished.
with a few uncertain steps, i left certainty behind. felt the ceiling rise to its previous height. somehow positive that 2 sightings had to be proof that neither one had happened.
remembered my mission, and went looking for Lacey.
passed by the women’s restroom.
checked to see if the coast was clear.
knocked.
waited.
knocked harder.
awash with Deja vu.
i laid a cautious hand on the door and pushed.
stepped into forbidden territory.
cleared my throat. “Lacey?”
from one of the stalls, a voice called out. “yes?”
it didn’t sound like a match. “are you the Lacey whose son is getting married today?”
“no,” came the stern reply. “i’m the Lacey whose daughter is getting married today.”
all at once, i remembered that Nick and Kayla both had mothers named Lacey. just another one of those little quirks that had made this weekend seem no less than destined.
i coughed: “just wanted to say congratulations. peace out.”
stepped away from the bathroom door.
my face maintained anonymity, but it occurred to me i might have to spend the rest of the wedding either as a mute, or speaking with a British accent.
***
the wedding coordinator began to round up all first-born groomsmen.
i was talking to Korben. caught the cattle drive from the corner of my eye.
“it’s just so strange,” he was saying. “i’ve known you, Chet, Nicky for so long. and seeing you all standing in your tuxedos, here, or wherever we are… it’s just kind of wild. i keep projecting young faces on all of it, but when i do, it’s as though something shatters. like when your computer can’t figure out how to run a simple operation.”
“we’re old, Korben.”
“so unbelievably old,” he agreed.
“looks like this is actually going to happen. see you on the other side?”
“yeah.”
i stepped into the circle of groomsmen. smiled, as was expected. listened to the coordinator; a short woman with a body built for arias, thankfully more interested in getting things done than sugarcoating her words.
we followed her into the lobby.
as we passed within 30 feet of the front doors, they swung open to reveal<
br />
long raven hair, making an entrance on 4 legs. 2 crutches, to be exact. sturdy right leg, the left cocooned in a cast, wrapped in gauze. wrapped in black gauze, matching her mascara, matching her dress. black dress, full specter at a white wedding. oval face, cheeks gone cherry bomb with the effort of ambulation. dark eyes, and a daring smile.
black gauze, once again. replaying. matching that black dress.
Brennan broke away from the entourage. raced over to greet her, his arms outstretched.
so at least this ephemeral vision had to be real.
my world whiplashed back its rushed surroundings.
craned my neck, watched her disappear behind a column. shook it off, marching once more towards our final frontier.
i followed the coordinator through a door, down a spiral stairway. through another door, leading to a path that hugged the garden’s outer hedges. pausing momentarily to let a golf cart play through. we walked past the open gate; quick glimpse of a full house as we arrived at our mark.
before i could wonder what became of the girl in black gauze, Brennan was back in our company. joined by Paul and James.
the 3 Reckless men gave their reports.
still no sign of groom-Lacey.
James strode through the gate on stilted legs. arms stiff at his sides. fists balled into pallid rocks.
Nick remained calm. turned to his father… “remember my graduation?”
Paul laughed.
“high school?” i asked.
“college,” Nick said. “my mom was so worried i wouldn’t show on time, that she ran over to my house to make sure i would. and as a result, she missed the whole thing.”
“too funny to make it a tradition.”
“too perfect. we can wait.”
and so we did. basking in the sun like diamondbacks. temporary setback giving us a chance to forget the upcoming nuptials.
“dewdrops in the garden,” i told Nick.
Nick agreed, and we settled on the order of appearance. i took the rear. with an uneven groom-to-bride ratio, Paul warned me i would have to take on 2 women for the recession.
we all made the obligatory jokes, and i had the obligatory fantasy about nothing that would ever happen to me.
was about to ask Nick about the girl in black gauze, when James returned. a little more slide to his stride. “good to go.”
we gathered in what felt like an abstract pentagram.
Paul glanced through the gate. raised his hand.
the sound of a string quartet came drifting through the air.
Paul turned back to us. smiled with a silvery pride. “i have to say… you are all without a doubt the best-looking group of men i have ever seen on the business end of a wedding. truly… you all look spectacular.”
Suicide Notes From A Wedding Page 6