“oh…” she linked her arm with mine, preparing. “is this your first wedding?”
“first participation.”
“well, it’s customary, sometimes, for the members on the bride and groom’s side to be introduced at the dinner. they walk in, cross the dance floor. usually do a little dance for everyone.”
i leafed through memories of previous weddings. came up with nothing but Misty tears. “is it customary this time?”
the doors opened again, along with an invitation for Kayla’s parents to come on down!
as the doors closed, i called an emergency meeting. “so i figure we can stroll in. arm in arm. hit the floor and cross it with a little Charleston step. nothing too ostentatious. sound good?”
“i think it sounds great.”
“Mandy?”
“yes?”
“i’m so sorry you have to be seeing with me.”
the doors blew open. our cover blown.
Mandy squeezed my arm. “that’s not how you spell seen, Lucky.”
we were sucked through the airlock, out into the ballroom. discus tables were grouped on either side of a sprung, wood-tiled floor. spectacle overseen by a wedding band of young, bearded Millennials in full swing. remaining sunlight pushing softly through a series of glass doors.
the applause tapered as we hit the floor. Mandy and i spread out, hands held. moved our feet. thought I heard Korben laughing, somewhere above the assault of amplifiers.
we made it safely to the other side. joined the parents, and turned to watch the rest of the cavalcade storm the gates. witnessed the room go wild as Brennan and his Brennettes made their strut happen.
guns, guns, right. guns, guns, left...
i let myself breathe easy. tried to crack a smile as our sideline gathered, slowly grew.
saving the best for last.
the newlyweds arrived on a mighty crescendo. stepped onto the floor with a few flawless moves. flawless, despite the century-long blood feud between Nick Reckless and the agents of rhythm. topped with a dip. Nick sent Kayla tilting backwards. strands of hair sweeping along the floor as their lips pressed together.
building monuments out of moments.
***
the speciously named head table was actually 3 head tables, nose to nose along the back of the room. at each end, 2 smaller tables created right angles towards the dance floor. 2 more cut back in, forming a waxed, albino mustache.
thanks to a glitch in the matrix, our seating arrangements had fallen under dispute. assuming my role as weakest link, i wandered away. found my people at a nearby table, thrown into pleasantries with bubbly couples.
caught the tail end of Korben’s sentiment de jour. “ – and here these friends are, and they’re not kids anymore. dressed in their tuxedos. watching one of my best friends get married…”
“is it just kind of wild?” i asked.
“yeah,” Korben agreed, not a trace of irony. “we’re getting old.”
“modern times. i say old officially starts at 35.”
Milo looked at his watch. “doesn’t that happen to you in, like, a little over 6 months?”
“i’m aware of how little time I have left, Milo.”
“nice entrance,” Korben said.
“yeah,” Laura agreed. “a real waste if i don’t get you to dance tonight… i am going to get you to dance tonight.”
the band struck up, and the children wasted no time. out on the floor, jumping through the air, writhing on the ground. wiggling their appendages in near violent seizures.
“there’s a last time for everything,” i agreed. “meantime, Milo?”
“yeah?”
i leaned in close. “i may be having a nervous breakdown.”
he grinned. “for several years now, yes. good of you to show up.”
“i may be having a nervous breakdown.”
his grin was wiped clean. “outside?”
“yes.”
Milo excused himself from the table, and i excused my intrusion.
***
i’m not sure how we ended up with those beers, but that’s how it happened.
standing at the edge of a wide, concrete patio. overlooking the grass. sheltered from the golf course by a line of hedges that stretched down a gentle slope to the west side parking lot.
Milo waited patiently for me to get my story straight.
“Bobby was Melody’s boyfriend,” i said.
“we’re talking about this again?”
i lit a cigarette. had a tug at amber suds. “you remember or not?”
Milo smiled. must have dislodged a fond memory or two. “you mean Bobble?”
“yes. that was his nom de guerre.”
“so?”
“so i seen him.”
“seen him?”
“around…” i drank my beer. let the cigarette do its trick. “around here.”
“you mean here, here?”
“twice.”
“someone who looks like him.”
“him him.”
“sure?”
“90 percent.”
“interesting.”
“am i going insane?”
Milo didn’t answer. not all at once. then: “you still thinking about what –”
“yes. our greatest sins have a way of sticking with us.”
“i know a thing or 2 about that, don’t i?”
“Milo –”
“what?”
we stood in silence and waited for ducks to appear. make the moment easier.
when it didn’t happen, we were forced to continue.
Milo had a drink. “permit me to make an observation?”
“like permission has ever mattered to you before.”
“i’m going to let that comment slide, just so i can put this one out there… you seem to be rooting for the Bobble situation.”
“his name is Bobby.”
“and now i know you’re rooting for him.”
i breathed out, slowly.
Milo waved the smoke from his face. “again, i know a thing or 2 about wanting what you’re wanting.”
“no, you don’t.”
“then i don’t,” Milo snapped. polished off his beer. “but i’ll tell you one fucking thing. we once sat across each other at that same damn table. the one you’re thinking about. after Chastity dumped me. and you drank your fucking Jack, and held my hand, and you told me we would always be friends.”
“yes.”
“i’ve spent a good deal of time looking over my shoulder as well.”
“yes.”
“well, all right…” Milo sighed. “it’s all in your head. now go back in there and try to… just try, whatever it is you think you do.” he made for the door, called back: “and give Laura just one song, why don’t you?”
i let him go.
finished the beer and slid my cigarette butt down its neck.
***
turns out, it was my own lonely situation that had thrown the seating into flux. no date for the dance, odd chairs versus evens. i ended up sitting next to James, just one seat away from Nick. a placemat originally meant for Chester. he and Joyce were banished to the tiny outcroppings, their backs to the band.
i stared blankly at embroidered napkins. baskets of fluffy bread, regiments of silverware. in the middle of the table, a square, Picasso-style vase arose from the cloth like a glass child, stuffed with long-stemmed calla lilies. petals dyed a light purple.
a pair of staffers made their rounds, tersely jotting down entrees. cow, chicken, fish or vegetarian. i went vegetarian. as an afterthought, i read the stylishly embossed dinner card. something involving broccoli, porcini mushrooms, and polenta.
no doubts as to what would pair nicely with my selection.
i hit the bar. found Rodrigo tending to his post, at the ready.
“welcome back, maraschino,” he said.
“good to be home. can i get a bottle of Cabernet for the table?”
&
nbsp; he nodded. released the cork with a satisfying pop.
“a grateful nation thanks you,” i said.
“anything else?”
“there’s a 100 percent chance i won’t be going home with anyone tonight.”
enough said. he placed another bottle on the bar. “any problems opening that later on?”
i reached into my jacket. pulled out a wine key.
he winked.
i slipped him a fin and returned to my seat. set the open bottle on the table. remembered that i was still sans bookbag. stashed my date beneath a chair.
ready to quest, when Nick caught my attention with an aristocratic wave of his hand. i opened my mouth, about to congratulate him, when –
“Lucky…” he gestured towards the monstrous vase. “you think you could get this out of the way? it’s really very large, and refuses to take off its hat.”
i rounded the table. took hold and lifted. felt like a good 50 pounds. made my way across the dance floor in a vaudeville shuffle.
children scattering like pigeons.
lilies tickling my eyelashes.
through the threshold, tacking right towards the fireside lounge.
saw a woman sitting on the leather couch. sandalwood skin, dark curls pulled back from a chubby face. thick fingers texting. stony expression, resigned to her task.
“you mind if i set this down?” i motioned towards the coffee table.
“that looks heavy,” she replied.
took it for what it was. set the vase down.
watched her text for a minute. “you with the wedding?” i asked. “they’re starting to take food orders in there…”
“the children are with their parents.”
“i’m sorry?”
“and i’m the nanny,” she said. “the kids are with their parents for now.”
“let me know if the flowers get in your way.”
she didn’t reply. kept on texting.
i went and recovered my bookbag.
got lost on the way back. 37 left turns, and i was on my way.
the nanny had abandoned her smartphone. now busy removing the cling wrap from a chicken salad sandwich. popping a container of mac and cheese, digging in with a plastic fork.
from the ballroom, i heard a round of overjoyed cheers.
returned just in time to find had missed Michael’s speech.
“damn it.”
i trudged to the table and took my seat.
greeted by a starter of pastrami-cured salmon, drizzled in creamy cucumber dill sauce.
an unsolicited meal.
i took small bites. poured some wine. took large sips.
James Reckless sat down beside me. “hey, Lucky.”
“James.”
he jabbed at his salmon with erratic thrusts of his spoon. “missed Michael’s speech, did you?”
“which reminds me…” i reached under the table, shoved the bottle of wine in my bookbag.
James raised an eyebrow. “got plans for later?’
“yeah. big plans…” took another bite. certain there must have been more flavor than i was tasting. “don’t you have a bit of a keynote speech coming up?”
“yeah. there’s been some good ones this weekend.”
“no shoes i’m sure you couldn’t fill.”
James continued to dance circles around his dish.
across the table, far to my left, Chester caught my eye. gave me a seductive wink.
i returned the favor with a sly kiss.
he licked his lips.
Joyce had a bite of salmon, kept tabs on our tennis match.
i picked up a spoon. dragged it sensually from the bridge of my nose down to my lips.
Chester dipped his index into the butter. rubbed the fingertip around his face, down his chin and along his neck.
i picked up a roll. raised an eyebrow and split it down the middle. delicately spread butter along its soft interior. brought both ends together. then, slowly, maintaining constant eye contact, crammed the whole thing into my mouth.
most of it, anyway… a tiny nub remained poking out from between my lips, hideous egg ready to burst. felt my mouth go dry, too late to turn back.
the distress in my eyes made Chester’s light up. he brought his hands together like a happy toddler, throwing an arm around his lady. pointing. sharing this magical moment.
game, set, match.
i continued to work my jaw against the clay spaceship in my mouth. paused. across from me, a bridesmaid and her date, possibly husband or fiancée, were staring at me with a well-mixed cocktail of fascination and disgust.
held up my finger. continued to chew, adding a dash of wine to expedite the process.
finally managed to send the whole apparatus down below.
but by then, i had forgotten my excuse.
just shrugged.
watched them go back to their conversation, foreheads pressed close in adoring whispers.
***
my plate was withdrawn. replaced with salad greens in a balsamic reduction. topped with Roquefort, candied pecans and a slice of rolled ham.
James motioned for the server to give his salmon a stay of execution. moved the plate aside and made room for his salad.
i offered him my ham.
he accepted. didn’t do much with it. readied some bread, buttered it. took a bite and let it languish next to his plate.
“you ok?” i asked.
“i’m fine…” he reached for a glass of white wine. “it’s kind of funny.”
i reached for my red. “what’s that?”
“you were Nick’s mentor growing up. i don’t know… the way he would talk about you. every time, the few times you and i have seen each other over the years… i just continually expect you to be 80 feet tall…”
my throat tightened. a dense ball of half-chewed salad got stuck in traffic. turned to compost. i poured another glass and washed it down. “yeah. abstractions being what they are.”
“well, it is quite an accomplishment to do right by my brother. you really must’ve been something else back then…”
maybe. “can’t honestly say i was there.”
James took a another sip wine. “got this speech in a minute…” he scratched his chin. eyes floating across the floor.
i saw the front man motioning towards his microphone.
James nodded.
“ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got someone coming up here right now…”
as James stood, i took hold of his arm. “hey, James…” i reached out with my free hand. gathered my glass and brought it in for a clumsy drink… “take your time. seriously. due course. it’s like eternal return. everything you have to say has already been said. there is no focal point, no wrong set of words that are going to make this any less memorable… you know that. you do. and you are going to do fine.”
James blinked… “yeah, I know…” he smiled, amused. “yeah, don’t worry about it, Lucky…” gave my shoulder a squeeze. “i got this.”
he left me and my glass to exchange a perplexed look.
i watched him stroll to the microphone. snatch everyone’s attention from their food. travel with ease to center stage, and then simply blast off. stiff limbs now limber and flowing. calm, uninhibited. adoring stories finessing the crowd, weaving all threads into one, every anecdote in perfect sync.
it might have easily been the best speech of that entire weekend.
capped with a standing ovation like you dream about.
Chester leapt from his seat. with three silken bounds, he commandeered the microphone. counted out a one, 2, 3, 4.
the band struck up its cover of 8 Days A Week, arrangement doing supreme justice to the original.
James was bum-rushed. the entire dance floor set ablaze.
head table abandoned, save for myself.
i postured as though that was where i belonged. orders from above. Mr. Lucky Saurelius, designated steward of the House of Reckless.
the room growing some 80 feet around me.
across the floor, i caught sight of the girl in black gauze. chair at an angle. bum leg extended. heel resting on the floor, where a young anybody crouched at her feet, gentleman caller in a tailored suit. the two of them engaged in a lively bout of back and forth.
saw her laugh. arm reaching up to tousle her hair. elbow knocking one of her crutches to the ground. smooth words from her suitor, as he moved to pick it up.
she bent over at the waist. raised her head. with a few dark curls falling along her face, she sent a glance across the room.
eyes landing on mine.
locked.
any second, i would venture a smile.
and maybe she would reciprocate.
but i couldn’t imagine any scenario past that moment. chances, outcomes, all truncated. possibilities like toll roads. occasionally rewarding the brave, but mostly bleeding the meek and bold alike. and i had long since gambled away the necessary luck to even glimpse what lay beyond those heavily guarded junctures.
let alone pretend i had the choice to travel.
i turned away, stood in one rending progression.
knocked over my chair. picked it up, set things straight.
lifted what was left of the bottle.
good a time as any to grab a smoke.
have a stroll and see if maybe there was someplace i was actually needed.
a collision with another nameless guest was narrowly averted. our drinks saved from a nasty spill, sparing us both from an exchange of basic misunderstanding.
***
i took my bottle of wine out for a leisurely walk.
let the music fade, drifting towards the links. squat lights embroidered the accompanying path, casting a snowy blanket. i breathed in the isolation. cold mountain air, crisp on my lips.
fully intending to return to the ballroom. something in the polarity of the evening instructing otherwise. i headed for the gates, through the garden. easing my way between the ghosts of a wedding in progress.
took the steps one at a time. reached the top, onto the terrace.
faced with large, lodge windows.
caught sight of another party inside. a little less fancy. a little less dancing. little less conversation, a little less action.
considered crashing.
retreated down a ways. sat down on one of the steps.
lit a cigarette.
i heard footsteps on the stairs.
took a breath, ready to see what Bobby might have to say.
Suicide Notes From A Wedding Page 8