“i agree. all of it.”
Milo tried to look fed up. gave up. sighed. “well, then. last chance. drop everything and come with us?”
“there’s something i’ve got to take care of in New Orleans.”
“you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
“Milo…” i lit a cigarette and thanked the floodlights for my featureless silhouette… “i’ve never done a stupid thing in my entire life…”
“then i guess we’ll have to discuss this later.’
“guess so.”
“so long.”
“so long.”
i watched him climb into the rental, slam the door.
reverse lights kissing my knees before shifting into drive.
up the driveway, heading for an exit.
leaving me to my own devices for just a little while as their car faded from sight.
***
i stretched out by the pool.
popped open the wine, eyes on the skies.
felt space curve inwards, folding over me. treetops meeting the stars in a protective dome. sparked a smoke. let a few memories play spin the bottle. all points coming together. emotions like soft rectangles, overlapping, creating contradictory shapes.
waiting for a sign as i began to draft out my plan.
made do with letting the curvature collapse, another clever anomaly in space and time.
***
without warning, the fuse caught wind of a lit match.
a string of firecrackers were draped over the fence like an oversized, Jurassic millipede.
Korben, Chester, Alley and Joyce all screaming for me to get back!
i did as i was told. watched with disoriented wonder as they went off, exploding in a rapid burst of artillery shells. deafening pops that plunged into the surrounding forest. over hill and dale.
filling us with the rush of broken rules. childhood rebellion, shattering the peace.
i glanced around. saw the numerous corpses of wasted fireworks littering the ground, floating in the pool.
“let’s do some shots!” Chester proclaimed.
i rushed up to the house.
scampered into the kitchen and paused. had a bit of a staring contest with a pair of pizza boxes. wondered when those had made the scene. checked myself out. wondered when i had changed back into jeans and shirt reading I HAVE CANDY.
shook it off.
dug into the freezer and removed what was left of the Goose.
trotted down the steps, taking bets on whether i would break my neck before reaching the pool.
returned to find things had changed.
a few of the wedding guests had crashed our party. didn’t recognize any of them. wasn’t just the limited light, momentum of the past 48 hours. it was honest bewilderment.
“what’s up, man!” came the call of a random specter, seated at the far end. “hope you don’t mind us using your pool.”
i squinted. “can’t say just yet.”
a girl walked past me. gave a lurid smile. “can i have some?”
“excuse me?”
the girl pointed to my shirt. “do you have some candy for me, or not?”
i glanced down at the pink letters. “technically, my shirt has candy. all i have is vodka.”
she rolled her eyes and walked away, undoing her belt.
another nameless figure fired up his iPhone, began to blast Foo Fighters.
Learning to Fly.
“yeah…” Korben said, taking a swig of vodka. “i remember this one.”
“how long was i gone?”
“long enough for this,” Alley said.
Chester looked at me with deeply pained eyes: “is this really what i wanted?”
“oh, what the fuck do you guys know?” my candy girl yelled, stripping down to her underwear. “there’s no bathing suits! bra and panties, bitches! hello, pool!”
she dove in.
joined by a couple of others.
an anonymous kid wandered over with a glass bowl. “anybody want a hit of this?”
nobody did.
all of us just wanting things to go back to how they were a few minutes ago.
myself reaching back even further.
i grabbed hold of the vodka and sent three gulps down the wrong pipe.
coughing. sputtering. colors bleeding as another song from bygone days ended this particular moment in a smear of tears and unknown smiles.
***
i was sitting on the couch.
felt like it must have been 3 in the morning.
a quick read of the pendulum retuned my inner clock .
3:15.
i rubbed my eyes, raw and throbbing. took stock of the aftermath. a few bottles of wine, inexplicably manifested cans of Busch Light strewn across the room.
i cleared my throat. whispered hello.
nobody answered.
i took a shaky tour around the first floor.
empty glasses from our wedding toast littered the tables, kitchen.
stepped outside.
strained to get a good look at the pool.
lights out. no evidence of stragglers, not a hint of party crashers.
reached into my pocket and pulled out a single, crushed cigarette.
broken at the base.
tore off the filter, popped a match.
let my lungs burn in the frigid air, bare feet starting to lose feeling.
i put out my smoke.
wandered back to the living room.
glanced at the television.
there was Elliot, along with a young Drew Barrymore. bidding E.T. an emotional farewell.
“drinking game?” i asked.
eyes landing on my bottle. still a few fingers worth indulging. reached over to pick it up. noticed a slip of paper on the table. resting comfortably next to the extemporaneous pizza carton.
brought it inches from my eyes. body rocking back and forth as i read.
any time someone uses ‘80s slang, drink.
any time you feel guilty about thinking how hot Drew Barrymore is, drink.
any time anyone cries, drink.
any time there is product placement, drink.
any time anything racist happens, drink.
there, at the end of the list, must have been what sent everyone to bed without me…
any time Lucky says something stupid, drink.
“can’t not say that ain’t the truth,” i mumbled.
and bound by the rules of the game, i took what was left of the bottle.
slowly sank into the couch and let a florid quilt envelop me with the soft promise of another day.
***
awoke to tasty little headache, resting on the cushion like a rancid hotel mint.
squinting. television coming into focus. commercials promising a harem of women in exchange for product loyalty. blurred figures in the foreground, walking to and fro. low voices. an almond staring up at me from beneath the coffee table.
i licked some dry residue from my lips. sat up. “what’s the word on departure?”
Alley crossed my path, lugging an armful of bottles. “we’ve got an hour to get out of here. that’s 11am, on the nose.”
“your nose, or Chet’s nose?”
“mine. we’re on a schedule.”
“ok.”
i experimented with sore muscles, craned my neck to the left.
saw Korben at the table, guzzling a pint of water.
threw him a wave he didn’t see. tugged at my jeans, repositioned them for optimal mobility and trudged upstairs. crammed most all i had into my tote. rehearsing. took pains to make sure every part of my tux was spoken for, unable to afford such penalties upon return.
it was a slow, methodical morning.
a few jokes exchanged. questions bandied about, details tended to. all means necessary to make it seem as though we had never once set foot in that house.
i hung my tux and garment bag in the rental.
stood beneath the sun, waiting for my dragonfly to stop and say hi.
heard a splash down by the pool. took the steps to investigate.
Chester was bobbing about. treading water in his shorts. no shirt. tattooed torso, body wrapped in autumn hues.
“morning,” i said.
“hey, Lucky…” he wiped his face. “just salvaging some fireworks. don’t mind me.”
he took a breath, and plunged beneath the waters. froggy-style all the way down, arms reaching out to capture the lingering relics of Saturday night.
curious as to how he managed to keep his eyes open against the chlorinated sting.
didn’t stick around to ask him.
back to the house. tried to brush my teeth. opted for the toilet instead. on all fours. dry-heaving, strands of spit like jungle vines before disengaging. drip. drip. drip.
“my work here is done,” i croaked.
flushed the toilet, and scooped my toothbrush off the floor.
***
it was settled; i would drive everyone to the lodge. good chance we could still catch the tail end of brunch.
we locked up. loaded up.
i took the turns with pained caution.
proud to say, not a single golfer caught beneath my wheels that day.
pulled into what might have been a parking spot. told everyone to bail.
we lumbered our way across the front lawn, dawn of the living dead.
some of us more dead than others.
***
we strolled into the dining room. faced with a bowling alley of silver chafing dishes, flanked on either side by innumerable tables. polo drones swarming the hive. plates teeming with dubious food pyramids.
a bowtie sporting a middle-aged man stepped out from behind the podium. “are you all here with the Reckless/Dumas party?”
i glanced behind me. Korben with his black Andy Warhol shirt. Chester with his sunburned face, black dress shirt, and shorts still damp from his dive. at least our ladies gave us some credence, and i turned back to him… “yes. that’s us.”
“just head on down, through the 2nd room, take a right, a left, then through the doors.”
“there’s a 2nd room?”
“then take a right, then a left, then through the doors.”
he wasn’t kidding. once we cleared the initial half-mile of eggs, bacon, crepes, toast, pancakes, waffles and potatoes, a 2nd room awaited. home to an omelet station, selection of freshly carved meats. centerpiece table of tortes, éclairs, and countless other deserts refusing to wait for the evening hours.
right, left, and into a spacious dining room.
only a few of the fifteen tables were occupied, populated by faces already fading. caught Nick hovering above a group of late arrivals. charm on autopilot. fresh chapter at the end of a seemingly endless novel.
he motioned for us to grab an empty table.
with the exception of Chester and Joyce, there were at least 2 seats separating all individuals.
the days in which we couldn’t live without each other for more than 5 minutes had long since been swept beneath the rug.
smartphones out. an open doorway to men, women, and children across the country.
a 17-year-old server swooped in. pimpled face aglow with the only honestly delighted smile from a staffer i had seen since arriving.
“and who wants some coffee?”
everyone else raised their hands.
he flashed me a grin. “no coffee for you, sir?”
“i’m good as it gets.”
he happily went about his rounds, sashayed away.
“that is one cheerful motherfucker,” Korben observed.
i nodded. “he might be the most cheerful motherfucker since ever.”
“yeah… and, the thing is, i think he might actually mean it.”
“i’m going to get an omelet,” Chester said.
we all stood, scattered.
my head was kicking a healthy disco beat. all well and good for now. the worst was yet to come, and it would accompany me throughout the 10-hour ride back to Verona.
“shit,” i whispered to a bowl of blueberries. “i have to go back.”
assuming the blueberries simply needed more time to reply, i scooped a bushel or so onto my plate.
added some walnuts, plain yogurt, strawberries.
sliced a banana right there at the fruit station.
overheard a group of servers arguing with the bowtie that had greeted me at the door.
“well, i don’t know where the tater tots went.”
“people ate them.”
“that many?”
“where are the tater tots?”
“there should be more soon?”
“why aren’t they here now?”
my blueberries maintained their sweet secrecy, and i poured myself 2 glasses of orange juice.
did a little balancing act all the way back to the table.
***
i dutifully shoveled breakfast bites into my mouth. surrounding plates brimming with greatest hits. nothing much left to say, but Chester was never good with silence.
“Lucky… do Ray Romano in Fight Club.”
i indulged.
got some chuckles, but the thrill was a little more than gone.
fortunately, Nick found the opportunity to sit with us.
we all raised our coffee, juice, whatever was handy.
“yes, yes,” Nick said. “i agree with all of you, it’s one day later.”
“what’s the rest of yours look like?” Chester asked.
“we’re going down to the courthouse to finalize what happens if one of us dies.”
“two nickels worth of free advice,” i said… “don’t come back as a buffalo.”
“buffalo nickles,” Chester agreed. dipped his omelet into a bowl of ketchup.
“oh, and point of order…” i reached into my pocket. pulled out my place card from the dinner. “want to tell me what this says, Nicky?” i stretched my arm across the table, let him have a look. “hmm?”
“head table,” Nick said.
“yeah,” i threw it in his face. “maybe next time you pick something a little less misleading for those of us who have nothing else to live for…”
and with another toast, it was signed into law, just as Kayla sat down next to Nick.
he turned to her. “Lucky’s mad there was no oral sex provided for him at the dinner table last night.”
Kayla shrugged. “we did our best.”
i bit into a strawberry. “you did your breast?”
“well…” Nick slipped into his hapless, innocent face. “by 9 o’ clock on the first night, word was you were making it through this life as a male porn star.”
“thank god nobody stepped up to test that.”
“for everyone involved, yes,” Alley agreed.
a piece of Korben’s toast laughed its way out of his mouth.
and then all of us truly had something to giggle about.
***
our alarmingly chipper pal stopped by to top us off.
got around to Nick, who held up his hand, casually throwing out, “i’m fine, but my wife would like a little more.”
his words were met with an awed silence. all sounds receding, save for the stream of coffee pouring softly into Kayla’s cup. the waiter departed. left us all thinking.
“woah,” Nick said.
“yeah,” Korben added.
Alley and Joyce both nodded. “wow.”
“yay,” Kayla said, and brought her husband in for a deep, caffeinated kiss.
“there you fucking go!” i announced, a little too loudly.
Nick wiped his mouth, smiling. “oh, Charming Belinda. you’re so charming.”
“let’s see how charming i am with my foot up your ass.”
“do the voice!”
“nope.” i stood. handed Chester my keys. “you weirdoes get your shit out of my car. i gotta find the business center and p
rint out directions home.”
Chester frowned. “why don’t you just…” he trailed off.
“yup,” i said. “no smartphone. see you dicks in the lobby.”
i downed my orange juice, fingers already starting to shake.
***
the business center consisted of 2 Paleolithic desktops. endangered species in the face of OnStar computers and Apple’s introduction of the iEverything.
there followed 10 straight minutes worth of clicks and frozen subroutines.
heard the fellow in the adjacent cubicle swear under his breath.
seems as though i had a new friend.
i hit print, held out for the hum. logged out and walked to the printer, perched atop a rickety table. gave the directions a onceover. folded them, tucked into my back pocket. good to go.
Bobby was just getting out of his seat, and we bumped into each other.
he smiled. “sorry, dude.”
i probably could have made it on beyond zebra without ever being made.
wasn’t that kind of party.
he only had an inch or so over me. if he seemed taller, it was thanks to a more slender build. several pounds left behind. leaner, though not meaner. same light stubble. god awful sideburns long since razed. pale face punctuated with those same koala eyes, magnified by the same black rimmed glasses. maybe a prescription or 2 past due. threads from the late ‘90s traded in for a collared shirt and spotless Dockers.
“so,” i said.
he scratched the back of his neck. “wow.”
“well, here we are.”
“kind of crazy, right?”
beat.
i always imagined it would be in a bar. back alley. in the streets, someplace. somewhere else. not some janitor’s closet posing as the dying business center of a thriving golf resort in the mountains of eastern Pennsylvania.
i swallowed the pill, prepared. launched: “so i know what’s what. know what I did. know what’s coming to me. here’s fine. but if you want to do this outside, inside, in front of your buddies, it’s all the same. all good. but i’ve got a long drive ahead of me, so if we can just do this –”
“uh…” Bobby glanced over my shoulder as the printer began to whirr. “do what, exactly?”
“what do you mean?”
“what do you mean?”
beat.
“do you even remember me?” i asked.
“kind of hard to forget.”
“what i did?”
“again, kind of hard to forget.”
Suicide Notes From A Wedding Page 10