The First Wedding #2
“So the wedding is when we’re scheduled to have the surgery to be connected again.”
They then explained to J their idea for the double suit.
2 Become 1.
J plays two sets at each wedding. The first is usually made of a dozen songs the couple has chosen, often a musical biography of their relationship. This set often includes “If You Ever Need a Stranger (to Sing at Your Wedding).”
The second set is exactly one song long, and it comes after the wedding toasts.
This is the song J has composed for the couple.
As J, Jun, and Arthur exit the restroom together, it is time for the first set.
It is a universally accepted fact that if asked to choose a song to kick off their wedding, 91% of all gay men will choose a song popularized by a female singer, and 78% of the time, that female singer will have died in tragic circumstances.
This is why J begins the night by playing a version of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”
For the wedding-goer, this song is akin to a call to arms. If you happen to have come to the wedding with somebody who loves you, it behooves you to step out with them onto the dance floor.
If you did not come with a plus-one of that status, or with a plus-one at all, you must either discover something fascinating about the water glass in front of you or you must scan the crowd to see what your possibilities are.
It is as if the wedded couple is daring you to be resentful, and some wedding-goers rise to the challenge. (Others check their phones.)
As if to democratize the dance floor, Jun and Arthur are not dancing with one another as much as they are dancing with the entire crowd.
To J, this makes sense. If Jun and Arthur are going to dance with somebody who loves them at their wedding, and they are lucky enough to have so many loving friends and family members there, then they must spread their double-wide arms and dance with as many people as can fall into their open embrace.
For the next song, a jauntier than usual rendition of “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” Jun and Arthur dance with their mothers—Jun’s is dressed as The Rainbow Connection, Arthur’s is a little more subdued Nights in White Satin.
For the third song, they do not dance with their fathers—their families are supportive and progressive, but only to a point.
(In fairness, Jun’s father, a spirited Stayin’ Alive, would have been game.
Arthur’s father, a more reticent Fly Me to the Moon, would rather not dance at all.)
Song by song, the revelry amplifies. As Jun and Arthur spin and swirl with an impressive level of coordination at the center, intrigues occur along the edges.
Careless Whisper decides he can’t stand dancing with Father Figure anymore.
Smalltown Boy works up the courage to ask Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) to dance, and now their hands are all over each other, much to the chagrin of Smalltown Boy’s ex, Personal Jesus, who is going through the motions of dancing with Caribbean Queen but keeps looking over his shoulder.
A few drinks in, A Little Respect is singing along, not untunefully, as they and Friday I’m in Love sandwich Dancing on My Own.
(She’s thrilled.) Meanwhile, Jun’s aunt and uncle, Eleanor Rigby and Hey Jude, are sweetly careening through their own soundtrack, in their own dance-time, her cheek resting on his chest, his cheek resting atop her head. Both their eyes are closed.
There are some artists who are compelled by the challenge of technical brilliance, striving solely to be recognized as a virtuoso of their craft.
Others are drawn to create because creation is the only way they will ever know themselves.
And still others are drawn to a life of artistry in the belief that it will connect them to other people.
Sometimes this connection is conceptual, as if the artist desires to plug in to humanity itself.
Sometimes it narrows into a generally perceived audience, a sea of nameless faces.
And every now and then, the desire for connection narrows even further, and the art is created to draw a line to one specific person.
The name and the body of this person may be intimately familiar to the artist. Or sometimes the artist creates the art to conjure this person into their life.
Who is J singing for?
Of course, he is singing for Jun and Arthur and their guests.
But also:
Whenever he sings the line “Maybe I’ll meet her there tonight at the wedding buffet,” he always looks to the crowd.
If there’s a buffet, he looks there first.
This time, he spots her immediately. She is looking at the food through heart-shaped sunglasses. But she isn’t reaching for a thing...because she’s in a straitjacket.
J smiles at this get-up.
She looks over to him on the stage.
He looks down at his guitar.
After the first set is over, J and the band step off the stage to make way for the DJ who will conjure the background sounds of the dinner hour.
Jun and Arthur come over and enfold J in a sweaty, beaming show of appreciation. They usher a few relatives (Son of a Preacher Man, Waterloo, I Want Candy, and Smells Like Teen Spirit) over to meet him. J marvels at how Jun and Arthur genuinely move as if they are sharing one body now.
As Smells Like Teen Spirit complains about her boyfriend refusing to come dressed as Lithium, J scans over her head to see if Strait-jacket Heart is still by the buffet.
“Sounds like he’ll need an ‘All Apologies’ costume next,” Arthur tells Smells Like Teen Spirit.
She rolls her eyes, as Teen Spirit should.
J tries to make a show of listening while scanning the crowd.
“Looking for someone?” Jun asks.
“Yes,” J admits. “The woman in the straitjacket.”
“A straitjacket?” Arthur replies.
Jun shakes one of their two heads. “I haven’t seen anyone in a straitjacket.”
“Oh!” Uncle Waterloo utters. “I know who you mean! With the glasses?”
J nods.
Waterloo grins. “I have no idea who she is!”
“Jesus Christ,” Smells Like Teen Spirit spits out. “She’s right there .”
To J’s bemusement, Smells Like Teen Spirit points the way. Somehow, Straitjacket Heart has undone one of her arms so she can hold a drink. She leans away from the crowd, watching it with a cool detachment.
“Who is that?” Jun asks Arthur.
“I can’t tell,” Arthur says. Then he turns to J. “You should go talk to her.”
“It’s alright.” Even though J has just been on a stage performing in front of the whole room, this conversation is far, far too public for his taste. “Why don’t you tell me what song that man over there is dressed as. ‘Hounds of Love’?”
Jun and Arthur both roll their eyes, Jun tilting his head to the left while Arthur tilts his to the right.
“Clark is ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’...and you’re trying to change the subject.”
“Typical,” Smells Like Teen Spirit mutters.
“Excuse me?” J asks.
“You know what I mean,” she replies.
He does. But he doesn’t understand how she’d know this about him.
Finally, I Want Candy (age five) weighs in.
“GO TALK TO HER!” he yells. And then, for good measure, he repeats it.
J, sensing that this song is all chorus and no verse, understands the only way to get to the outro is to make a move.
Even though the acoustics make it nearly impossible for Straitjacket Heart to have heard I Want Candy’s cry over all the table conversations, she puts her glass down on a sill and heads to the bar.
This complicates J’s route considerably, since now he must squeeze between tables to get to her.
The remaining balloons on his costume squeak and whine in protest as they press against chairs and people who refuse to let J pass.
A few people slap him on the back and compliment his singing, one causing a bright pop in the process.
By the time he emerges from the table area, he’s down to five or six luftballons.
Whether cued by the pop of the balloon or simply the keen radar most women have to tell them when an awkward suitor is approaching awkwardly, Straitjacket Heart looks right at J as he covers the final few feet to the bar.
Then, when he’s about five balloon’s-lengths away, she turns back to the bartender for her fresh drink.
There’s a part of J that wills his feet to keep walking to the end of the bar, to pretend a gin and tonic is the only intoxication he’s come here for. This part warns him that the song of the awkward suitor is one he’s played many times before, and it always comes to the same end.
But the greater part within J is the more hopeful part, the one that thinks love is the song that can be played a thousand different ways, and that every time you play it, a different reaction can occur.
“Hey,” he says. “Where did you get that straitjacket? It looks so...real.”
The woman looks up, her expression not at all betraying what kind of song she’s hearing.
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I just woke up in the park like this. Barefoot. Covered in broken glass. I didn’t have time to change.”
“Must’ve been a great party last night.”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m just insane.”
J lights up his face. “Me, too!”
She looks at him skeptically. “In what way are you insane?”
J leans in so the bartender won’t hear. “You know how most people pour their cereal into the bowl before they pour the milk? Well, I—”
“No, seriously. What’s your major malfunction? What part of your internet history do you delete?”
J pulls back. “Oh.”
The woman relaxes her posture and adjusts her barstool like clock hands switching from twelve to three, so she can face J directly. “Take your time.” She reaches for her drink and takes a sip.
J doesn’t tell her there’s no reason to delete internet history if you’re the only person who knows the passcode to the laptop. That isn’t the answer she’s looking for.
He takes too long. She says, “First thought, best thought.”
“I used to have a lot of separation anxiety.”
“When?”