The First Wedding #3
“When I was a kid. I used to worry so much that something bad would happen to the people I loved. As far as I was concerned, the minute they walked out the door, a car would hit them, or an anvil would fall from the sky, or they would get shot by a bullet meant for someone else.”
“But then you got over it?”
“I guess so. I think I became a bit scared of being close to anyone after that. I didn’t like what it did to me. I didn’t like how much it made me worry.”
“What else?”
J smiles, briefly. “I’m a bit of a martyr. I do a lot of things for others that I don’t want to do, and then I go around and mope about it. The moping is highly enjoyable to me. It’s almost erotic.”
He has her full attention now. She isn’t faking. This interest is real.
“Keep going,” she tells him.
The adrenaline of performing is still coursing through J. The fact that he can now see her eyes through her sunglasses makes this conversation feel more vivid. He knows he is in a free-associative state, but he’s not trying to cage it.
“I feel for humans. Perhaps too much.”
The woman takes another sip of her drink. A thoughtful sip. Then she puts her glass on the bar and says, “You know, you had me at separation anxiety. That part was cute. But universal empathy is asking for a lot of allowances.”
J understands this as the challenge that it is. In reply, he picks up her drink, takes a sip, and asks, “Okay, fine—what about you? Map out your damage for me.”
The woman’s expression doesn’t change as she folds one arm over the other, unintentionally making it look like the straitjacket is tied.
“I am very impulsive, especially when talking to men dressed in rubber,” she says, but with a tone that takes the edge off of any impulsiveness.
“I don’t think very highly of men because our father left our family to join the circus when I was six.
Which is also the reason I think every man I love will leave me.
My parents hated each other so I don’t believe in marriage.
I’m the youngest of four siblings—no, five.
Actually, make it six. My parents probably ran out of names by the time I was born.
I suspect I was named after a brand of canned vegetables.
The one with the yellow label—are you familiar with the brand?
I’m sure you can find cans in bomb shelters around the country.
When I asked my mother where the name came from, she looked like someone who’d been caught in a lifelong lie.
In this case, my life. She muttered something about liking the sound of it.
But that’s just bullshit. It’s a dirge of a name, hardly melodic. But you’d know that, being a singer.”
“It seems like you’ve thoroughly analyzed yourself,” J observes.
“Well, I couldn’t afford therapy, so I had to do it my own way.”
“More money for straitjackets.”
The woman raises her glass. “Only the finest of straitjackets.”
She takes a sip, then passes the glass to J. He doesn’t even like vodka cranberry, but he takes another sip anyway.
She continues. “I appreciate you didn’t try to tell me my name was melodic.”
“And I appreciate your respect for men in rubber. Also, I have a confession.”
“Another?”
“Yes. Another.”
“Go ahead.”
“I happen to like that brand of canned vegetable. Their carrots in particular.”
She knocks back the rest of her drink. J likes to think of that as a signal.
“May I propose?” he asks.
“So soon?”
“I propose that we each get our own drinks and head to the balcony on the second floor to continue this conversation without so much noise around.”
She smiles at him, an invitation of a smile...but at the same time, a man taps her on the shoulder.
“Hey! There you are!” he says.
The man is handsome in a lacrosse-player way, and the tap on the shoulder effortlessly becomes a hand resting on the same shoulder. He’s covered in plastic jewelry and phone cords. An ’80s-style phone receiver sits on his head. J immediately knows what he’s up against.
Hotline Bling.
“Stephen’s the one who freed me up so I could drink,” Straitjacket Heart explains to J.
“Only left her because I promised my mother a dance!” Hotline Bling says. His hand will not leave her shoulder. J minds this more than she seems to.
Hotline Bling goes on, “You and the band were great, man. This is such a great idea for a wedding! I get to free my new friend here from her straitjacket and see a concert at the same time.”
“You’re a lucky man,” J mutters.
“I know! What were you guys talking about? It looked intense .”
Straitjacket Heart swivels away from J to face the Bling.
“He was just sharing a carrot cake recipe with me. Ends up the secret is for the carrots to be canned.”
“That’s cool—you sing and you cook. Way to go, man.”
All it would take is one wink from her. Not even an actual wink, but a slight tilt of the head that recognizes a wink would not work in this situation but that if she could be winking at J, she would be. J searches for that. For anything. But instead she asks Hotline Bling to get her another drink.
“Cool. Then you better eat something before they clear it all away. The crab cakes are to die for. Seriously.”
To J, it has all the harshness of the end of a good therapy session.
To be stopped midflow. To be told time is up.
To be reminded that the only reason the other person is there is because you made an appointment.
To be reminded that they don’t care about you nearly as much as you care about yourself.
“I think I’ll go see what’s happening outside,” he says.
Before his straitjacketed companion can reply, Hotline Bling holds out his hand and says, “So nice to meet you, man. Keep up the good work!”
J shakes it as forcefully as possible. Then he goes outside as quickly as he can without the spectacle of actual running.
Outside it’s crowded with people smoking in the parking lot.
The party is at Sockerbruket, an arrangement of buildings that look like offices aspiring half-heartedly to be castles.
J angles through the parking lot to take a break by the river, and as he does, a lit cigarette grazes one of his balloons (deliberately or not) and pops it.
At least two people scream. J keeps walking, wanting to be as far as he can get from the wedding without leaving it.
When he gets to the water, he feels how chilly it is—he couldn’t wear a jacket over his balloons.
He knows he has one song left, but he feels the urge for going.
Jun and Arthur suddenly seem like strangers again.
J wonders why he’s doing this, why he’s spending so much energy on going to strangers’ weddings when there are better ways to build a career.
Then he wonders why there’s a cold, heavy rock in his stomach.
He doesn’t have to wander very far in his wondering.
The answer is clear, and it’s currently having drinks with Hotline Bling.
He sees a woman exit the wedding venue. She’s wearing a big rose-shaped hat and far too much lipstick. She scans the crowd and then looks to the distant, antisocial shore where J has claimed citizenry. When she sees him, she scampers over.
It’s only when she’s closer that J recognizes her as Olivia, the friend of Jun and Arthur’s who helped them plan the wedding.
When she gets to him, she says, “Kiss from a Rose,” without him having to ask. He smiles. Of course.
Olivia tells him, “We’re about five minutes away from the toasts, which means we’re anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes away from your wedding song, depending on how much the toast-givers have been drinking. Is that a word? Toast-givers?”
“We should just call them toasters,” J suggests.
Olivia laughs—a loud, joyous burst of laughter.
“ Exactly . I guess I’m hoping the toasters aren’t too toasted.
We’ve set up two mics—how ’bout you stay at one plug and I’ll stay at the other, and if they start to ramble on or tell stupid jokes about stupid things Jun and Arthur did that have nothing to do with them being a couple, we pull. ”
“Sounds good,” J says. But what he’s really thinking is, I guess I have to go back inside .
“You’re the best,” Olivia replies. Then she takes a look at him and says, “Your poor balloons. Did you bring any extra? We have about two minutes, and I could help you put them on.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Drat. Well, then...no rest for the wicked. Let’s go make some magic.”
J takes a deep breath and exhales. There’s no saying no to women like Olivia.
The wedding is drawing him back in.
“Do you have any role models for your relationship?” J had asked Jun and Arthur as part of their interview.
“Well, my parents,” Jun said. “They bicker all the time and love each other like bodies love oxygen.”
“I wonder if that makes my parents carbon monoxide,” Arthur said.
“They’re not that bad!”
“They’re fine, ” Arthur told J. “But their roles are a little too rigid for them to be role models.”
“What about outside of your family? Who else?”
Arthur looked instantly giddy upon landing on his answer. “Do you know the story about Genesis P-Orridge and Lady Jaye?”
J shook his head. (He did, in fact, know the story, but he wanted to hear how Jun and Arthur would tell it.)
“Genesis was in Throbbing Gristle,” Jun went on. “Which does not mean we want you to play any Throbbing Gristle songs at the wedding.”
“In fact, please don’t,” Arthur agreed.
“Anyway,” Jun said, “Genesis and Lady Jaye were married but they weren’t satisfied with that. They’d shared a kiss once that made them leave their bodies and become one and they wanted to feel like that again. So they started dressing alike—”