The Third Wedding #7
“You okay?” a voice (the caterer?) asks.
“I’m great,” J says. Because maybe this is his punishment, for wanting money, for wanting fame.
“Alright. Here we go.”
The top cake is put back in place, and J can hear what sounds like whipped cream being released from a can, to cover the seam.
J waits, expecting they will roll him in at any moment.
He doesn’t wear a watch and his phone is in his back pocket—he’s afraid if he tries to reach for it, he will hit the side of the container and cause part of the cake to collapse.
He can’t imagine how much a cake like this costs.
It must have required an engineer as well as a pastry expert.
He tries to figure out what to sing. It’s not like Celestia and Roger have given him much insight into their love or their lives.
The only song in his heart right now is “HELP!” To comfort himself, he looks for the air holes in the plastic.
Which is when he realizes there aren’t any air holes in the plastic. They’ve forgotten the air holes.
J is not by nature claustrophobic, but he does like to be able to breathe.
And he’s starting to feel like he can’t.
He takes deep breaths to calm himself down, then panics that his deep breaths are only making things worse.
So he takes small breaths. At long intervals, at first. But then more frequently because it really does feel like the walls are getting tighter, and time is either moving slowly or not moving at all, and he twists to get his phone to text Mikhail, and there’s a jolt and he gasps and—
...
...
...
...
... the world comes back frame by frame, like a film projector that’s rolling slowly.
J can’t see much, just darkness and white plastic, but he hears indistinct voices yelling, and then suddenly there’s light—J looks up and this must be a dream because this Very Famous Action Star is staring down at him, asking him if he’s okay, and that’s when J realizes he passed out—passed out inside of a wedding cake—and this Very Famous Action Star is reaching down for him, and the first time J tries to stand, his legs do not agree with the plan, and he is so embarrassed to wobble in front of the Very Famous Action Star, but the Very Famous Action Star doesn’t make him feel ashamed, he actually says, “This whole thing is such bullshit!” as he leans over more so J can grab his hand and let himself be pulled up.
His head clears the top of the cake, and he’s not sure he’s got the steps, so the Very Famous Action Star keeps hold of his hand, and because the little stairway on the back of the cake is facing the Big Band, that’s who J sees as he emerges.
They all have their instruments down, and they’re looking at him with such concern, and life really can’t get much worse, can it?
Not just because they pity him, but because they’re pitying him for the wrong reason.
They have no idea he’s lost V. He’s made a fool of himself and lost V.
He’s made a fool of himself by losing V.
“How do you want to play this?” the Very Famous Action Star whispers. They’re both smeared with white frosting and whipped cream. “I’ve already introduced you.”
“I’m good,” J replies, some ridiculous instinct kicking in.
Now he can hear a further murmur throughout the ballroom, and he understands that he’s just stopped the wedding cold.
When he turns around, he can see Celestia and Roger staring at him with something between worry and irritation.
He also sees that numerous guests have their phones out and are recording his every move.
He goes first to the nearest microphone and repeats what he said to the Very Famous Action Star, “I’m good.” Then he adds, “It was a little tight in there!”
There’s laughter and applause. Yes, applause.
Just for the fact that he’s made it out of the cake and his legs are still supporting him.
He still feels wobbly, though, so instead he walks over to a nearby piano and takes a place there.
And what hits him hardest, what makes him shakiest, isn’t the utter humiliation of being a frosted Willy Wonka, nor the awkward silence that he’s launching into.
No, what guts him is the fact that V is not here, in person or in spirit, and the lack of her presence is the loudest kind of absence.
She is no longer in the wings, and so the wings begin to fold.
He tries to keep it together. He is generous in his introduction, talking as if he knows the wedded couple beyond their fondness for toasters.
“It is extraordinary that you have built this kind of paradise together,” he says.
“Not just for yourselves, but for everyone here. That is magnificent of you, and I am so honored to be able to add my humble song into the gift of your day.” The last part barely makes sense, but it sounds good, and now J can see Roger smiling like a pleased Medici.
Celestia, however, is giving him a different kind of look—both vulnerable and curious.
He recalls what Mikhail told him, how she thinks he has some insight into how this whole love thing is supposed to work.
And that, he realizes, it what she’s looking for: some insight.
She fought with Roger over getting rid of the old song, because for all its grandiose trappings, she still wants her wedding to be about love, so her marriage can be about love.
There’s really only one song that wants to be sung.
If Celestia wants to him to sing something true about love, this is what he’s got.
It’s only thing right now her money can buy—a possible path on the balance beam.
Clumsily, he takes his phone out of his back pocket and pulls up the lyrics on his notes app.
“My girlfriend always tells me she prefers it when I improvise,” he says the crowd.
Then he stops himself. Corrects himself.
“No, that’s wrong. She’s not my girlfriend.
She’s the woman I love. And she always tells me she prefers it when I improvise.
So here’s a very new song about love. A song from my heart.
” Then he looks straight at Celestia. “It’s about how messy it can get, but how you can push through that, so it all works out. ”
She smiles then, a little less vulnerable, a little more curious, and he begins the song.
When we’ve had a fight
When we sit there in the stillness after the storm
Quiet like two butterflies dipped in chloroform
I think: Hold on
Just hold on
Remember it’s not always like this
We’re still working working working on our script
Working on a script
Working on a script
We’re working on the scene
Where a simple gesture like a laughter
gives away you’re really not an actor
And maybe it’s true
that I can trust you
Honey, forget all your lines
I like it better when you improvise
Working on a script
Working on a script
This is
the mapping
of what’s happening
when the credits have rolled
This is what happens
when two atoms
bump into each other
and explode
This is
a movie
you’ll never see
The greatest story ever told
This is
an ending
to endings
That’s you and me when we get old
For the first few seconds, it feels like a good idea to offer this song.
But he hasn’t counted on how real it would feel to sing it, how real V’s absence would sit at the center of it.
He’s no longer in control of the song or its outcome.
He’s not in control of anything anymore.
He is singing these lines as if they are the most honest words he’s ever penned, and he is bereft because he’s not sure that’s good enough.
He has slowed them down and is offering them as a hymn, trying to turn his heartbreak into something loving.
He is starting to tear up, and the guests are starting to tear up, too.
They think he’s overwhelmed by the couple before him, and they have no idea that he is sad because the only person he wants to be watching is not watching, that the only person he wants to be here is no longer here for him.
He is crying because while he wants it to be her fault, he suspects it’s his own, that he leaned on the wrong lever and sent the train careening off the tracks.
As he gets to the final verse, there is a reverent silence that’s rare even for a concert.
This is
the mapping
of what’s happening
when the credits have rolled
This is what happens
when two atoms
bump into each other
and explode
This is
a movie
you’ll never see
The greatest story ever told
This is
an ending
to endings
That’s you and me when we get old
His voice quavers on the last line, and that’s how he gets them, that’s how he reaches into their hearts and pulls out their sympathy.
When he finishes, there’s an abundance of applause.
J looks out at the large ballroom and thinks that this is the world that V is entering into, this is the place success will take her.
She will measure in millions. He will measure in thousands.
She will applaud when he sings, but she won’t really know what he means.
He knows she has the livestream information. He knows other people still have their phones up, recording as if he’s famous, or maybe just because he passed out in a cake.
“I dedicate that to the woman I love. And to making it through.” Then, remembering why he’s here, he turns to Celestia and Roger and says, “I wish you a lifetime of belief and love, and a script you both write together, long into getting old.” Celestia mouths the words thank you while Roger looks at his watch.
There is more applause, and Roger looks up from his watch and smiles as the Very Important Action Star comes onstage to make his next introduction.
“Well done,” the Very Important Action Star says, and as J walks off, he wonders if perhaps they’ll become friends. No one will be waiting for him backstage, or at home, or in his voicemail. As he walks off the stage, the ballet dancers take their places.
J does not stay to see them give Adam and Eve their happy ending.