Sinning is a much a part life as
lying: the little ones count as much as the big. The few times I muttered the
word “fuck” while pacing back and forth within the church still count upon the
holy score board as when I stole an inflatable banana from Centerville High
School’s drama department. Riding a giant banana as a cock sounds so much
cooler then muttering curse words upon the lord’s door step but the day was
still young and so upon that we had to raise the stakes. Myself and the other
groomsmen paced back and forth with the man of the hour, our poor son of a
bitch, while the pitter patter of guests arrived above.
Together we hid, trying to break
the monotmy of waiting. Jokes were made about escaping through windows even
though they were all too small for any of us since everyone on the groom’s side
looked pregnant. Much like actors waiting to take the stage, all of us tried to
figure out what our role would be and to go over our characters. My character
for the night’s performance was best man, and I was determined not to turn a
simple wedding into some viral joke due to falling down while walking up the aisle.
Those things being said, I found myself drawn to the red, white and blue
decorated flask nestled in my coat pocket. Delicious Cedar Ridge bourbon
greeted my lips every time the stress began to crest. I’m admitting it now to
all my friends and family: I drank in a church. Granted, I’m sure at some point
someone will die and at that funeral I will be finding my flask in my pocket
once again, the stress of this wedding had me sipping whiskey before the organ
began to play. Let us pray that God is a whiskey over ice kind of guy or I’m
fucked.
It was time. A moment in time was
about to take place that would change my world forever: my older brother would
from now be known as the married one and I would be asked at every family
gathering if I had found someone yet. Selfishly, I am throwing this moment into
this story for all of us who get asked at Thanksgiving by a grandparent if we
will ever “settle down”. All of the
family photos with some dumb “married, engaged, dating and single” sign gimmick
are a stain on the relationship hopes of the rest of us lonely souls. After the
author took a slight pause in the story to bemoan his lack of a love life, it
was back to the wedding at hand. We groomsmen did as we had practiced so many
times the day before and acted out the waltz down the aisle: one by one, arm in
arm past so many people who had made the long drive to see my older brother get
hitched.
Our attire for the affair had a
special piece of flair to it: special wedding Converse sneakers went to each
groomsmen as a token of thanks as well as an amazing fashion statement in an
otherwise tradional outfit. Where this gift of style went wrong was the lack of
padding for the soles standing in front of the alter as an old priest went
through the motions of a traditional wedding. Feet cried out in anguish as the
ceremony continued, being tormented by the additional heat engulfing the room
and turning each and every man and woman standing uncomfortably into a sweaty
mess. Sweating, trying to keep the feet from hurting and tired of listening to
a priest go through the same speech that every wedding has, I let my mind
wander best I could. Yes, this was an amazing moment for my brother but this would
only be part of the night.
Minutes dragged on and on as the
priest decided this was his moment to perform the wedding version of a solo and
deliver a long winded speech about how being married is like also being married
to God. Take a few seconds to imagine the guitar solo from November Rain but
being boring and guilt inducing. His monolog informing the captivated couple in
front of him that God was always watching and without even taking either out on
a date was now in the marriage. This went over as well as a lead balloon;
coughing and silence followed as the feeling in the room seemed to spell out in
giant letters “get on with it”.
As with all weddings, a bonding
gimmick took place because a ceremony and celebration just doesn’t cut the
mustard anymore. Sands purchased from Hobby Lobby filled a vase as all
contributing parents and grandparents took a turn adding fancy colored sands
into a glass that no doubt collects dust to this day. My grandfather took this
time to get himself attention by calling out to the bride. His moment to shine
was whispering to my sister in law that “she still had time to run away” as the
few that could hear what he said groaned and cursed silently that the damn
thing wasn’t over yet.
Like the bathroom battle after eating at the
local buffet, it was time to shit and get off the pot. Quickly things got back
on track and much like every wedding you’ve ever seen; ring came, vows happened
and a kiss took place that neither person involved would ever say was good. It
was over. I followed the procession out into the lobby and in front of god, Jesus
and several others took a swig of that flask in an act that caused one
groomsman to exclaim “Holy shit.” A stressful event with complex planning, Game
of Thrones-esk negotiating and flashing dollar signs had just ended so why
wouldn’t you want to take one last kiss from the flask? I was celebrating and
tasting freedom all at the same time.
It was at this point that our
attention seeking grandfather took this chance to poke my female roommate
squarely in the ass with his cane in a moment that still gets referenced regularly
as a direct correlating moment as to why I am such a perv. Clearly she would
say, “You got it from him.” I would love to scream into the computer screen
that I am no way like that and when I get that age, I would find dignity in my
golden years but fuck it, who knows. At that point all should expect a hover
cane right in the butthole.
My demons as they sometimes may be,
waited to see how I would tread tonight as they knew the booze would flow
freely. The curse I picked up after being bitten by the alcohol werewolf was
one in which I over did the drinking when having a good time: I didn’t want
this happy feeling and joyful moment to end. So I told myself that if I kept
the booze pouring down my throat I would keep this magical sensation for the
rest of the night completely forgetting the compounding shit storm that always
followed that strategy. All the groomsmen and bridesmaids had come down with
similar degrees of my same affliction, we all shuffled onto a bus that would
take us to bars before winding up back at the reception for food, dancing and shenanigans
galore.
No comments:
Post a Comment