by KUBOA
While it’s true that I first proposed to Anne while I was shitfaced drunk, it’s also true that I meant what I was saying, even if the thought had only just occurred to me. It did take a few sober conversations before she was convinced of my sincerity. When we got an apartment together in November, 2008, we had yet to set a date. But moving in together seemed like a logical first step.
At the time, I worked in the late afternoons and early evenings. Anne had a job working for a company that monitored clinical trials, a nine to five, Monday through Friday kind of gig. We didn’t see each other much. I only got one night off a week, but since I worked at a supermarket, it was always a weekday. We also saw each other for a few hours on Saturdays and Sundays, before I went to work. But since I worked late and stayed up until two or three in the morning, I always wanted to sleep in.
The short of it is that Anne was alone most of the time during those first few months, in an unfamiliar city, in a tiny apartment, at least an hour away from family and friends.
My fucking God, she was dedicated to me. Much more than I deserved then, or now, for that matter.
Looking back, I’m amazed that we didn’t give up. But Anne is a strong woman and we were both in love and, in our own way, having an adventure. We both generally have relaxed dispositions and that helped. But we knew we couldn’t go on indefinitely living like we were. Something had to change. And it did.
It was late January 2009, seven at night or so. I was sitting on a bench outside the supermarket where I worked, smoking and talking to two teenage girls who worked with me. My cell phone rang and I picked it up. It was Anne.
“Hey, babe,” I said.
“Hey,” she said. “I just wanted to—look, I’ve been thinking—we’re never going to get married, are we?”
“Sure, we can get married.”
“Look, it’s fine. I’ve resigned myself to my fate.”
“Ah, don’t talk like that,” I said. “We’ll get married. I promise.”
“When?”
That was a good question. I thought about it for a second. “I dunno. How about in a month?”
“Hmmm…yeah, I think that’ll work. We can do it on a Thursday. That way you won’t have to take off of work.”
“Great!” I said. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married next month.”
“OK,” Anne said. “You’re serious, right? You’re not gonna back out of this, are you?”
“Nah,” I said. “I’m not gonna back out.”
“Are you excited?” Anne said.
Yeah, I was excited. Definitely. This was going to be fun.
And that was it. We were going to get married. It was a casual conversation, sure, but I don’t think that it was crass. Some might even call it cute. I don’t know. Maybe.
And so on February 26th we went ahead and did it. Anne put on a nice dress and some heels and I wore a black button-down shirt and some jeans. Then we drove to the courthouse, about ten blocks down the road.
A few of our family members met us there. Along with my dad and stepmother, Anne’s mother and stepfather came. Anne’s older brother and younger sister were there too, along with her grandmother. There was a small room set aside for the ceremony. We filed in and grabbed a seat on one of the folding chairs that faced the arch underneath of which the justice of the peace was to marry us. The actual ceremony only took a couple of minutes. Wasn’t much except a few words about the nature of commitment and that it was serious and I guess I wasn’t really listening because I was distracted by Anne and just how happy she seemed and how natural this whole thing was turning out. It felt good to be with her. It felt right. Surprisingly short, that ceremony. A little shocking, actually. There wasn’t a lot of time for transition. Kaye and I had a long and extravagant wedding in a Catholic church where we lit candles and maybe gave some flowers to the Virgin Mary. There was time between the before and after. Here, though, there wasn’t much time.
When it was all over, Anne’s folks took us out to Philip’s Seafood, a restaurant at a mall in the Inner Harbor. We ate big portions and toasted and there were well wishes all around. It was a little embarrassing and bourgeois. But I liked it and Anne was radiant with happiness.
After dinner, we all said our goodbyes. I hugged Anne’s grandmother and she cried a little and told me that her late husband, who had only been dead for a few months, would have loved to have been there. I hugged her again, genuinely moved.
Anne’s family went home after that but my dad decided to take us out to our favorite pub, the Cat’s Eye, a Blues bar in the Fell’s Point neighborhood.
Anne and I went back to our apartment, to change into more casual clothes. After we had finished changing, Anne hugged me tightly. “You’ll never get tired of me, will you?”
I hugged her back. Tighter. “I’ll never leave you,” I said. I fucked it up again. What I should have said then and the time before was, “You’ll never leave me.” That’s where the truth is. Though I might flee the scene, I can never get rid of the people in my life. They’re all in my head, man.
I’m sure Anne knew what I meant, though. She knows that we might not always be together, that we might fall out of love. And I realize it too. As wide-eyed as I am, I can be realistic sometimes. We might not always love but we will never leave. Our thoughts are imprinted on each other. We are vivid and bright and much synthesis.
We went to the bar and had a few drinks. More than a few. We left at ten or so, hugging my dad and stepmother and then walking down the cobblestone streets, my arm around Anne’s waist, swaying a little, bumping each other with our hips until, finally, we had walked a few blocks and were at the parking garage. I was drunk, and so was Anne, probably. But we had taken her car, and anyway someone had to drive. As usual, she drove fast, weaving from lane to lane. On President Street, we stopped for a red light. I had my window down and was smoking a cigarette and I looked up and noticed a fat white girl in a green truck and then ashed my cigarette and something flew back and hit me in the eye. I grew excited. I wanted to dance. I shook my hands wildly at the woman. She shook her head, embarrassed.
“Hey!” I yelled, in my best Southern accent. “I done got ashes in mah eye!” The woman shook her head again and smiled and then laughed. The red light turned green.
Soon we were on Calvert Street, heading toward our apartment. We passed a bunch of cars. I tried to yell at every one of them.
“I got ashes in mah eye!”
We passed a skinny hippie guy on a bicycle.
“I got ashes in mah eye!”
“Stop already!” Anne said, giggling.
I flicked my cigarette out onto the road and rolled my window up. Still laughing, still overwhelmed with internal movement, I put my arm around Anne’s shoulder and then rested my head on it. Anne smiled and patted my thigh. Good God, I loved this woman. I love this woman.
Carnival Lenore
