by Tara Brent
“I locked in a substitute for Barry’s Bear Burgers,” he says with pride.
“That’s great. Who?”
“Paulo’s Brick Oven ‘Za. He has this trailer behind his wagon, and it’s an honest to God wood burning pizza oven, stone bottom, brick sides, the works.”
“B.Y.O.W. I presume.”
“Of course he brings his own wood. I told him if he runs low, we can just chop up the grand piano.”
“I’d go with the George Nakashima redwood burl coffee table first.”
“Inside the truck, he’s got dough all prepped and rising, and every order is an individual pie, made to order. You just pick your own ingredients, which he’s got laid out like it’s a buffet. Five kinds of sauce, eight different cheeses, and at least two dozen toppings. You build your own, then it’s into the wood-fired oven. Plus, he also does Calzone, Stromboli, Subs, and Chicken Parm to die for; and his Garlic Knots? Better than Bonjourno’s.”
“You might want to throw down a challenge to my Mom for Ruler of the Junk Food Universe.”
“No way, Jose. I’m just a ranked amateur. She holds the heavyweight crown.”
“Heavier by the day.”
“Didn’t we just go through that pot / kettle thing?”
“Okay, okay. And do we have enough trucks now?”
“I’m still closing on a Chinese food truck, but I think we’ve got Eddie’s absence covered.”
“What kind of Chinese?”
“Hunan. Hot. Flaming death by chili paste.”
“Oh... sounds like Abe Ling.”
“Right you are. And I love his motto.”
I don’t love it. But Jimmy is so pleased, I feed him the set-up line anyway: “Who can?”
“Abraham Ling Can!”
Hilarious it is not. But fuck it, Abe’s food is great.
“And...” Jimmy says, pausing for an imaginary drum roll.
“There’s more?”
“Ask me about last night.”
He says it with such sweetness I don’t really have to ask. But I can’t deny him. “Is there a Harold in this story?”
“Does a wild Pope shit in the woods?”
“Give me the condensed version.”
“I can’t. It’s too glorious to skimp.”
“Then save it. It sounds like it’ll be a long story.”
“One with a happy ending. I think...”
“You think?”
“See? You’re hungry for more already.”
“Are you at the house yet?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Which I am, but the story will have to wait. It’s already ten past eight. The invitation says the ceremony starts at one. Even Jimmy knows we have no time now for one of his long, mushy love sagas. Given the logistics of getting almost a thousand wedding guests ready and seated by then, we know they will start arriving in shifts by noon.
I double-check the transport vans. Everything is A-Okay. A whole fleet is stationed at the Del Coronado Hotel already. They’re ready to run the guests from the Del on a shuttle circuit to the wedding, and back to the hotel. And downtown, at the U.S. Grant, a second armada is gathering. I code name the Del “Omaha Beach”, and the Grant is “Utah Beach”. Because when this balloon goes up, it will be like staging the D-Day Invasion. Minus the paratroops. But, at least I have all the L.C.V.P.s ready for launch. Now all we have to worry about is getting a few hundred rich, spoiled, entitled wedding guests into the Landing Craft. And pray there are no German pill boxes.
Although I am prepared to face light resistance, what I don’t count on is the flutter of lust that seizes me around nine o’clock. That’s when fucking Adonis decides it’s time for his morning laps. For thirty minutes, I am useless. Even though I have way more to do than I can possibly keep up with, I’m constantly finding excuses to re-check lights on the patio (by the pool), speakers around the spa (by the pool), and make sure the grass is green, and that there is air in the atmosphere. At least, by the pool, anyway. I find any and every excuse to take the long way around the house, and pass by the pool for another gander at Mark Spitz churning up a wake.
Goddamnit. He’s like bait in the water, and I am a hungry shark. The wanting is crippling. I want to strip down and jump in on top of him.
“Did I ever tell you about me and your mother on Prom Night?” I flash crimson as Blake’s mother appears at my side. I have an instinct to check my face for drool. “We lead a commando raid on the school pool. The dance was in the gym, of course. And the pool was on the opposite side of the locker rooms.”
“Oh, pish posh,” I hear my mother say. Great. Now they are both watching me cream over Aquaman in speedos. “The pool was more katty corner than opposite from the gym.”
“Yes. That’s right,” Cici admits. “But you had to go through the locker room to get there, anyway.”
“You were still dating Matt then, weren’t you?”
“Yes. That was before you stole him.”
“I most definitely did not steal him,” my mom insisted. “You dropped him. And I even asked you if you minded me dating him.”
“As I remember, I didn’t so much give you permission as sound a warning.”
“Well, I wasn’t looking for exclusive, so it didn’t bother me who else he was fuc—” Mom catches herself. “I didn’t mind he was dating other people too. So was I.”
“You certainly were,” Cici adds and turns to me. “Would you like to know the nickname your dear mother had?”
“Yes!” I snapped.
“No she doesn’t, and neither do I. That slander has nothing to do with the story of the Pool Raid.”
“All right, all right.” Cici turns back to me. “So, I was with Matt, who was a swimmer. Yum. And your mom went to the Prom with Terry Cross, who was varsity quarterback.”
I realize this story is getting a bit more risqué than I expect from two dignified matrons at a wedding and before I have time to ponder what has loosened their tongues, I see Igor approaching. He carries a silver tray, with three elegant champagne flutes.
Igor offers first to my mother. “Would Madame care for another?”
Another? Aah, that explains it. Mom has snatched another bubbly before Igor has finished saying ‘care for another’ yet. Cici doesn’t stand on ceremony. She doesn’t have to be asked, she just gloms on to her own refill. She is the hostess, after all. And I realize these two, Last of the Red Hot Mamas, must have started day drinking with the sunrise.
I have work to do, so I decline Igor’s offer. “In fact, Mom, I really need to get back to work.”
I can see a ‘Pish Posh’ gathering like cumulus clouds on a Hurricane watch, but Cici reins in Mommy Dearest. “She’s right. We’d better finish this little story later.”
Like never, I keep from saying., but I am a little curious, just the same. Anyway, I have no appetite for their saga now, because Poseidon is emerging from the pool, in all his glory. He smiles at the three ladies. “Everybody ready for the big day?”
I’m ready for a big something, all right. Except what I actually say is “Good morning.” Clever, eh?
He’s toweling off now, headed past us for the house. He gives his mother a quick peck on the cheek. Smells the champagne breath. Crooks an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, Ma. This shindig’s gonna be a piece of cake. Right, Kira?” And before I can respond, I get my own chaste, compulsory peck on the cheek. I’d tackle him, but there are ladies present. Mother-ladies at that. So, Romeo exits, stage left.
“About that ‘piece of cake’,” I say to the madres, “I better go check on that, or it could wind up a stale crust of moldy bread. And I have about eight thousand other details to make sure it stays a cake.” Kira exits, stage right.
Of course, there is no cake issue, as I knew perfectly well. I’m busy checking out the huge parquet dance floor sections being ferried into the yard and pieced together by a crew who looks like they actually know what the hell they a
re doing. I don’t give a thought to what it might do to the grass. This family could re-sod twice a week if they wanted to. I also see they’ve taken down the netting on the tennis court. The south tennis court, I mean, with hard true surface we’ll also cover with wood flooring for another dance area. However, we are not going to need the clay court on the other end of the property.
As I walk back towards to where Jimmy is counting chairs and tables as they are carried of the rental truck, I pass Igor again.
I give him the high sign, saying “Psst. Igor? Put an eighty-six on the bubbly for the Mothers of Intervention, will ya? They’re half sloshed already.”
Igor gives a single grave dip of his beautifully tonsured head. “Thank you, Madame. I concur. And although it’s not my place to opine on such matters, now I can say you instructed me, to avoid an argument.”
“Thank you... Marcel.”
That gets a smile to crack the stone face. With another nod, he vanishes like a Will ‘O The Wisp. I’m not sure if Igor is a genie, or just a well-trained Wizard.
I continue on to Jimmy, who looks even happier than he sounded on the phone. The truth is, I’m now dying to hear the dish on Harold, and why Jimmy is grinning like a possum eatin’ feces. But if I open that can of worms now, we’ll both be worthless for an hour or two. So instead, I venture another question that’s nagging at me.
“Where the hell did you learn to hotwire a truck like that?”
“Baghdad,” he tosses, casually.
“As in Iraq Baghdad?”
“You knew I was a veteran, it was on my job application.”
“To be honest, it is very unlikely I even looked at your application. I already made up my mind to hire you five minutes into the interview.”
“Well, now you know even more, don’t you.”
“What did you do? Hospital orderly?”
“Hah! Stereotype. No, I was in the motor pool. A mechanic.”
“You are shitting me.”
“Go find a welding torch. I will up-armor your Beamer.”
“Did you, like, see any combat?”
“Not much. I never had to fire back at anyone. But we’d get a little incoming once in a while. Mostly, I saw the results, not the fighting. We’d have to go out with a recovery vehicle, and haul back the Humvees and Four By’s when they hit an I.E.D. And that happened like clockwork, every day.”
“Jesus. I had no idea.”
“Not something I like to dwell on.”
“Right. Of course. No, I don’t blame you.”
“The worst part was hosing vehicles out, before we could work on them.”
“I’m... Jimmy, I’m so sorry. How awful.”
“Hey, when I got home, I thought I’d become an auto mechanic, but the first time I saw a wrecked car towed in...? That was all for me. I couldn’t stop flashing on swabbing out those humvees.”
I don’t know what to say. Thank you for your service? It seemed so lame.
“Fact is, I was pretty messed up by the time I answered your ad. You came along at just the right time. I’ll never forget that, Kira.”
All I can do is throw a big hug around him. “I love you, Jimmy.”
“Yeah. Same here.”
“You didn’t blow Harold though, did you?”
“Not yet, mom.”
“We’ll talk more on this later.”
They are setting up the chairs for the folks for watching the actual ceremony now. At Jimmy’s suggestion, they are putting them on the big dance floor. That way we won’t have any legs sinking into the ground, and tipping Aunt Mima over into Uncle Otto’s lap. It starts to get real as I look at all the chairs. There’s an aisle down the middle, and on each side is a row of sixteen chairs. So thirty-two in all for each row. There are twenty-five rows. Eight hundred asses will be parked here. It’s about as many people as attended my high school graduation.
“Very impressive,” says the handsome billionaire who sneaks up from behind and snakes his arms around me. He has clothes on again. Damnit.
“Cool your jets, Don Juan.”
“Your jets were looking a little overheated before. You should have come into the pool with me.”
“Sure, a nasty bit of water sports, just when the mommys came out to watch.”
“And wasn’t that a tasty dish to set before the king?”
“Oh? You’re only a king now? What a demotion from Emperor of Coronado Island.”
“Emperor was too much responsibility.”
“Of course. You were too occupied with affairs of state to keep your Harem happy, no doubt.”
“I’ve had to downsize there, too. You’re my Harem of One.”
“You’re not suggesting that Igor is a eunuch?”
“Marcel? Oh, no. We have to keep the maids under lock and key.”
“I hope this isn’t headed toward a ‘Me Too’ moment.”
“I never thought of that.”
“What? Igor and the staff as lawsuit potential?”
“No. You.” He let his arms drop to his sides.
“I’m not going to sue you. Not today, anyway. Too busy.”
“But I just realized, you are working for me.”
“No. For you mom.”
“All the same. I really shouldn’t paw you in public. Especially at a wedding with hundreds of guests. And cell phone cameras.”
“Not to mention a world class photographer, and two video crews.”
“God. This is awful. Do I really have to keep my hands off you all day?”
“And into the night.” I check my watch. Ten-fifteen. And my shit is so under control here. Everything is perfect, right on schedule...
He sees the way I am looking at him. “What?”
“You know those tent cabana things over by the pool?”
He’s grinning now. “You mean the ones with the comfy lounge chairs that lay out flat?”
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get a little bit of that spunk out of your system...” And I put my tongue in his ear after I say “...and into mine.”
Okay. It was more like twenty minutes. Fine. That was no problem.
But there is going to be a problem. There has to be. I know it. I accept it. It is a law of nature. Has to happen, at every wedding. Something goes off the rails. I’m just waiting to find out what it is this time. Then I can relax and say Ahh, here it is – the mandatory fuck up. Now I can deal with it and move on.
And that’s when the thunderbolt strikes. A thought occurs, and fills me with a looming black doubt. We have a bride. We have a Groom. We have all of Rabbit’s friends and relations, at least eight hundred of them. What’s missing?
Who is performing this ceremony, anyway?
I should know this. How do I not know this? But I realize I’ve been so focused on the party, I haven’t given a single thought to the reason we’re all here. To join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.
Of course, I realize someone must have thought about this. Right? Because... well, they always think of it. I mean, it’s not my job to wrangle a preacher. I don’t even know what religion any of them are. Why would I care? That’s their business, but I am not going to be able to relax until I know the answer to this vexing lack of knowledge. I need to get on top of it, now.
Since my Jack of Hearts has his pants back on, and I should just ask him. But isn’t that going to make me look awful stupid for not knowing? I mean, how professional is that? Oh, by the way, darling, who will call this square dance? Will there be a judge, a priest, a rabbi, an Imam, a guru, a Tibetan monk, a Native American shaman, or James T. Kirk, commander of the Starship Enterprise?
I would look like a complete idiot to ask Blake, but I have a clever plan. I can try to pry it out with subterfuge.
“You know, I’d like to run through a couple of technical things with the... official.”
“Official what?” Blake says. Is he playing dumb to torture me?
“You know. For the ceremony. The... person. Who walks th
em through vows and all that? Do you know what time they’re expected?”
“I don’t have a clue. Who is it, anyway?”
Panic! He doesn’t know either. “Oh, you know what? I can ask Jimmy.”
“Sure, great idea. I guess you better get back to work, eh?”
Thank you, Simba. And you can go back to lying around the savanna with the pride, waiting until your next Duty To Inseminate pops up.
“See you around campus,” I say. And like a shot, I am off to track Jimmy down again.
There is a cold lump of fear in the pit of my stomach. Jimmy doesn’t have clue one. Never occurred to him. Naturally. That part is never something they leave to us. It’s always a family thing. “Well, we better find out. It’s eleven twenty-five. The troops will be hitting the beaches in half an hour.”
“Well, okay. But we’re golden. Every detail is sheer perfection so far.
“Except somebody will have to pronounce those crazy kids man and wife. Or there’s going to be some pretty sour faces around here.”
“But...” Jimmy looks like he’s about to trip a circuit breaker. “It’s not our job. It’s never our job. We wouldn’t bring the rabbi to a bar mitzvah, either.”
“You know that. And I know that. But do THEY know it?”
“Well, of course. They have to. Don’t they?”
“Who the fuck knows?” I say. “We’re talking about people who have never cleaned a dirty dish. Never had to run out to buy toilet paper. Who knows what they expect? In their whole life, everything just appears like magic.”
“Well... maybe a priest will appear by magic.”
“Or... maybe eight hundred people will sit in the hot sun watching Seb and Michelle sweat while they don’t get married.”
“That’s... No. Somebody must know who’s doing the ceremony.”
“We have to start asking. Never mind how stupid it looks. If this ship is headed for an iceberg, we better find out before it hits.”
So we divide up a list. Jimmy will go after Seb, Michelle, her parents, and anyone in the wedding party. I’ll take Cici and Mom. And Big Daddy, if necessary. And of course, Igor. That calms me. Igor knows where all the bodies are buried. So, maybe he knows who says a prayer when they bury those bodies.
