My first wedding was for her family, not for me or even us.
It didn’t take anyway.
We were good friends who made the mistake of thinking it was something more. Not knowing what to do with our lives after graduating college, we followed the conventional path most of us had been raised to expect. Marriage, kids, house, career, retirement, grandchildren, nursing home, bye-bye.
Close friends from college, Eric and Orlando were there to provide emotional support. It would have saved me a lot of trouble if they had been there for an intervention.
Both guys
were ex-roommates.
Eric (left) had severe Mononucleosis in the year that he and I shared a room. He weighed 27 pounds and was little more than a wrinkle in the blankets on the top bunk. Sleeping 28 of every 24-hour day, he bloated up with gas overnight like a docked dirigible, releasing it under the covers first thing each morning upon waking. A three-minute tuba blast announced his entry into the conscious world. I could never find matches or a lighter in time to make it interesting but feared that the room would burn down if I lit all those methane-infused blankets anyway.
Orlando (center) had fled Castro with his family when he was 12. He played DJ on our turntable, dancing in place to Santana’s “Abraxas” album. I would lie on my bed, high on LSD, writing ditties on the tie-dyed sheets with the same indelible ink pen my mother had used to mark my clothes for summer camp ten years before.
That’s me on the right. First and last time I ever wore a tux. The wedding itself also marked the last time I was in a church. Not a fan of dress up parties nor of being lectured and scolded while my pockets are being picked.
That wedding was everything I dislike all rolled into one expensive affair…
Big church, lots of people, formal dress, country club reception with little tea cakes to cause a pinkie to elevate just so, and a musical trio. Lawrence Welk wannabees, not one under the age of 97.
Rock N Roll!
I’ve always hated crowds, and those days they made me physically nauseous.
While waiting in the hallway, ready to be marched out to the alter, the bridesmaids passed in review in front of me. When that redhead friend of hers paused to wish me well, the top of her low-cut dress offered her breasts up on a lace serving platter. Freckled mounds of blue white flesh screamed for liberation, as did I. My extreme interest troubled me.
Gagging down handfuls of Maalox deposited a white chalk ring around my mouth, pews were packed, everyone watching this consumptive clown retching his way up to the alter, like a man to the gallows.
Eric (left) had severe Mononucleosis in the year that he and I shared a room. He weighed 27 pounds and was little more than a wrinkle in the blankets on the top bunk. Sleeping 28 of every 24-hour day, he bloated up with gas overnight like a docked dirigible, releasing it under the covers first thing each morning upon waking. A three-minute tuba blast announced his entry into the conscious world. I could never find matches or a lighter in time to make it interesting but feared that the room would burn down if I lit all those methane-infused blankets anyway.
Orlando (center) had fled Castro with his family when he was 12. He played DJ on our turntable, dancing in place to Santana’s “Abraxas” album. I would lie on my bed, high on LSD, writing ditties on the tie-dyed sheets with the same indelible ink pen my mother had used to mark my clothes for summer camp ten years before.
That’s me on the right. First and last time I ever wore a tux. The wedding itself also marked the last time I was in a church. Not a fan of dress up parties nor of being lectured and scolded while my pockets are being picked.
That wedding was everything I dislike all rolled into one expensive affair…
Big church, lots of people, formal dress, country club reception with little tea cakes to cause a pinkie to elevate just so, and a musical trio. Lawrence Welk wannabees, not one under the age of 97.
Rock N Roll!
I’ve always hated crowds, and those days they made me physically nauseous.
While waiting in the hallway, ready to be marched out to the alter, the bridesmaids passed in review in front of me. When that redhead friend of hers paused to wish me well, the top of her low-cut dress offered her breasts up on a lace serving platter. Freckled mounds of blue white flesh screamed for liberation, as did I. My extreme interest troubled me.
Gagging down handfuls of Maalox deposited a white chalk ring around my mouth, pews were packed, everyone watching this consumptive clown retching his way up to the alter, like a man to the gallows.
She had
decided to surprise me with a new haircut. Gone was the long flowing mane I had so loved, replaced by very short tightly
curled ringlets that looked like pubic hair.
None of it was a good way to start. The end was only a couple of lonely years away.
Five years of the single life followed our split. Four bachelors in a huge townhouse by a lake. Each of us had our own floor. More beer than food in the fridge, a rolling tray on the big communal table, stereo playing 24-7. Party central. Easy, slow, laid back.
Then I fell hard for Carla at the local newspaper where we both worked. Six months later another wedding.
That one was perfect.
We eloped. No friends or family, just us in the living room with a Justice of the Peace. We were in street clothes. He was in worn slacks and a rumpled business shirt. He smelled of soiled clothes pulled from the hamper.
None of it was a good way to start. The end was only a couple of lonely years away.
Five years of the single life followed our split. Four bachelors in a huge townhouse by a lake. Each of us had our own floor. More beer than food in the fridge, a rolling tray on the big communal table, stereo playing 24-7. Party central. Easy, slow, laid back.
Then I fell hard for Carla at the local newspaper where we both worked. Six months later another wedding.
That one was perfect.
We eloped. No friends or family, just us in the living room with a Justice of the Peace. We were in street clothes. He was in worn slacks and a rumpled business shirt. He smelled of soiled clothes pulled from the hamper.
He was
joyless and impatient. I was emotional, eager to seal the deal and get on with
our life together.
That man took one Polaroid picture of us that faded away within the year.
That man took one Polaroid picture of us that faded away within the year.
Fortunately,
we never have, and I haven't needed any Maalox in many years.
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