The wedding reception could have been mistaken for a wake. I had never attended a gloomier celebration. The courtroom proceedings for my own divorce -- as rabid and rancid a ruckus as any since the days of Henry VIII -- would have passed as a Saturday night during the pinnacle of Studio 54 when juxtaposed with this dreary affair. At my table, reserved for unmated oddball friends of the bride and groom, a middle-aged woman on my left was endlessly stubbing out the same dead cigarette in the remains of her potatoes au gratin. The trim elderly gent to my right had taken to polishing his eyeglasses to invisibility with a corner of his napkin. And across the littered expanse of tablecloth a twenty-something gal -- hair gel sharp and colored like a tetra's scales -- chewed her drearily painted fingernails like a cougar gnawing its own trap-bound leg. And as for myself, I wallowed in an orgy of long, deep sighs, foot-tapping and wedgie-level squirming. And the biggest scandal of the whole day was that there was absolutely no reason for this pall. Stan and Andrea were a wonderful couple: witty, young, energetic and generous. Everybody loved them. The vibe in the church had been one of overwhelming joy. Any tears had been consecrated with pride and pleasure. Every part of the ceremony had gone off without a hitch. Even the weather had cooperated, the June sunlight like some kind of photonic champagne. But as soon as everybody had settled down in the lush banquet hall - - bang! Complete morbid ennui descended inexplicably like soot from a smokestack over the entire party. The band, much touted, began to play. They sounded as leaded and lackluster as an unprogrammed drum machine. The waitpeople circulated like bit players from a George Romero movie. At the head table, the bride and groom and their attendants wore smiles as wan as that on the face of a felon who had just learned he'd escaped the death sentence but gotten life plus ten. And it wasn't even like people weren't still resolutely trying to have fun. You could see it in their faces and postures. They were straining to enjoy themselves, having anticipated this day for months. The collective amount of energy being exerted by the crowd could have powered an Arctic icebreaking cutter. People grinned painfully and tried to chat throughout the meal. Forced laughter brittled the room. Much liquor was consumed. Couples struggled to put some zip in their dancing. But all their efforts died on the vine. It was as if some invisible wet blanket an inch above our heads smothered all the excitement as soon as it was born. When I saw Stan excuse himself; probably to go to the john, I got up too. I figured I'd catch him in the men's room and broach the problem to him, get his ideas about what anyone could do, even at this late hour, to liven things up. Also, I wanted to make sure he didn't hang himself with his bow tie from a pipe. Strangely, in the lavatory I felt a little better. Stan nodded to me, and we peed at adjacent urinals without conversing, just relishing the psychic and physical relief. Then, zipping up, I spoke. "Why's everyone on such a sudden massive downer, guy? Something happen I don't know about? Favorite uncle of Andrea's die between the church and here maybe? Stock market went down the tank? Nuclear war declared?" "Jesus, Mitch, how should I know? I can't explain it. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and instead I feel like I just got a ransom note for my unborn daughter. I've been racking my brain, but I can't come up with an answer. Food poisoning? Sick building syndrome? Roofies in the champagne? Maybe it's some weird fluke of the seating arrangements. But the majority of these people have known each other for decades. All hatchets have long been buried. I just can't come up with any reason that makes sense." We started back toward the main room, and the closer we got, the more lackluster I felt, as if I were a balloon man leaking his precious helium. My unease caused me to blurt out precisely what I was thinking. "I sure hope your honeymoon doesn't suffer from this same mysterious malaise." Stan got a look on his face like someone had dropped an anvil on his head. "Oh, Lord, this gloom and doom couldn't last past the reception, could it? Andrea's been dreaming about Hawaii for a year now." "No, no, of course not." We re-entered the hall, and that was when I saw him. The one person enjoying himself. An innocuous fortyish fellow, utterly average-looking, he sat alone at the worst table in the place, near the exit and half-hidden by a pillar. Brimming glass in hand, he was nodding his head and tapping his foot in time to the morose strains of the band. Unlike most other dinner plates, his had been totally cleaned, apparently with zeal, and he seemed to have consumed three pieces of cake, judging by the stacked dessert plates. A smile like the Great Rift Valley split his bland face, and his eyes gleamed. I nodded toward the anomalous celebrant, and whispered to Stan. "Who's that?" "I don't know. Must be from Andrea's side. I'll ask her." Curious, I accompanied Stan back to the head table to learn the man's identity. But Andrea couldn't provide a name based on our Identikit description, and so she came back with us to eyeball him. But he was gone, vanished. And at that very moment the party began to take off. The music grew sprightly, the talk scintillated, the laughter ignited happy echoes, and Stan's 95-year-old Aunt Bertha hit the dance floor to illustrate the Charleston for all us youngsters. |
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