2005-06-07
neurotic bride
At the Florida Citrus Center, you can buy "big juicy navels" according to the sign. "Oranges are here," reads the margin, making it sound like a movie. "Three for a dollar t-shirts" and "Vidalia onions."
Fog hangs heavy on the highway, looking less like a blanket than a shroud, both filmy and solid. We're on our way to my cousin, Sophie's wedding. I stare out the backseat of our rented van and see an airplane trailing a zipper-shaped contrail in the pink horizon. The flat green highway rolls on and on, as if unraveling off a spool.
I try to picture Sophie's new husband, who I've never met, and hope he isn't a loser like the last guy. We arrived in time for the wedding rehearsal and took a walk around the historic district. Mama remembered the potted plants that pipe music from hidden speakers and the dolphin cruise that circles the island.
"There was a cute boy on board who liked you," she said.
I remember the boy...but not him liking me.
We headed back to the hotel. Soon my uncle was banging on the door. He wore a golf shirt that stretched over his gut, a matching hat, and a grin. I figured that I didn't need to change out of my jeans. I just threw on a black sweater. My aunt came out in T-shirt that said, "Mother of the Bride." It made this role sound like some kind of status symbol. I shook hands with a bunch of elderly relatives and instantly forgot their names. My cousin, Sean, was in the kitchen, complaining that Grammy had called him fat.
"Do I look heavier than the last time I saw you?" he asked.
I told him, "You're not fat," and he looked unconvinced.
Someone had left a schedule on the floor. I took a peek and thought about all the planning that goes into these events. Not to mention the cost. The schedule had everything timed by the hour, from the "limo ride" to "the Shack!" which I figured was some kind of post-reception bar.
After more hugging and introductions, we drove to the church. Nobody could seem to find Sophie. A common theme: brides disappearing in search of dry cleaners or some other forgotten task. I sat in the back pew, watching the girls on the altar giggle and smirk. They seemed confused about their place in line, which is ridiculous, considering they only had to stand there.
Sophie materialized with a bouquet of ribbons. She looked lovely in her strapless dress. I got a quick glimpse of the groom--a grown-up version of a choirboy...with a long, narrow face and small ears. It was the sort of face, which proves that people that looked pretty much the same a hundred years ago.
I've attended so many weddings, they've started to look like plays put on by a community theatre. I've memorized the lines. I always play the same role: some anonymous girl lurking the background with a camera, my designated duty. It keeps me detached from the main event, more like a spectator gazing from a distance.
As I shook hands with the groom, he said, "You're doing our wedding video, right?"
I blinked and said, "Really? I thought I was just doing pictures."
He cracked up. At that moment, I decided he was okay.
We piled in our cars and drove to the next setting--the rehearsal dinner. I didn't know what to expect when we drove through a gated community.
"Is it going to be at someone's house?" I asked.
Nobody knew.
We followed my uncle's SUV to a waterfront park at the end of the neighborhood. I loved the way the oaks made the road resemble a tunnel. Grammy got out and said, "Oh, no! It's outside!"
"You stay in the car," said my uncle, grinning.
We herded Grammy inside the--what? Cabin? Reception hall?--with a wall of windows and a bearded musician playing steel drum sounds on a Casio keyboard.
"Tear jerker ballads," said my cousin when Sailing came on. "How eighties," he said, making me laugh.
He used to be such a sulky pain in the ass, but he's mellowed with age. After a few beers, he and Mama sat in the corner, making fun of everything. His girlfriend kept saying, "We're next!" but he didn't pay much attention.
I went outside and stood by the water (a grassy marsh, to be more exact), sipping a stolen glass of white wine and hoping nobody would notice. I called Thayer on a pay phone. He could hear the bad music in the background and everyone chattering.
"Yo, that shit's wack," he said.
I hate talking on the phone, so I hung up and headed back inside. By some weird logic, I ended up sitting next to Sophie at dinner.
The bridesmaids got up and cried, at intervals, into the microphone. "We used to go jogging together," one of them sobbed. I couldn't really tell them apart. When they started to get choked up, Mama would applaud, indicating that they should exit the stage. This seemed to work most of the time.
Another unidentifiable girl came over to give Sophie a hug and scope out the album.
"Oh, I hate that picture of me," she said, pointing.
I just wanted to sneak back to the hotel and click through cable channels.
The groom's mom got up and made a long, boring speech. She gave Sophie a photo album and said, "Welcome to our family," as if she expected Sophie to leave her own.
Sophie turned to me and whispered, "I'm having a neurotic bride moment. Does my hair look messy?"
I said, no, which wasn't exactly a lie, but a necessary one. It wouldn't be the last.
f-i-n at 8:42 p.m.