2005-06-07
bridal moments
At the church, we finally told Grammy that she would be walking down the aisle, her arm linked with an usher. She blinked and stammered as we plunked her in the back pew. The rest of us sat up front. I wanted to peer down from the balcony, the best vantage point for taking video, but then I wouldn't get people's faces as they approached. It wasn't my idea to shoot video. My cousin was too cheap to hire a real documentary crew to capture her magic event.
I stayed put and fiddled with the light settings, which seemed to switch every five minutes. I focused on the orchestra, tuning up by the piano.
Mama tapped my shoulder and hissed, "Turn around."
Too much was happening all at once. It wasn't like I could turn the camera on and off for smooth editing on the fly. I could only crane around, hoping to catch some moment of importance. I filmed the procession of suited boys and prim girls, the ancient grandparents, the army of bridesmaids. Finally Sophia materialized at the door in a blinding halo of sunlight. In the camera, she blended in with the whiteness--just a vague blur devoid of details.
My uncle's hulking form marched forward, then paused. The church trembled in my viewfinder. I later learned that he had stepped on Sophie's veil, which would explain why she wasn't moving.
A few people laughed. I balanced the camera on my elbow and kept rolling, despite the pain searing up my joints. The entire ceremony seemed to consist of people giving speeches (the definition of love, courtesy of Paul the apostle) and no communion, no hymns, thank God. When the couple exchanged vows, I could only make out their sun-drenched backs. Weren't they supposed to turn around or at least give us a profile? When the priest asked Sophie to honor her husband, she hesitated, almost choking on the words. Was this a line she meant to leave out?
She spoke so softly, even the microphone failed to pick up her queasy voice. At least she didn't burst into tears, as seen at the rehearsal. I found myself daydreaming, tracing the pattern of Saint Michael in the stained glass over the altar. The ceremony lacked the usual flair--the hearts and flowers and greeting card manifestos. They didn't even include the part about "you may now kiss the bride." I suppose Sophie left that out too.
After the "I dos," I took a few shots outside the church. Unfortunately, the insect hum of a weed-whacker drowned out the audio. I headed back inside and hit the balcony. I felt like a pervert, spying on everyone from above. The photographer's bald spot gleamed in the middle of the aisle, which he had rigged with a lot of cords and high-tech equipment. His assistant scrambled around, bending people into unnatural poses and making bunny ears behind the photographer's hairless scalp. The procedure reminded me of yearbook pictures in elementary school.
I had to zoom across the pews, amusing myself with candid shots of random characters, wondering what they were whispering. My uncle spotted me and broke into his mega-watt grin. I couldn't help noticing that Sophie wasn't chatting with her mom, who sat alone in the first pew, keeping watch. Sophie spent more time talking to her bridesmaid sorority. They wore identical purple robes, or rather, gowns that looked like robes.
The shutterbugging went on for over an hour. So much posing. The couple would probably like to be alone--but no--another picture, just one more...with both families, both sets of parents, the stupid bridesmaids, the scowling groomsmen with their greased-up hair. Sophie leaned into her new husband's neck and mouthed something, rolling her eyes. He booked it out of there at the first moment with a brave, crooked grin.
Filming the wedding reception was like sitting in a room that's silently filling with carbon monoxide. Within minutes, I was floating off the floor and swimming down the hall. I tried to make conversation with the bridesmaids. And where was Sophie? At least the camera gave me an excuse to look busy. I tried to look for moments Sophie would enjoy...like the obligatory cake-cutting ("We're not doing that," she said in regards to hand-feeding each other).
If I ever tie the knot, I'm going to nix the standard photo ops, give everyone a disposable camera, and let them do the honors. That way, we could all have a blast and look back on the party, not the Kodak mirage. Sure, the pictures might look nice--as glossy as a magazine cover--but could they capture the true essence of the event? And who would take the time to watch this homemade video--or worse--make others suffer through it?
"Is that camera off?" Sophie said, edging her way past me. "Good," she added. "I'm having a bridal moment."
I slipped into the hall and called Thayer on a pay phone. He was hanging with his friends--in other words, unable to say much. I hung up, feeling worse than before.
A man with a fleshy neck was walking on the golf course. At first I thought he was drunk. Then I saw him bend down and scoop up a golf ball. He brandished it in his meaty fist. Everyone seemed to find this hilarious. I thought it was weird. I filmed him out of politeness and kept walking.
Dinner was the usual buffet of roast beef under a silver lid, leftover shrimp, and gooey pasta. The band launched into golden oldies and classic rock. Some woman--another bridesmaid--was belting pop lyrics. Another dude took the stage as Elvis. He had slicked back his hair so tightly, he seemed to be moving a hundred miles an hour. I danced only once because my uncle dragged me out there. Then it was time to head outside and throw rose petals at the coupe--another pre-planned event meant to look spontaneous.
The camera couldn't handle such low light, so I filmed it in slow-motion for a self-conscious arty effect. The getaway car wasn't really going anywhere--just around the corner. In fact, it was just a golf cart decked out in ribbons. If only I could've hitched a ride out of there. I checked...but there wasn't any room.
f-i-n at 8:43 p.m.