Miraculously I did not procrastinate in my preparations for leAvIng tHe hOUsE and did not suffer a bout of anxiety and regret and did not cancel at the last minute. Hurray!
The Gimp Bus ride was mildly problematic as was navigating this alternate new-to-me train station but I made it aboard and rode for free because I couldn't figure out how to pay! Believe me, I tried and tried until I thought they would leave without me if I didn't give up.
At Destinationville Station the walk to the city bus area was a real chore but nothing compared to the walk to the church from the "nearest" stop. Thank god I had over an hour to kill and a seat-on-wheels to repeatedly stop and rest on.
Father/Pastor/Minister Jim saw my arrival at the rear loading door/gimp access area and ushered me in, gave me water, elevatored me up to the sanctuary and installed me on the wrong side of the gallery which was fine! Groom #2 is also a friend, just of less seniority.
The ceremony was magical with a couple goofy moments and I teared up of course.
Another rickety elevator ride, another slogging journey 'round...
to...
the front...
of...
the church...
where my first post-covid mob of humanity awaits and I'm late-oh-well for the photo shoot.
Sweet Michael is Roddie's best man and we fall in together, laughing. It's been too long. He's giddy and inaudacious as always and introduces me to his charming and gentle partner (now co-homeowner). He seems to have grown up and not changed! They are a gorgeous couple.
I've anticipated asking Roddie's daughter if she remembers me (with little hope) but so surprisingly she sneaks up from behind me and says, "Hey, you probably don't remember me...!" Oh but of course I do, sweet one. Of course I do!
Her little brother must be... 19 by now? He's at home with brand-new Covid and the separation is hurting he and Dad.
Roddie remains unclear about the plan to get me and my walker to the distant reception hall until the parking lot empties along with my will to protest. The driver demands the walker which he easily deposits in the yawning trunk and I am ushered into the limo. I'm in nice casual (but not quite dressy) trousers, aging black dress shoes, spiffy shirt (not well pressed) and blossoming tie. The five-guy wedding party are decked out in snappy greys, bowties and actual flowers. I really don't want to infect the onboard wedding photos but I relent, enjoy the company and the champagne and try to cling to the shadows when the photographer, riding shotgun, spins and fires.
At the hall I make friends and play at the illusion of conversation while choking on the DJ's pounding din.
The meal is too good to be true , highlighted by decadent fresh raviolis, ample filet mignon and the best crème brûlée ever. The red wine is premium and the cute considerate waiter delivers bottle after bottle seeing that I have mobility issues. I drink copiously of that and of the Stella Artois (because it's not Coors or Keith's thank god) and of the Johnny Walker for some goddam reason. Because it slightly reminds me of real scotch? I knock back four doubles in total. Maybe I thought I'd grow accustomed to it. I didn't. I sure hope I didn't think it would make me look cool. I do realize that nothing makes me look cool. Look I hate to sound like a snob but I don't know how you people drink that swill!
Ah I'm sorry! Personal taste is so arbitrary I know. But it's fun to complain.
Fucking swill drinkers...
Spending this night with Roddie and Michael and their marvelous mates was... just brilliant. The best time I've had in years. How did I manage to stay away from such lovely friends for so long? I must be nuts.
The next day I feel the pain. My body is broken. Ah well. I feel like a hero home from a journey to the kingdom to romp with royalty. And this is despite the gentlest return possible. Those sneaky devil friends would not hear of me bussing and training home. "Your carriage awaits!" said Michael, when the party was undeniably over.
"What are you talking about!"
An Uber of course. They're too sweet.
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