They may be insane, they may be chainsmokers, they may bring about the end of western civilization, but they don't say "ya'all". Not even the ones who live in Texas.
***
I haven't been to many weddings that I can recall, and far more funerals then I care to remember.
The two events are much more alike then the movies I review make them out to be. In both cases, a family member is placed in someone else's care (a spouse, or the deity of your choice) both call for some serious weeping, there's usually a crying baby getting on people's nerves and (if my family's involved) there'll be a party afterward.
***
The trip to Dallas is long and uneventful. Oklahoma isn't much to look at. No offence to you natives of the fine . . . whatever-your-state-is state, but, well, you guys sure picked a boring place to live in.
Now Texas . . . Texas is Oklahoma, except the freeways are finished. I navigate the rollercoaster twists of the new President George Bush Turnpike to my Uncle Jack's house. So, I think, this is what Dubya is doing in office. Apocalyptic visions of President George Bush freeways, President George Bush Airports and the (ironically named) President George Bush School for the Treatment of the Mentally Challenge fly through my brain as I pull into the gated community and park on the street.
I get the sweet deal. Well, actually we do, my parents and I. Being the younger brother, my father has hooked us a stay in Uncle Jack's house. The rest of the relatives are apparently shacked up in the motels of Dallas, while we get the kingly treatment, and the 52 inch TV that goes with it.
***
The day of the wedding, everyone has something to do. Uncle Jack, the Father of the Bride, and Aunt Judith are rushing every which way. There's rehearsals to attend, presents to collect, arrangements to be made, sons to be located. The Family and I are left to our own devices.
Being the people we are, we decide to visit the Dallas Book Depository, site of the most famous sniper's nest in the Western Hemisphere. In a stack of text books on the 6th floor, Lee Harvey Oswald (or the Cancer Man, whichever) shot down your favorite president and mine, JFK. The entire floor has been turned into a museum, with the original nest (or a reconstruction thereof) incased in glass. Everything not glassed off has been carpeted, prefabed and stone washed, in the true spirit of an American historical site.
Looking out the windows at the curve of Elm street below, my father remarks, "Easy shot."
Damn, I love my old man.
***
As we get to the church, a cold front blows over the Lone Star State. I remember my two trench coats collecting dust in my bathroom closet. It's not fair, Texas is supposed to be hot, damnit! And where are the cowboys? And where's Chuck Norris? I wanna punch him so bad . . .
This is the first time I've set foot in church since July. I'm a heathen and I'm proud. The Groomsmen, however, are drinking beer right in the parking lot. Now that is a bit much. That I won't do. I can almost here Jesus saying, "Um, guys, could you, like, get drunk over there, maybe? Yes?"
The ceremony begins. The place is packed with more relatives then I knew I had. And I can't remember a single face in the crowd. I can get a sense of my relationship to them, but it's not nearly the same thing.
I wish I recognized these people, just so I could talk to them with the ease that they talk to one another. The old wallflower instinct sets in as we take our seats.
The show begins.
***
Unlike the funerals I've attended, this is much shorter. The bride comes out almost immediately, amid the heavy shouts of the great organ in the church balcony. She is my cousin Heather, and she is the reason why people used to marry their cousins. Small, but petite, with a figure helped out by the wedding dress she's wearing. It's an ungainly piece of equipment, but, good God, does it lift and separate.
I'm not supposed to be staring at that. I take pictures, but I do not stare.
Sitting as far away from the front as I am, I don't get many good pictures. Mostly it's of the lovebird's backs, or in profile. Unlike TV couples, these two are too busy looking at each other to stand at one-third front.
The lucky feller is named Robert IV. No, he's not royalty, he's a fireman. That doesn't stop me from snickering and conjuring up monikers for him: Rob to the 4th power, Robert the 4th, Duke of Normandy, hail Robert the 4th, King of Scotland and Father of the King hereafter.
I shouldn't make fun of him, he's one of us now. He's also a guy with a steady source of income and, I'm not sure, but I think he slips my cousin the tongue as they take their first kiss as man and wife. I'm confident that she slipped him the tongue right back. She's one of us, after all.
***
The reception is worse, but not bad. I'm never at home in social functions. When I go out, I don't go clubbin', I have small but excellently illegal bouts of fun with my select group of friends. Sitting in a hotel ballroom with this group of unknowns is a bit much for me. The wallflower instinct becomes oppressive.
So I snap pictures and wish for a digital camera, or, at the very least, a scanner. When the Groomsmen morph into a slightly better dressed imitation of the Village People I'm laughing to hard to wish.
Throughout the night I think about the beautiful women amassed at this event, and wish I knew which ones shared my DNA, and which ones were single.
One of my older cousins tells me, "The only available female you're not related to just got married."
He's wrong, but I don't call him on it. He's recovering from a motorcycle crash and the scars are still fresh. Motorcycles are big in my family, regardless of the danger. Apparently, Uncle Jack has taken a, "Sure, ride it, but if you crack open your skull it's your fault" attitude.
And that's just kind of the way we are. We press on, regardless of consequence, whether we're endangering our lives, or getting married.
And I, being who I am, ask, "Isn't that the same thing?"
***
I stay just long enough to toast the happy couple on their life together. I may be cynical and aloft and a wallflower, but a bad guest I am not. That I simply won't do.
10:8:0:0