BY JOHN TIMM
Copyright is held by the author.
Jake
WE SAW the line of cars ahead of us slow and stop mid-block, several turning into a church parking lot down near the next intersection. Saturday morning, lots of traffic already, and now we had a wedding mixed into it. Great. Just what we needed. Not.
The traffic signal ahead changed two, three times. Out of nowhere, I say to Jennifer, “Do you like to go to weddings?”
“No, never have.”
“Even ours?”
“Are you trying to set me up or something?” she said.
I had to keep my eye on the traffic in front of us, but I could well imagine the expression on her face at that moment. “No, no, I’ve never liked weddings either. Let me say I liked ours, OK, so can we move this conversation along?”
“To what?”
“To a crazy idea I just had.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Let’s crash this one.”
“You want to show up uninvited at somebody’s wedding, somebody we likely don’t know, never heard of, because . . . ?”
“Why not?”
There was a long pause while I waited for her to tell me I’d lost my mind. Instead, she says, “Anything beats Walmart and the drug store.”
Having convinced each other, I turn into the church driveway where a teenager in a tux, no less, is directing traffic. Lots of Mercedes, Audis, and Bimmers, even a Land Rover here and there. I’m thinking this is going to be fun.
***
Jenn and I look around as we walk towards the entrance. Aside from the tony-looking parking attendant, the crowd heading towards the church is dressed in an array of outfits, ranging from torn jeans to golf casual, even a few more tuxes. Our grocery-shopping-drug-store-fast-food lunch attire fits right in.
***
An usher asks, “Bride or groom?”
I say, “Bride.”
Jenn says, “Groom.”
We stare at each other for an awkward moment. Jenn smiles, says, “Just kidding” to the usher, and we follow him down the aisle. It isn’t a long way because the place is getting packed.
I acquaint myself with the surroundings. A tall, arched ceiling, stained glass windows, a highly varnished altar, biblical scenes, banners on the walls. Yes, God, I know, it’s been quite a while . . .
Meanwhile, Jenn pulls a wedding program out of the hymnal rack in front of her. She leans over to share it, and we both begin reading. On the front is says in bold script, “Hannah and Matthew.” I’m starting to feel a little more comfortable now that I at least know the first names of those whose wedding we’re crashing. She tucks the bulletin back into the hymnal rack.
“Quick question . . . What kind of church is this anyway?”
Jenn gives me that how am I supposed to know? look of hers. “It’s . . . some flavour of Protestant.”
“Great guess. But I’ve already figured that one out.”
“I didn’t pay attention coming in . . . Let me check the hymnal . . . It’s Missouri Synod Lutheran. Yes . . . I had a boyfriend in high school. He took me to his church once. Missouri Synod. He said they used to have a ban on dancing. It’s all coming back.”
“The church or the boyfriend? . . . Ouch. Don’t pinch, Jenn. That hurts.”
“It’s supposed to . . .” She gives me a glance that could kill.
Just then, a hush. The last of the guests have entered and seated themselves. The organist is playing something I heard a thousand times growing up but never learned the title. Another pause. A murmur of voices, then the organist slams her instrument into full voice
Heads all turn to witness the procession. The pastor, looking very . . . pastor-ish in his white robe, followed by the mothers and maids of honour. One or two look vaguely familiar. Why? They seat themselves with the help of ushers who glide smoothly in and out of the scene. And here comes the groom. What the . . . ? I think I know this guy. Yes! It’s him for sure. A real jerk. I want to say “asshole,” out loud but contain myself. Now, as he passes, I’m tempted to stick out my foot. But I control my impulse. Jenn seems . . . impressed with him, or something. If she only knew. The best man is a real winner, too. His old frat buddy, Logan. The embezzlers. Remember it well. Both kicked out of the frat and out of school. A great pair. Meant for each other.
I look over at Jenn again. I catch her frowning. Would love to read her thoughts right now . . .
***
Jen
Surprise, surprise. There you are. Good old Matt. Didn’t take you long to find another little rich girl, did it, Matthew Bullard? You bastard. You piece of crap . . . Jake looks pissed . . . That’s strange . . . Wonder why?. . . My over-active imagination, I guess.
I replace the frown with a weak smile and squeeze Jake’s hand.
***
Jake
The organ regains full stride. “The Wedding March.” All heads are turned once more, we stand, all eyes upon the bride, the “Hannah” half of “Hannah and Matthew,” as she emerges from the hallowed shadows at the rear. She strides closer, ever closer. Familiar. Very familiar. Too damned familiar. I recognize her father, too. That seals it. I know them both. Do I ever. What have I done to deserve this?
The father-daughter pair work their way to the altar, where everyone is all smiles. They arrange themselves properly next to the pastor.
Jenn leans over, “She’s very pretty.”
“Yeah, not bad.” Not bad if you have weekly spa visits with your mother as a teenager and breast implants at 18. Those lips aren’t factory original equipment, either.
They’re both at the altar now. Jenn seems more focused on the groom than the bride.
***
Jenn
I wonder if he’s wearing Dad’s missing Rolex? I know for sure he ripped off the binoculars when we stayed up at the cabin for the last time. Petty thief. But clever. Gotta’ hand him that.
I could tell Jake about it . . . No. Better not. It wasn’t that big a deal anyway. Well, it was, but I’m over it . . .
***
Jake
They exchange vows. And rings. They kiss. What a crock. Hope you have a prenup, Hannah girl. The newlyweds head back our way. I swear they both catch my eye. What fun indeed! And as for you, Matt, I recommend immediate therapy. You’ll need it on top of whatever drugs you currently take. She’ll have a meltdown at least once a week . . . Well, maybe she’s changed—but if she hasn’t, you are in for one big surprise, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.
I could tell Jenn about it. No. Better not. It wasn’t that big a deal anyway. Well, it was, but I’m over it . . .
***
Jenn and I arrive back at our car just as the lucky couple is pulling away from the curb. We turn on the AC and her favourite mix of music while we wait for an opening in the long line of exiting vehicles.
Jenn says, “That was . . . different.”
“I have to agree. Now, I just want to get us out of this parking lot sometime soon.”
“Didyou remember to bring the shopping list? I put it on the kitchen counter this morning.”
“Of course. Walmart, CVS, then McDonald’s. You and me — it’s just another Saturday in
paradise, right?”
“Right.”
The kid in the tux waves us onto the street. Jenn and I both smile. Neither of us looks back.
***
John Timm reads and writes in multiple genres, moving from one to another as the inspiration strikes him. Recent short stories and flash fiction appear at Euphemism, Meadowlark Review, and WayWords, among others. He is also a past contributor to CommuterLit.
That was a lot of fun!