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Wedding talk bloats summer
44TT ow old’re you?” my 7
■“l year-old brother said
with his characteristic
sneer.
Since birth, my littlest sibling has
had a way of curling his lip much like
Billy Idol used to back in the innocent
“White Wedding” days before he start
ed messing around with that Holly
wood Madame character.
“You 18?” he pushed, not one to
wait for me to finish introspecting.
“Nope, I’m older than that.”
“You 19?”
“Older than that.”
“You 20?”
“Yep, I’m 20.”
He sat for a moment, processing.
“Why ain’t you married yet?”
Couldn’t he have just asked me
about the facts of life or why God
allows war? I took it with a grain of
salt. This is the same kid who routine
ly tells me I must be “stupid” if I’ve
been in school for 16 years.
“Well,” I said, oozing diplomacy
and fondness, “I haven’t found any
one who I want to marry yet.”
He just sneered, so I suggested that
maybe he could find someone to mar
ry me if he thought it was that impor
tant. I smiled a patronizing smile that
virtually reached out and patted him
on uie neaa.
“I don’t think so. You’re pretty
old.”
Great. I can just see him sitting in
his first-grade class trying to trade the
overpriced Jurassic Park pencils I
bought him to some snot-nose in re
turn for my hand in marriage.
“You say she’s 20? I don’t know—
that’s pretty old. Throw in that No
Rules Trapper Keeper and you’ve got
yourself a deal.”
Oh well, kids say the damdest
things. Despite the venom from the
mouth of babes, I’m not holding the
old maid card yet.
But I can’t blame my brother. My
family has had marriage on the brain
«MaraimfmBv81noctfunef>my-ma>ttier
has had tentative plans to tie the knot.
She and her intended don’t want
' She and her intended don’t want
anything formal, and they already
have a marriage license so they
I could hitch it up at any given
moment, I guess. Heck, i haven’t
talked to her all week; she could
be married already.
anything formal, and they already
have a marriage license so they could
hitch it up at any given moment, I
guess. Heck, I haven’t talked to her all
week; she could be married already.
Yes, the summer was bloated with
talk of vows and rice-throwing. This
summer, the first of my high-school
gang — Cathy — stalked down the
aisle. It’s hard to imagine anyone
from my high school making that sort
of commitment, but it’s especially
difficult to picture Cathy having and
holding through sickness and health.
Back in the days, Cathy was our
resident loon. She was wacky with
three capital W’s. We called her P
Sycho, and voted her Most Likely to
Bomb-Threat the Airport. She wasn’t
clinically insane — just unpredict
able.
During high school, my neighbor
hood was constantly under construc
tion. It was always a pain in the heinie
for my friends with cars to pick me up
for football games and other import
taut dates.
The easiest way to my house was a
downhill, one-way street, which was
fine on the way in, but you had to take
a more complicated route involving
spooky railroad tracks on the way out.
Unless Cathy was driving.
When Cathy was driving, she left
the same way she came in. Time after
time, I remember sitting in the pas
senger seat of her nondescript Honda
as she turned onto the one-way street.
I remember screaming her name
and just pMn scream ingaswecl imbed
the hill. “Cathy, Cathy, this isn’t fun
ny. It’s insane.” She'd just laugh this
high-pitched endorphin whine and
speed on.
I’d close my eyes and picture my
self being pulled from a head-on col
lision. Watching the home team beat
the Benson Bunnies just wasn’t worth
getting personal with the jaws of life.
We’d reach the moment of reckon
ing just over the crest of the hill. Once
again Cathy ’ s luck had pulled through,
and no cars were coming.
And now she’s married. To a guy.
A very normal guy. Not the bizarro
bungee-jumping crack addict I al
ways thought she’d bring home to
meet Grandma.
They’ve rented acute, newlywed
ish apartment where they keep all of
their married belongings and watch
married people television.
I know she’s the same person, but
she seems different. She believes in
happily-ever-after now, and when I’m
with her, I think I do, too.
But, I still can’t believe she’s for
real. I keep waiting for her to call me,
demon-giggling, to say, “PSYCH!
Reeled you in, and you can’t have
your Rubbermaid set back either!”
I worry about her. What if this is
one of her thrill-seeker pranks? It’s
much more dangerous than the time
she went to the mall and dropped
rubber balls from the balcony onto
Jeans West shoppers.
Cathy’sdrivmgdown another one
way street now. I just hope this time
she’s driving the right way.
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