suicide notes from a wedding
By Joaquin Emiliano
Copyright 2014 Joaquin Emiliano
***
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidences are all either products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
***
as with most all things involving Nick Reckless, i found myself in an unfamiliar vehicle at 4am. head a mess with unwelcome test patterns, squinting through streetlights. no guarantees where this road may lead.
just like old times.
only now, some 34 years were stuck in the rearview, and Nick was some 500 miles north. some 36 hours away from the end of the beginning.
my compact rental made for smooth travel along I-85, I-95. not a smoky in sight. punched it through most of Virginia. stopped for gas and sat on the trunk, forcing raw kale and blueberries down my throat. ‘round 7:30 in the morning. sunlight playing its old tricks, insisting the day was already on its way out.
an old timer in a pickup stared at me through tinted aviators. i remembered the scruffy buildup along my face, tired eyes and sun-cured skin. felt strangely obligated to reassure him that i had no plans to detonate his truck, church, or family.
but nobody ever believes me when i tell them that.
so instead, i continued north.
nothing familiar past the DC beltway. first time on Route 15 through Maryland and Pennsylvania. faced with a tsunami of solid green. merged onto I-8, winding roads slicing through corridors of dense trees. a couple of hours there where the world seemed a little less lonely.
ten minutes to my destination, i took a wrong turn. 45 minutes and 27 houses of worship later, i had arrived at the Sky Summit Lodge and Resort. it was 1:30pm.
***
the lobby’s sprawling floors and high ceilings were reminiscent of Scandinavian dining halls of old. the reception desk was reminiscent of a reception desk of right now. i rifled though the assortment of polo shirts, khakis, and baseball caps. caught sight of someone with their back turned, someone who looked practically as rough as i did.
also, the only black person in sight. i calculated the odds and figured they were in my favor.
the bet paid off. next thing, Korben had my bones bundled in a fearsome hug. couple of slaps on the back. i pulled back to get a better look. approaching 6 foot, build of a Brooklyn barkeep unwilling to risk being on the losing end of a fight. eyes of a negotiator uninterested with being in that fight in the first place. hair and beard trimmed close.
same old Korben, save for a few fledgling greys.
“yeah, Lucky,” he said. “you don't look like you belong here either.”
“called it, K.” i scratched at my scruff. “cannot wait to get this hipster mold off my face.”
Korben had taken the bus from Port Authority, together with Alley Springs. she was by our side a moment later. radiating an intrinsic kind of beauty that could have easily turned most women ugly from the inside out. Alley was somehow immune to her own reflection, resulting in a sophistication and quiet intelligence that kept the world safe from its own envious thoughts.
“where are you staying?” she asked.
“some kind of place… not sure. the emails have been scattered and confusing.”
“why don’t you check your phone?” Korben asked.
“did you call me?”
“no, i mean so you can check your email…”
beat. i pulled out my black, outdated flip-phone.
Korben led with a wince… “yeah. you don’t have a smartphone, do you?”
“the more things change, the more i stay the same.”
Alley whipped out her own device. “don’t worry about it, Lucky. let’s have a look.”
i crafted something resembling a thank you.
the 3 of us had been shelved together in one of several privately owned houses surrounding the resort. we had an hour to kill before settling in. while Alley scoped out the dining situation, Korben and i carried their bags to my car.
“you and Alley come here together, or are you here together?”
“yeah. Chet would love that last one. came here together.”
i slammed the trunk shut, stretched. “that’s 3 stags. so far, so good.”
“you still living with your sister-in-law’s sister?”
shook my head. “had to pack up shop last year.”
“oh, wait. right. you’re at your friends’ house. the ones with the kid. a room under the stairs, i heard.”
“not anymore.”
“oh.” Korben scratched his head. switched gears. “how’s the new book doing?”
“i could really use some coffee.”
he let it go.
we found a small cafe area downstairs, adjacent to the kind of game room a miniature golf course might have if it gave a shit about its game room.
a family of 8 hovered over the counter. discussing their plans, ignoring their children, all of whom ran wildly about in search of potential head wounds. i kept disparaging remarks to myself; every last stranger a potential member of the wedding party, an easy-bake enemy in the making.
Korben ordered a BLT.
Alley ordered a turkey club.
i ordered fresh fruit and coffee, black.
i bet them twenty that when our food arrived, they would serve Alley the fresh fruit.
got no takers.
one of the resort staffers trudged past. parked it 2 tables down from ours. slapped an oversized garbage bag on the chair beside her. sent her arms in, all the way up to her shoulders.
i felt as though i shouldn’t be watching.
the coffee arrived, and that helped.
“woah…” Korben’s inside voice kicked in. “i think that lady’s actually… is she?”
Alley glanced up from her iPhone. “oh. yep. she is.”
one of the few lessons that had ever stuck with me was to never turn around while the world stared. “what’s the story?”
Korben kept it casual. “that lady who just sat down appears to be… making s’mores…”
“what, fire and everything?”
“yeah, Lucky, fire and everything, we’re all going to die.”
i pretended to tie my shoe. sure enough, there she was. diligently packing chocolate and marshmallow between two slabs of graham. each treat wrapped in cellophane and carefully placed into an oversized Tupperware container.
a pack of Parliaments peeked out from her uniformed slacks.
i straightened up. “there’s nothing fun about that.”
Alley and Korben nodded.
our food arrived.
they served Alley the fruit.
Korben and i talked about being old. Alley was kind enough to play along. we did our best to sort out conflicting schedules, information, updates that had been emailed over the past few weeks. the pair of them tending to their smartphones. moments of conversation interrupted by text messages. Facebook updates. Instagram shares. amiable trivia settled at the drop of a hat.
unable to keep up or contribute, i helped myself to a few slices of melon.
grapes.
Korben was bold enough to proclaim his BLT as one of the best he had ever had.
i bit into a strawberry and fantasized about the fifth of vodka in my garment bag.
“whatcha thinking about, Lucky?”
i was seized with an urge to kill myself, but by then it was 2:30.
***
we slid into my rental, skirted the golf course. a family of peacocks crossed our path. little ones wobbling their way up toward the links.
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our house had been christened The War Admiral. built on a steep incline, stone slabs descending to an above ground pool. a pointed, wrought iron gate bordered the surrounding deck.
Korben and Alley held their excitement in check; even the slightest remark on the excellence of a weekend retreat would surely set the stage for a modern slasher film.
instead, we chose to investigate the basement.
our journey was cluttered with rusted pencil sharpeners, steak knives, random hard hats, snow boots, empty paint cans. a large confederate flag was fastened to the wall by 2 rusted nails. next to it was a limp American flag, hanging by a single thumbtack.
Korben scratched his head. “i get the feeling that the American flag is there to cover up the confederate for when people are renting this place… and maybe they just kind of forgot.”
Alley suggested we go back upstairs.
***
upstairs, Korben and i stood in one of the 3 bedrooms.
bags stationed in the doorway.
“yeah,” Korben said. “this is right.”
i went through it once more… “because Chet and his girl will be down the hall.”
“and Alley is a single woman.”
“yes.”
“and we are two men.”
“of course we are.”
“so Alley gets the other queen-size,” Korben wrapped up, throwing his duffle on one of the 2 mattresses. “and we get the twins.”
“wish you weren’t talking about beds.”
“sorry Misty couldn’t make it.”
“yeah…” i went to hang my garment bag. “she’s got a wedding to go to in July.”
“whose wedding?”
“don’t know.”
“where?”
“Maine.”
Korben let it go. left the harping to whatever angels had bothered to stick around.
i stood by the window. stared out past the mountaintops.
***
while Alley and Korben organized themselves, i had a shower. shave.
suited up.
checked my phone. missed call from Chester Springs.
he was still on the road, riding a rental in from Philly. asked me if anyone needed him to stop for beer or liquor. i told him he might not have time; rehearsal was in an hour.
“oh. um, that’s real cool…” Chester’s voice dropped out, back in. “nobody told me that.”
“i could be wrong. got an email said 4:30.”
“i did not receive that email.”
“who do you suppose had it last?”
“what the fuck does that even mean? seriously, this traffic is –”
i lost the signal.
***
after a swift pull of Grey Goose, i felt considerably better. after a half hour or so, i noticed nobody else was in the house. stepped outside and saw Korben and Alley sunning themselves by the pool.
…eyes closed at the edge of a pristine, sky-blue oval.
***
i took a few wild looks around the lobby. resort staffers moved about with great purpose and oversized strides. wide smiles and preoccupied eyes. vests, ties, brass name tags embossed with lettering too small to read at a glance.
i went random. picked a petite brunette with heavy mascara, miniature lips, and a bandaged ring finger. she pointed to a set of double doors. hardly time for a thank you, and she was on to the next one, helping an elderly couple make sense of their own complaints.
i stepped out onto the terrace; a 30-yard half-circle that curved back towards the far end of the lobby. at the top of the arc were 20 or so steps, bottoming in a cobbled courtyard bordered by lush grass. meticulously trimmed, 8-foot hedges patrolled the edges. at their zenith was an open gate, its gaping maw leading out to what must have been the resort’s 75th hole.
Nick Reckless materialized before me. wide, manic grin. sandy hair trimmed, properly parted, eyes gleaming a pale, wild blue. signature white dress shirt. top two buttons undone, fitted nicely to a lean, well-maintained body.
“on time, and dapper as hell.” he took me in his arms and scratched the back of my head.
“you’re only saying that because it’s true.”
“still using that old line?”
i pulled away, feeling a faceless ache in my stomach. “you look good, Nicky.”
“yeah, don’t i?”
“anybody here actually know what's going on?”
“somebody. maybe nobody. let me introduce you to Kayla's mom.”
the next 2 minutes snowballed into a pageant of women; friends, relatives, bridesmaids, secret Santas. names bouncing uselessly off my brain. they all blended together in a mix of smiles, perfect hair and slender hugs. the edges of reality faded into a fast forward blackout.
Kayla swept into view, somewhere from the great beyond. demure smile, an angel bearing the gift of familiarity. one swift embrace, and she was gone.
and i was, once again, floundering.
***
the cyclone tossed me out onto the courtyard. solid footing, finally. standing next to Nick and his father, Paul Reckless; ruggedly handsome, grin of a great white. ran a 2-minute mile. bench pressed Cadillacs for sport.
Nick loaned me a bizarre smile. “we’re going to come out from the bushes.”
i didn’t know what he meant. that is to say, i knew a few dozen things he could have meant. as always, it was best to not waste any time guessing. move on, and prepare for every possible scenario.
through the filter of a painful squint, i spied a proverbial figure descending the stairs. black jeans. broad shoulders filling a like-colored button-up. rolled sleeves revealing a kaleidoscope of earth-toned ink. Irish mug already at odds with the sun. nose like a toucan’s beak. narrow blue eyes enjoying the various contradictions that made up the soul of Chester Springs.
he took me in a muscular bear hug. “hey, Lucky. you look great.”
“we're going to come out of the bushes,” i told him.
“that's real good, buddy.”
during the 300 or so years Nick had spent in China, Chester had been the only person i knew who had gone to visit him.
out in the wild, wild east.
standing in the middle of that courtyard, browbeaten by every last bifurcation, i was struck by the sound of another volume slamming shut. another one of those wasted possibilities that begged for a practiced moonwalk across the page to properly kiss each chapter goodbye.
Kayla and the bridesmaids joined us.
Chester was introduced.
i was somehow reintroduced.
Chester was a musician who had left North Carolina to seek his fortune on the sunny streets of San Francisco. he was a social creature. had a way with charm that i certainly must have possessed in my younger years. capturing the nuances of every situation, the precision to interact without setting off alarm bells.
then again, perhaps i had never mastered such talents.
could be it had always been this way.
Paul led us through the open gate, around the bend. rolling green stretched out into the horizon. golf carts in the distance grazing quietly while their masters enjoyed an afternoon tee-time.
on the other side of the hedges were the aforementioned bushes.
Brian, brother of the bride, sneaked into our ranks. quietly introduced himself. he was young, tall, physique of a wide receiver. shy demeanor, flawless skin.
somewhere, there was an issue of GQ missing one of its starring G’s.
as the men discussed their responsibilities, i happened to glance at a passing golf cart.
felt time rip at the seams.
recognizing a passenger-side face i had long considered beyond recovery.
just a glimpse. hardly enough to jumpstart certainty, but something in that smudged smile and those square, dark-rimmed glasses yanked at my heart, hair like a razorback, fresh sweat pouring into my eyes, blurring my vision, furthering hopes that someone in the records department had simply made a se
rious mistake.
“Lucky?”
felt my left eye twitch. saw Nick and Chester standing by, their arms crossed. waiting.
took a timid look out to the golf course, expecting the shape of further impossibilities.
shook it off and got my head back in the game.
Paul took us through our paces. this consisted of sporadic gestures towards ever shifting marks, coupled with the repetitive use of vague prepositions.
“over there.”
“there.”
“here.”
“back.”
“back there.”
“Wednesday.”
James Reckless, Nick’s little brother and best man, made his entrance. slightly taller, slightly more skinny than the groom. eyes on the alert, nervous ticks heightened by ever-clenched fists. he promptly began to paint the proceedings with his own abstract brushstrokes.
all 3 Reckless men breezed through the rehearsal as though skimming a menu.
at one point, i mentioned that there seemed to be more bridesmaids than groomsmen, and how would that affect the recession?
the 3 of them simultaneously lifted their hands, let loose with a series of hesitant, drawn out vowels, then simply began talking about something else.
welcome to the house of mirrors.
a healthy 5 minutes worth of rehearsal time, and the ceremony was placed in an incubator. players randomly stationed about the courtyard like chess pieces on a pool table.
Chester blinked. “so, are we all married now, or…?”
“yes. sorry. i always don't cry at not weddings.”
“do you have a tie i can borrow for the rehearsal dinner?”
i stole one last glimpse through the gates. still wondering. “huh?”
“i don’t want to be that rock musician asshole who everyone thinks is too cool to go formal for the occasion.”
“certainly would be the first time in human history a rock musician’s ever been an asshole.”
Chester sighed. “do you have a tie i can borrow for the rehearsal dinner?”
“i have exactly that. gunmetal ok?”
“it's the metal of my hopes.”
and, no. not one part of that conversation meant a single thing.