Man-Child

I see the forks in the road. All through our formative years, we kept in a tight pack and ran through all sorts of obstacles together, hurdling over various addictions, sprinting past our insecurities, and keeping to the inside track of our own happiness and well-being. That’s how I view my close friendships: as a marathon run towards an unforeseen goal. Individually, we had no real set direction, but together, wherever we traveled, we knew it was the right way. More paths opened up with each year, more options for each of us. The most startling, for me, was the trail leading to the altar. The road itself was treacherous, time-consuming, and dark. And past the altar was an unknown path, leading to an unknown world. A world I wanted no part of.

  Joe was the first to go. He and his girlfriend of four years, Jen, were set to marry in late October. Joe was the dark horse of our bet amongst friends to see who would get married first. We all thought for sure that Brendan would go number 1, but his mental rolodex of dead baby jokes, along with his maniacal clown laugh, kept him from crossing the threshold before the rest of us. There were also strong odds in favor of Andrew, who would likely be the first to marry as well as the first to hold the title of “First Annulment” simultaneously, most likely with a Vegas stripper or call girl. The rest of us were either loveless at the time or had no urge whatsoever to venture down the road of matrimony. Hearing the word “marriage” I only envisioned grotesque mini-vans, screaming children, a poor, hollow, schlep of a man pushing a shopping cart down the Housewares section of some never-ending mega-store; his wife’s purse nestled in the child seat of the cart while his wife peruses various options for their new dinette set. If asked for his opinion and tells her what he likes, she will inevitably respond with, “No, no, we don’t like that.”

  Death, I believe I called it.

  I tried keeping up with my friends on the journey to the unforeseen land of the altar, but I pulled a terrible cramp early and decided to sit out for the rest of the journey. “No, Joe, that’s ok. You can hoof it to the church. I’m gonna snag a cab and meet you there, but then I gotta split, ok?”

  Despite my strong feelings on the subject, I had never been to a wedding before. My main concern was that I would somehow single handedly ruin Joe and Jen’s day. This day was going to be one of the most memorable days of their lives, and although I was honored to be there to witness it, I also didn’t want to be seen or heard. The less I do, I thought, the less chance I have of ruining this. When I was eleven years old, my grandmother was planning a surprise party for my grandfather’s 70th birthday at a fancy restaurant. I was left in charge of staking out the front door for my grandfather and then darting inside so everyone could get ready. Grandpa drove past the front and came through the back door. I missed him. He ended up walking in and surprising the very guests who were supposed to surprise him. People turned around one by one and slowly said, “Oh! Um, surprise! Happy birthday!”

  As my grandfather slowly approached people whose backs were turned and who were having their own conversations, my grandmother pulled me aside and scolded, “You’ve ruined it!!”

  Reflecting back on that reverse surprise party fifteen years ago, I made a set of ground rules for when I was inside the church that day. Sit up straight in the pew. Don’t yawn. Don’t chuckle. Don’t breathe loudly. Keep your hands clasped. Don’t make any vocal observations. And if you sneeze, Michael, I swear to Christ…

  A Catholic wedding is full of random cues for prayers, some prefaced with the priest raising his arms and saying, “Let us pray,” while other cues were simply picked up by close followers of the church, those who had been to enough weddings and Sunday services to know what was coming next. Even though my girlfriend at the time, Tina, had given up on formal worship years ago, she knew the time to reach to the bottom of the pew in front of us and pull out a long padded bar which I thought was a footrest. This is a nice respite, I thought as I placed my feet up on what I now know to be the kneelers. An older woman, probably an Aunt or 2nd cousin of Joe’s shot me a judgmental look as I corrected my faux pas. As I wiped the dirt from the bottom of my shoe off of the kneeler, my eyes requested an apology as well as a plea to keep this mistake under wraps from the bride and groom.

  The ceremony itself lasted nearly an hour and then it was on to the reception hall to celebrate the union of the happy couple. Joe and Jen both come from large families so the hall they booked was quite grand with nearly 40 tables, a live band and a 20x20 foot dance floor. The friends and I were stationed at the far corner of the ballroom beside the stage. The drinks began to flow easily as we waited for the bride and groom to arrive and we rehashed old times from four to ten years ago, embarrassing each other in front of our significant others, laughing, bantering. I headed to the bathroom and as I was walking out, I was greeted by a bright flash and saw the backs of Joe and Jen posing for a photo. The photographer glanced over their shoulders and saw who had just disrupted their photo session. Joe and Jen turned around as well and I began to apologize over and over.

  “It’s ok,” Jen said, laughing. “Go back in and get drunk.”

  “Ok, ok. I will. It is after all, your day. Oh, and I also put my feet up on the kneelers, I didn’t know that they were kneelers. It’s better you hear it from me than someone else.”

  Once I took my seat back at the table I could see the road dividing as we all talked; the girlfriends playfully giving support to each of their boyfriends after each dumb story was told, maternally rubbing their backs and going, “Aww….” Minivans were in their future. That much was apparent.

  The schism was solidified, to me, when I saw Joe and Jen enter center stage and begin their first dance together as husband and wife. While the entire hall was focused on the two of them, Joe and Jen were focused on each other and I caught something as I watched their faces. The expression Joe had on his face was one I had never seen there before. Although Joe was most likely the quietest in our group he was also one of the easiest to talk to and quickest to laugh at all things absurd. The look he was giving Jen, and the look that Jen was giving him, was something that no Simpsons quote or Goodfellas reference could compare with. I’ve seen Joe smile, chuckle and laugh till he hurt, but that was nothing compared to the look of joy he had on his face when he was dancing with his wife. His smile and demeanor looked complete.

  I saw the future unfold before me as they danced that first dance together. Other friends were quickly going to follow suit and opt for that road to the altar as we made our way through life. I knew it was going to happen, but I didn’t see until then how friendships could dissolve because of it. I, for one, knew that I was going to sit on the sidelines with my trusty notebook and give a gentle wave as they passed by. I’ll be just as happy as they will be but only through a different means. I love my friends. I love them as much as I can possibly love anybody. What makes it bittersweet is that I want more than anything for my friends to be happy, except that I won’t be going along with them for their journey. I opted for the career route, where I am dependent on myself and independent of familial responsibilities. It’s a major change for all of us involved.

  Life will go on and priorities will change. While my married friends discuss fluctuating mortgage rates and retirement funds, I will only be able to compare it to my rent checks and cost-of-living raise at my dead-end job. As they share stories of their child’s Terrible Two’s and potty training, they won’t want to hear about how my dog, Smeadley, got worms the other week. When their children are involved in mutual play-dates, they won’t want me to show up with a six-pack and hear me whine once again about another rejection from another publisher. My friends and I bonded closely because for fifteen years we were supporting each other through the same problems, and now it was about to take a turn and over a long enough timeline I won’t even be able to relate to what they go through on a simple day-to-day basis. I’m going to be on this bench for a long time and it’s doubtful that as they are advancing further and further down the road they will want to hear my same old problem
s.

  As the wedding reception wound down and the open bar closed, Tina walked as I staggered out the door. As we made our way to the parking lot she asked me who was next on the “hit list.”

  One friend was getting married in June. Another was proposing later in the year. Two more were going to have live-in girlfriends before the next year was out.

  Tina smiled, grabbed my hand and said playfully, “They’re dropping like flies!”

  I froze in my tracks and thought even deeper into the future, years and years from now and saw Joe and Jen sitting on the couch in the early evening. Joe’s scalp had been exposed for years now, and even with a few well-placed laugh lines, Jen still looked vibrant, only they both moved a tad slower. I saw them sitting there, just after their youngest child had graduated from school and gone off to start his or her own life. As a means of celebration, they pull out their wedding album and see where their family and all its subsequent happiness originated. They will focus on each page, trying to remember and recite the story behind each photo, what the photographer was saying to them, where exactly they were, what they were thinking at that very minute. When they’re halfway through the album, they will come across a picture of what they thought was just the two of them. Squinting hard into the background of the photo, they’ll see a man exiting the bathroom door, a look of shock on his face directed at the camera, his hands finalizing the zip-up of his pants. They will squint even harder, maybe even think it was a smudge on the photo and one will say to the other, “Who…who was that?”

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  A Day in the Life:

  Day # 9467- The Turkey Rig