THE NEON COLOR-WHEEL of Reno sparkled through the windshield. Billboards floated by, postcards of heavenly promises: financial, marital, and gastronomical.
“Stop at the first one,” said Emerson. “Five miles ahead.”
“We need a new vehicle,” said Dean, glancing into the side mirror. “Remember what the man said on the radio? It could be too late already.”
“No, we have time. We can find a peasant and trade for his farm truck. I also have a small amount of rubles, if he is greedy.”
“America doesn’t have peasants.”
“Really? Where do you buy watermelons? Who does government force to work in army and post office? How do you tell rich from poor people, that it is okay or not okay to throw tomatoes at them?”
“We don’t throw things at people,” said Dean. “The only way to tell if someone’s rich is if he’s out jogging.”
“Peasants are not allowed to run on the street?”
“You’d think so, from the scarcity.”
“That’s the strangest thing I have heard––look over there!”
A billboard shone through the night and the rain, a blinding beacon of pink cherubs and yellow and blue letters that spelled “Tony’s Wedding Parlor and All-Night Buffet.”
Dean jerked the wheel and took the exit.
A vast throng of cars surrounded a white Tyrolean-style hut with a black, high-peaked roof. Like plain-faced maids of honor, several low buildings with flat roofs clustered behind the garish Alpine facade, and glowed in a wash of pink or blue light as the neon cherubs changed color.
Lin stirred from the mattress in the back. “Why are we stopping?”
“To change vehicles,” said Dean. “Grab all the supplies.”
“What? There’s nothing wrong with this one.”
Dean drove to the back of the parking lot and stopped between two large container trucks.
“Lin, it’s useless––we’re criminals now. The radio said we’re the ones who kidnapped Emerson. There’s an APB or bounty or something on our heads as I speak.”
“I’ll go to the police right now and straighten things out. You didn’t kidnap anyone.”
Dean turned in his seat and stared at Lin.
“We don’t have time for any legal fiffery-faffery if we want to get to Charleston in time,” he sputtered. “Every second counts, including this one. And that one. There’s another one gone. My life––ridiculous and full of enough fiffery-faffery as it is––will be completely and utterly over if I’m arrested by the police and I can’t give my speech in front of Robert Timmins at the National Motivational Speakers Conference! I’ll have to work for El Pollo Loco again, or even worse––State Farm!”
“Calm down, I’m sure we can explain everything. The police have always been reasonable and understanding when I’ve talked to them in the past.”
“It won’t come to that, Lin, because we’re going to march into Tony’s Wedding Parlor with my Kamchatkan fiancée and march out a married couple into the car that you’re going to hot-wire just like in Phoenix that one time.”
Lin sighed. “I’ll need a lookout.”
“Emerson and I’ll be busy, so that leaves you-know-who.” He turned to Emerson in the front seat. “Can you tell Fanta to stay with Lin and do whatever she asks?”
Emerson nodded and spoke to Fanta. The large woman leered and smacked her palm with a weighty fist.
Dean left the pair at the ambulance, and led Emerson by the hand through the vehicle-maze of the parking lot as a cold rain fell.
“It seems many people want to be married tonight,” said Emerson.
“I suppose so,” said Dean. “I’ve driven through Reno before, but I’m not familiar with all the festivals. If we’re lucky it’s a Moonie wedding and we’ll blend into the crowd.”
“What are Moonies?”
Dean shrugged. “A suburban Hare Krishna.”
Refrigerated air blasted his face as Dean held open the glass entrance door for Emerson.
The lobby inside was partitioned into three equal sections, and a long wooden counter ran the length of the room. The dissimilar themes gave Dean the impression of three markedly different rooms nailed together. The left section was entirely mahogany and walnut wood paneling. A vase of lilies sat on black marble. In the center, the wall and counter had been painted white. A pair of ceramic cupids faced each other, holding white roses. To the right, the orange walls held a neon martini glass and “24/7/365 Buffet!” sign. A cash register sat on a rainbow-colored Corian countertop.
A wooden door in the mahogany section opened and the murmur of a large crowd spilled into the lobby. A short Native American in a navy blue suit and bolo tie closed the door, quieting the noise. His black hair was parted in the middle and two braids hung down the front of his jacket.
He smiled at Dean and Emerson. “Funeral or wedding? Buffet is off tonight. Our cook had a sudden attack of winning the lottery and escaping to Mexico with his future ex-wife. If you’re here for the funeral, it’s a good one––Sheik Farouq Hassan Al-Nissan.”
“Haven’t we met before?” asked Dean. “You’re Tony, right?”
“Who else? Sheik Farouq Hassan Al-Nissan?”
“No. You look familiar, that’s all.”
“All Indians look the same, is that what you’re saying? Get out of here you round-eyed, racist bastard and take your Chinese girlfriend with you.”
“I am from Kamchatka,” said Emerson.
Tony pointed at Dean. “I’ve got three hundred people for Sheik Farouq Hassan Al-Nissan’s funeral packed in a room rated for one-fifty. I don’t have time for this.”
“There’s been a slight misunderstanding,” said Dean. “I met another Tony at a gas station back in the mountains. That’s where the confusion is coming from.”
“In that case, never mind. That’s my brother, Tony.”
“Your parents gave you the same name?”
“All six of us,” said Tony. “It was harder for the girls. Before this turns into Twenty Questions, how can I help you?”
“We want to marry,” said Emerson.
“Now you’re talking my language, sister.” Tony ducked behind the central white counter and appeared with a form. “Full ceremony or express?”
“Express,” said Dean.
Tony marked the form rapidly. “Fill this out and sign at the bottom. I also need driver’s licenses and a hundred bucks.”
Dean spread his hands. “I don’t have one. A license, I mean.”
“Who doesn’t have a driver’s license? You’re not French, are you? By the holy crow of Sekumbah, I hate the French.”
“Certainly not.”
“What about the little lady?”
“She’s ... not from around here.”
“Passport?”
Emerson shook her head. “Duke Nichego stole this from me.”
Tony rubbed his nose. “Birth certificate? Credit card? Giant Eagle loyalty program?”
“We might have a problem,” said Dean.
Tony laughed a big, booming guffaw. “You’ve obviously never worked at a funeral parlor slash wedding chapel slash Chinese buffet. There’s nothing an extra fifty bucks won’t clear up.” He leaned toward Emerson. “Just to be safe, this guy didn’t kidnap you or anything? It’s okay, you can tell me. I’ve got a shotgun right here.”
“Yes, he did not kidnap. I want to marry him.”
Tony nodded. He slapped a thick manila folder stuffed with official-looking documents onto the counter and thumbed through the pile.
“Let’s see ... how do you feel about Terry Joe Bukowski?”
Dean shrugged. “Never heard of him. Sounds like a serial killer, but I’m not one to judge. I once dated a girl who was legally named ‘Flaps McDoodle.’ ”
“Don’t be so thick, guy––that’s going to be your name on the marriage certificate. For an extra fee, of course.”
“What name? Flaps McDoodle?”
“Don’t be absurd. Terry Joe Bukowski
.”
“Is all of this above-board and legal?”
“As legal as turkey bacon,” said Tony. “All birth certificates of deceased individuals.”
“I suppose it’s okay, then.”
Tony held up three ivory pages. “Now for the lovely lady. Edna Marie Brown? Violet Dawn Francis? Destiny Klara Schicklgruber?”
“I like Destiny,” said Emerson.
“Good. Let me just change ‘1937’ to ‘1987’ and Bob’s your uncle.”
Tony scribbled down a few details and handed both certificates to Emerson.
“Now it’s time for me to utter what is in my opinion the sweetest and most romantic phrase of the marriage ceremony: hand over the cash, you lovebirds.”
Dean emptied his wallet and barely came up with the required one hundred and fifty dollars.
“Do you have a ring?”
Dean looked sheepish. “We left in quite a hurry.”
“I’ve got something!” Emerson pulled a pair of gold hoops from her ears. “Use these.”
“Excellent,” said Tony. “Let’s begin. Do you, Terry Joe Bukowski, take this woman, Destiny Klara Schicklgruber, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Unclear about what to do with his hands, Dean raised his right palm as if he were in front of a judge. “I do.”
“And do you, Destiny, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“I do.”
Tony slid one of the hoop earrings onto Emerson’s ring finger and the other across Dean’s pinky.
“By the power vested in me by the Church of the Kickapoo Nation, I declare you man and wife. Weesakechak bless you, now kiss the bride. Chop chop!”
“I haven’t brushed my teeth in a while,” said Dean. “And I had Funyuns––”
Emerson slid a cool hand behind his neck and pulled Dean’s head down. She mashed her lips firmly against his and Dean inhaled the musk of her skin, a smell suspiciously like turkey jerky. When Emerson pulled away, Dean tasted a rose-flavored waxiness on his lips.
“Thank you,” Emerson whispered, her pupils wide.
Dean saw flecks of gold in her brown irises, a charming detail he hadn’t noticed before. He felt strangely dizzy, as if he had stood up too quickly and all the blood had rushed from his head. The next thing he knew, Emerson’s brown eyes had been replaced by the blank white of the ceiling.
The hot-air balloon of Tony’s face floated above Dean, and sounded just as hollow. “Are you okay, mister?”
“You’re welcome,” Dean said weakly.
Tony shook his head. “I’ve never seen a man faint like that. You’re lucky the girl caught you because head trauma isn’t pretty. I’ve seen it. Believe me when I say midget kickboxing is not as entertaining as it sounds.”
With Emerson and Tony’s help, Dean got to his feet.
“I’m fine,” he said. “It’s been lovely eyes for all of us. Sorry, I mean ‘a long day.’ A long day for all of us.”
Tony shrugged and handed Dean a certificate with an intricate blue border.
“Well, it’s either that, or you’re allergic to girls,” he said. “Congratulations on your nuptials. Now, if you’d like to save some time and money, I offer a fifty-percent discount on pre-ordered annulments, including buffet.”
“I’m more likely to need funeral services before a divorce,” said Dean soberly.
“I also do those. With the same pre-order discount and buffet, of course.”
Emerson held Dean around the waist with both arms. “Don’t think about such things, husband. We’ve just been married! This is the start of your good luck.”
Flashing red and blue lights streamed through the windows.
“Code red!” screamed Tony.
The stocky Native American grabbed a box from behind the counter and ran through the door to the buffet, papers flying behind him like a contrail. The door locked with an ominous click.
Dean rattled the white, cupid-covered door behind the wedding counter but it refused to budge. He grabbed Emerson’s hand and sprinted to the last door on the left, the serene entrance covered in dark wood paneling, and pushed it open.
The teal carpet in the next room held rows upon rows of chairs split by a narrow aisle. Men and women filled every chair and lined the walls, all wearing white robes and a variety of head-coverings: the men, headscarves, and the women, veils.
On a raised platform at the far end of the room stood a lace-covered coffin and an elderly, white-bearded man behind a wooden podium. He couldn’t have been a priest, thought Dean, unless the Catholic Church had recently adopted white robes and red-checked headscarves.
As Dean pulled Emerson into the room and shut the doors, the old man looked up and halted mid-sentence. Three hundred pairs of eyes swiveled in their seats and stared at the two interlopers.
Dean cleared his throat.
“I’m ... ah ... paying my respects to Sheik Al-Nissan.”
After a breeze of confused whispers, many of the eyes turned away. Dean’s relief was short-lived, however, as the old man behind the podium waved for him to come forward.
Dean pointed at his chest. The old man nodded and increased the frequency of hand waving, as if he could speed up the process with faster and faster gestures. A group of swarthy young men with serious mustache growth stood up and pointed to the front.
Emerson covered her face with her red wedding veil and held Dean’s hand as they walked past the unending rows of mourners.
As they approached, the old man smiled and bowed cordially. A young lady left a seat in the front row and motioned for Emerson to sit.
The old man bent his head close to Dean and whispered, “What is your name?”
“Dean Cook.”
The old man nodded eagerly. “Ah yes! Sheik Al-Nissan was a big fan.”
He leaned into the podium microphone.
“Dear brothers and sisters, today is a very sad and grievous day, but a happy day because one of Al-Nissan’s favorite persons has appeared to give his respects. His work gave my cousin much solace in his final days of sickness, especially his album Harmful If Swallowed. Let us welcome Brother Dane Cook, the famous stand-up comedian, come to Reno all the way from Hollywood!”
The room broke into rowdy cheers and applause. Not a few of the congregation jumped out of their seats in excitement.
Dean stood behind the microphone and smiled as the ovation continued. He gripped the wooden podium with sweaty palms, furiously trying to think of a way out of this situation. If he bolted for the fire exit at the back of the room, he just might be able to escape. He looked at his nervous bride in the front row and wondered if she would forgive him.
“Yes, indeed,” stammered Dean. “I just flew in from Hollywood, and boy are my arms tired!”
A few mourners clapped politely but most looked puzzled.
“The good thing about flying by myself is I don’t have to worry about bombs or terrorists, unless of course, I was one,” said Dean. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My, uh, my best friend is a terrorist.”
Angry murmurs spread through the crowd and a few young men at the back stood up with clenched fists. Next to Dean, the old man raised an eyebrow.
Dean wiped sweat from his forehead.
“I mean, I could be one. You don’t have to dress like a terrorist to be one. The 9-11 terrorists didn’t ‘look’ like terrorists––if they’d tried to get on the planes wearing robes and turbans, that would have been a dead giveaway.”
The crowd roared with anger. The old man put an arm on Dean’s shoulder and waved the angry men and women to silence.
He whispered in Dean’s ear, “Please change the subject.”
“Sorry,” said Dean. “Sorry, folks. I’m just a comedian. A rich, wealthy comedian. I’ve got a house so full of gold that it’s hard to find a place to sit, but sometimes words fly out of my mouth and I have no idea where they came from. Obviously from my mouth, but that’s not the point. The point is they’re like w
ord bombs. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say “bomb”––it’s a very sensitive word among your people. That reminds me of a joke: what do you call a chainsaw in Saudi Arabia? Involuntary circumcision device. I see from the looks on a few of your faces that you didn’t get the joke. That’s probably because you don’t have chainsaws or circumcision in Saudi Arabia.”
The old man calmed the shouts of the angry crowd.
“Have some respect,” he yelled.
Dean nodded vigorously. “Exactly! After all, I was born in Arabia, Ohio.”
“No, I mean you,” said the old man.
“Sorry,” said Dean. He bowed his head and exhaled. “I’ll start again. This is a sad time of grief for all of us, me especially. A great man has passed from the earth, Sheik ...”
“Farouq,” whispered the old man.
“... Farouq ...”
“Hassan Al-Nissan.”
“Sheik Farouq Hassan Al-Nissan,” said Dean gravely. “A man who brought love and caring into the lives of many people. Obviously from the large number here today––”
“They came for the buffet,” whispered the old man.
“Who spread his wealth among all those he knew in life. A great man, Sheik Al-Nissan. He wrote me a letter last year––”
“He was blind,” whispered the old man.
“Left a voice mail––”
“He could not speak,” said the old man.
Dean cleared his throat. “I received a message from Sheik Al-Nissan. Let’s not get bogged down with the details of how that happened, but it did happen. As I read the message, I was touched by the works he’d achieved, the remarkable nature of his life, and his travels.”
“Hated flying,” whispered the old man. “And other people.”
“Shut up,” said Dean. “When I heard he’d passed, I absolutely had to come in person and give my respects. I canceled a stadium show in Houston and flew to Reno immediately. Tonight is also a double tragedy for me because I learned of the death of Nando Phoenix, a great actor that other actors aspire to be. He tragically fell from a balcony into an ice cream truck and died. In turn, as if the ice cream suddenly became sentient and could sense his passing, it too began to perish.”
The doors at the back crashed open and flashing red-and-blue strobes lit the room. A dozen police officers pushed through the crowd at the back.
Dean made eye contact with Emerson and she pointed to the door behind the coffin. If they ran for the exit now, however, the police would be on them in seconds. Dean still had the attention of the crowd and all the powers of a fully-trained inspirational life coach in his arsenal. Guessing that only one thing would save his and Emerson’s skins, he leaned into the microphone.
“Before I leave,” he said, “I have to ask everyone a question, one that I asked Sheik Al-Nissan: ‘Why are people from the Middle East so angry all the time?’ ‘That’s easy,’ said Sheik Al-Nissan. ‘It’s because we never have any fun. Have you tried snorkeling in a burkha? Getting your robe caught in a bicycle chain? We’re not allowed to relax like you. A white family can ski all winter at Tahoe, but if a Saudi man says “snowboarding is the bomb” he’s packed in a crate and flown to Cuba!’ ”
The old man pushed Dean away as the mourners jumped out of their seats and transformed into a hysterical, screaming mob. They filled the aisle, throwing shoes, seat cushions, and spare change at Dean, and blocked the police from moving forward.
Dean grabbed the microphone. “Also, the buffet is closed!”
Emerson leaped up to the podium. Pelted in a rain of hymnal books and plastic flowers, she and Dean sprinted for the fire exit.
In the alley behind the funeral parlor, rain fell in a steady torrent and rippled the water of muddy potholes. Dean pushed a green dumpster in front of the fire exit.
Emerson pulled the stem of a plastic rose from her veil.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We could trade clothing to confuse the police, but the more I think about it, there’s no way I could fit into that tiny outfit,” said Dean. “Also, I have five o’clock shadow.”
A sea green 1966 Chevrolet Impala roared down the alley and slid to a stop, water spraying from the tires.
“Get in,” said Lin, from the driver’s seat.
Dean and Emerson piled into the back. The car plowed through curtains of white rain and disappeared into the dark Nevada night.