shotgun wedding

Shotgun wedding. Called three and one half weeks in advance. Bought tickets. Whisky.
Church. Wood paneled foyer. Picture of the new pope, too small in the room. Robin’s egg blue. Friend from the Navy flies in on “a shotgun flight” and ushers. One half church Irish one half church Italian. Babies everywhere. Someone is karaoke singing songs, sentimental country ballads I don’t know. Suspect they are by the same artist whose CD was for sale at the check-out at JC Penny’s this afternoon while buying novelty underwear with mom.
Paper walkway pulled by kids like a silkscreen roller, little tear in the bride’s side. Maid of honor, champagne dress. Flip flops. Bride beautiful, taller than I remember her. Simple gorgeous gown – more tasteful than Youngstown. Ceremony. Sisters read the gospel, look so alike. Look like their mother. Catholic church, forget the rules, but the brain tunnels through the ritual unaided.
Groom. My prom date. Just friends. Later my mom makes it sound different. Very awkward. 8th grade, erased his picture from my yearbook. *picture not available. Hilarious tease. Friends for life, but always that distance because I’m a girl.
Mr. and Mrs. walking. Everything framed as “first time,” even in the sermon. Greeting in the foyer, end of ceremony, heightened speech continues. Pawing to not use clichés, making general but sincere wishes. Poetics of escaping the church without a faux pas.
Reception. Friend enters to Williams' “Imperial March.” Tom Waits as their dance. Tables close together, excuse me. Cookie table, regional tradition. Bar staffed by uncles. Joke is they’re all named Vinnie. Like Tony and Tina’s, even the food. Sitting at a table with family of the groom – the husbands are talking about whether children belong to parents, or to god. This is the same room where the cool bands from high school would play gigs because we were too young to go to bars. Brother makes a speech. “At least we finally know he isn’t gay.” Later frames it as younger sibling retribution. Shows speech, written on torn piece of Budweiser box.
Evoke privately held thought with friends who live out of town: The deer hunter. Laughter. “Maybe he’ll strip naked and run down the street.” Drink too much red wine. Convinced this will not make me a mean, odd or stereotypical wedding drunk. The DJ plays “Brick House” before nine p.m. Later the DJ says, ‘this one goes out the guys in the kitchen.’ People dance line dances they learned after I stopped learning line dances. Twenty women to one man on the dance floor. Toddlers to pre-teens half dance half fighting. Some kind of Grease enactment. Never learned the words. Hiding out by the bar with the Vinnie’s, everyone’s smoking cigars. Single friends huddled in corner, conspiring about remaining single. When’s the baby due? Is a phrase I have never said before without irony. Hard to muster enthusiasm – all weekend mom makes excuses for being single, 27, with no kids and in school “she’s a new Yorker” Imagine myself with a monocle in a cartoon on the same page as the blow card, “Babbitt was my mother’s maiden name.”
"A boy named sue" comes on. All the male friends get together in a circle, singing. Stand outside taking a cell phone picture. Feel outside just like high school. No one has a tie around their forehead though.
After last song. Let’s go, please. Clean up tables, throw away extra cake. Take care not to throw away mom’s cake knives. “It’s from my wedding.” Still have the box. Wheel tables to corners, stack the chairs. Gallop off to the parking lot.
Suddenly at “Salty Groggs” Three dollar cover for all but the military guy: put that away. A band is playing. Everyone in it looks like Vince Neil during his solo period. Friend eyes the weird chick from our high school English class. “Is that” almost as dread a comment as “When?” People without children keep showing up, mentioning names of people I have forgotten. Band hammers “Mustang Sally.” Girls in the bathroom all from the wedding, in dresses. I’m wearing all black, but more like an orchestra musician than Roy or Johnny. I try to chat, but I’m not one of them and they know it.
Home. Terrible feeling. Am I too drunk, or just overwhelmed. Can’t sleep all night.