Nine

Pair bonding is the natural state of most higher life forms, lives entwined and destinies drawn together such that the halves are made whole only when together, able to draw strength, love, humor, and happiness from each other. It is, unless, of course, you are an amoeba, coelenterate or any other silly, budding organism that lives its solitary life in an endless quest for food until the arrival of some arbitrary yet fateful day upon which you vomit forth your offspring. There are theories that these critters live boring, solitary lives, and there are also theories that my friend Chuck is one of these critters. Fortuitously, I am not. Nor is Beth. Thus, we found each other, realized the mutual benefit we would surely share with one another not to mention the fact that in doing so neither one of us would some day have to reproduce by budding, and from that a relationship was born wherein we found wholeness in each other’s presence and complemented our individual uniqueness by sharing in a joined pathway. That, I figure, is the basic premise of marriage. “Mawwage, mawwage is a sakwed institution.” True words; thank you Rob Reiner.
Unless of course, you are a male lion and in your mating and territorial prime, for if so then you apparently rate your own harem. For that matter, the same thing applies if you’re a highland gorilla, a walrus, a sea lion, or a devout Mormon. And in spite of Beth, her infectious smile, her oh-so-evil hair tosses, her come-hither looks reserved only for me, and her must-follow-that giggle, I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why anyone would want more than one mate. Thus we come back to the concept of the pair bond.
I don’t think I’ll bore you with all of the ugly details that accompany our blessed event together, nor will I bother you with my awkward, fumbled, breathless proposal and her matter-of-fact “of course I’ll marry you, Silly,” (much) but I will offer one piece of sage advice that anyone considering a bond for life with another biped ungulate should heed. Two words, in fact: wedding coordinator. Yep, that’s what it’s all about, at least I still think it’s necessary if you are to really enjoy yourself. And that was our goal, enjoyment, so we hired a coordinator, outlined our fiesta/luau idea, wrote a check and went about our business while Jamie, the coordinator went to work, planning and organizing our wedding.
We began preparations in mid-summer, just after sharing another triathlon together, this one being the Vineman Half Ironman in the wine country north of San Francisco, and just after I proposed at the finish line, thus the breathlessness (and the sweat). She said yes matter-of-factly like I explained, but what I didn’t include was that she then burst into tears and promptly threw up on my sneakers. I’m still thinking the vomit was mostly due to her state of exhaustion following the five-plus-hour race. At least I hope so. Anyhow, I danced and shouted while the crowd thundered in applause until I got an ass-kicking charley horse in my left leg and curled up in pain on the ground next to my wretching wife. Amidst it all, we giggled, and for once, Josh the Toad felt like Josh the Prince. The crowd kept cheering, and it was nice. She eventually stopped vomiting, and then we kissed. It tasted much like one might expect, but I didn’t care all that much. Then we went back to the hotel, cleaned up, and got drunk—there’s a stretch. The wine country was a good setting for things, a preternaturally beautiful land in the sprawling mounds and ridges and valleys of Northern California, where large estates of endless rows of green, uniform vines are punctuated by brooks, stands of trees and vinters’ chalets. All that and you don’t have to put up with arrogant Frenchmen since, after all, this is America and not Bourdeaux. What could be better?
What? I’ll tell you what; being in this setting and having the girl of your dreams say yes to your marriage proposal. The vomit was an unexpected bonus.
Planning began in earnest immediately upon our arrival back in San Diego. Of course, the evening of the proposal Beth spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone, calling her parents, my parents, her girlfriends, her cousins, her aunts, her work friends, her neighbors, her hairdresser, her animal spirit guide, and anyone else she thought might be even remotely interested.
Therein lies lesson one of “How To Marry A Woman.” Specifically, nobody shall be overlooked, no matter how obscurely related to your betrothed. And, therein lies lesson two of “How To Marry A Woman.” The man shall get drunk while said female participates in said behavior. Thus, an entire bottle of La Crema Chardonnay bit the dust along with three Bohemia beers. I’d be lying if I didn’t credit the goofy, giggly, phone-obsessed blonde with half the bottle of vino. The cerveza? All me, baby, all me.
Anyhow, like I was saying, our legitimate planning began as soon as we got home. Ordinarily, you might think that the long drive home along Interstate 5 through the San Juaquin Valley would have provided ample opportunity to discuss plans, wants, desires, etc, for the lovely sprawling expanses of Lemoore and Bakersfield don’t exactly provide for much awe-inspired gawking, the sickly-orange hue of the agro-smog notwithstanding. No sir, no time was spent discussing plans on that ten hour drive home, not since we were armed with a cell phone that could plug into the cigarette lighter. That meant that ten hours worth of people could still be called, including (I swear) kindergarten teachers, adolescent orthodontists, the gynecologist (?), the local cable guy (?!), and a host of other seemingly random people. It went something like this.
“Hello, Mrs. Jackson hi, this is Beth, you might remember me from eighth grade civics I just got engaged to be married I thought you might want to know okay, bye.” And so on and so forth the silliness went on and on as the miles droned by. In only one case was the same litany interrupted, just after the third run-on sentence. The interjected sentences, sans run-on, went something like this; “To a man. Yes, a live man….” For whatever reason I passed the time by humming the entire score to Pirates of Penzance. Apparently Rodgers and Hammerstein represent a primitive survival response inherently nestled deep within the male psyche.
Go figure.
Nonetheless, we eventually made it back to San Diego late that night, and in the days and weeks that followed, we got down to the serious business of conducting God’s Work, namely that of deciding upon invitation stationary, menus, dresses, flower arrangements, etc. So much for the remainder of the triathlon season, and as grumpy as I tried to be, I couldn’t help but melt every time she found something new that she wanted for the wedding or reception and turned to ask my opinion with tears of joy in her eyes and the paint brush of excited color on her cheeks. Typically male, I invariably melted, looked at the ground and shuffled my feet awkwardly like a four-year-old. “Anything you want, Sweetie,” I would always answer. Somehow I was both humbled and awestruck by her glow during that time, and as the time approached I knew that my decision to ask for hand had been right.
Now, I need to tell you about Jamie if for no other reason than humoristic relief during this stupid tragedy. This woman, this machine of planning, organization, arrangements, accoutriments, and accessories was a beast of burden and a task master combined. Locked within her stout, five-foot-two frame was a woman possessed. As I would later learn, she had once been jilted, left waiting at the altar, and somehow over the years managed to rationalize the loss as more a function of a supposedly poorly planned wedding rather than a shit-fer-brains of a fiance. Thus, she developed into the Supreme Wedding Warrior, or SW2 as I quickly took to calling her.
Beth poo-poos the idea, accusing me of “typical male insensitivity.” (Please note: I have again shifted to the present tense, as I feel more comfortable telling of Her as if she’s still with me, because, in effect, she is and always shall be. That, I figure, is my curse and perhaps my salvation.
On the contrary, I explain, a nomiker such as this bestowed is done so borne from an appreciation of the warrior spirit. I further say that SW2 is Jamie’s callsign of sorts, my label for a fellow member of the caste, the band of brothers (and sister) who live by the sword. In Jamie’s case, the sword is apparently easily supplanted by the stationary catalogue, the list of available florists, and the wedding cake artistes. God bless her. She attacks our blessed event with a zeal often only seen in desperate battles against hopelessly over-powering enemies. Hey, we all exorcise our demons in our own way, and in hers, she is intent on defeating the demons of her betrayal so many years ago. Apparently. I am not one to pass judgement.
That hogwash aside, Jamie is a short woman, like I’ve already said. But I repeat myself. In spite of my description as stout, she isn’t large, rotund or otherwise over-weight. On the contrary, her indomitable will and indefatigable spirit are contrasted starkly by her diminuative stature. Short, yes, but also tiny in every sense save her pie hole, for this woman lacks a volume knob. She might be small in stature, but her spirit soars, as evidenced by her Fran Drescher-esque nasally caterwaul, a cattle call of hers that announces her presence like fingernails across a chalkboard. “Jaaash, I need a check from you, NOW!” Yes’m, three bags full.

Ours was a military wedding in the sense that we did it at the Point Loma Naval Base, home of San Diego’s submarine fleet, and, more importantly, the locale where the officers’ club faces southeast from the very tip of Point Loma, looking down across the bay at Coronado and over towards downtown San Diego, North Park, National City, Lemon Grove and Chula Vista. Most days it’s smoggy and not very enchanting, but that day—OUR day—it was clear as a bell thanks to a week of relentless rain that had us worrying right down to the wire, but that cleared as a gift from nature two days prior revealing the most lovely view, including a distant vista of Cuyamaca Mountain in the background lightly dusted in the her first snow of the year’s young winter.
Imagine this, then, if you will. You are at our wedding, where the groom and his party are dressed in formal Navy winter attire—which the Navy ironically calls “blue” but always looked black to me—and the bride and her party are in white and perrywinkle (one learns these colors when one gets married, you know), there are tropical flowers, orchids and lilies and hibiscus, everywhere, it’s 65 degrees out in perfect low-angle January sunshine, there’s not a cloud in the azure sky, sailboats are drifting noiselessly past on their way out the channel towards the Los Coronados Islands off the coast, and there are mountains in the background with snow on them. Wow. Please let me say that again. Wow.
And therein lies the concept of life partner. California, I’ve heard, has an automatic six-month cooling off period before a divorce decree is granted. I suppose that’s a deterrent of sorts, intended to dissuade the pretty and the plastic who live in the Los Angeles basin from frivolous marriages and rapid-fire divorces. “Honest, Your Honor, I simply have to dissolve this marriage on the grounds of irreconsileable differences. The problem? Oh, well, he only drives a 5-series Beemer….”
By way of comparison, those of us of substance who live in the other parts of the Golden State, tend (or at least I hope so) to get married out of love and the intrinsic understanding that when you meet “him” or “her” you know that you have met the one person that was meant for you. Now, lest you misunderstand, I’m not an advocate of predetermination. On the contrary, our life experiences shape us into the individuals that we are, every bit as much if not more than our genetic coding, and that’s where the subtle brilliance of “someone for everyone” comes into play, for without our unique makeup and characteristics, then just anyone would do. That would be terribly sad and not particularly romantic.
(Not to mention that, if that were true, I easily could have ended up marrying Felcher, or, worse, Chuck. And that’s wrong on so many levels….)
Rather, I firmly believe that we are all endowed with a certain set of parameters that make us ideally suited for companionship with one and only one person at any given stage in our development or, more succinctly, in this particular incarnation of life. Lucky for me that’s Beth. Racing and climbing aside, I think there was one particular event when I began to gain insight into the beauty of her soul and the wholesome, giving nature that defined her spirit. Climbing, you see, is a team effort. Not a team sport whereby you use martial tactics to move balls or pucks whilst engaging in pseudo warfare with other members of differing tribes festooned in alternative warrior garb. No, climbing is a team effort in the truest sense, wherein your physical safety and quite probably your life is placed willingly into the hands of your partner, your belayer, who must shoulder the responsibility of providing anchor and brake and safety net while you climb the rock, the wall, or the mountain. In that sense, I guess, it’s not unlike or too far removed from marriage.
Climbing the jagged faced chasm of life is dangerous and fraught with peril, after all, but oh-so-easily mitigated with a partnership borne out of love, respect, friendship and trust. Yeah, okay. Whatever. I’ll stop now before I get too goddamned sappy.
At the same time, however, climbing tends to lend itself to a strange, intrinsic sense of giving and an unspoken need to take care of others. There’s a high degree of empathy that is engendered by the act of climbing because everybody shares in the same fears and the same risks. Sure, some climbers are far more skilled than others, thus the fear paradigms are individually set for any given climb, but the root truth is that all climbers begin with the same meager skill sets and all climbers evolved through the same learning experience and pathway. Thus, no matter how rad or bitchin’ or gnarly or tieeght a climber might be, they all share the same sense of custodianship for their fellow climbers. You need only spend one day in Yosemite when a big wall climb goes wrong to watch the local community come together to aid the comrades who are in harms way on the route.
Still, a lot of the time, those noble characteristics stay diffused when away from the rock. In that sense, climbing has a disenfranchised air to it, often appealing to the fringe elements, people with pink mohawks and/or intense shyness alike. Climbers might freely share their custodianship with one another, but they tend to withdraw from the marks and the drones of mainstream society. So, why am I even bothering to tell you this, particularly since the vast majority of you are probably not climbers nor will ever become climbers? I guess it’s because I want you to understand just what it was/is/shall always be about Beth that sold me on this girl. Believe it or not, there are other females of the species in the world who most likely enjoy Kiss, Hard Core Punk, Free Form Jazz, burritos and doughnuts, and goofy tall Jewish kids from Texas. Trust me, mathematical probability bears this theory out. Still, Beth’s ability to care so much about so many around her was truly astounding.
I realized that and recognized that I needed to be with this person forever—for ever, a big concept—at, of all places, a Padres game at Jack Murphy/Quallcom Stadium, a seemingly insignificant event that, for some reason, sparked the insight in my miniscule brain that, in turn, lead to the understanding that I simply had to marry this girl.
The game? Nothing special. Pad’s versus the Mariners. Descent seats along the first base line. Fish tacos (yes, they serve those at San Diego’s baseball stadium) and beer. Hawaiian shirt and Chuck Tailors. Stunning blonde and nerdy Yid. I don’t remember the score. Mostly we laughed, sang, ate, drank and enjoyed the eternal sunshine of San Diego. Just after the seventh inning stretch, we both decide (shift themes por favor…I’m working on it, but it’s going to be a hard habit to brake, lame-ass Chicago song notwithstanding) to take a walk around the stadium for mutual bladder relief and to “go walkabout.” In a rare twist of typical ballpark reality, the line was at the nearest men’s room, and Beth offers me a quick peck on the cheek before she mozies over the empty ladie’s room.
“Remember, Sweet Josh, if you’re not going to make it through the line, you are a man.”
“What does that mean?”
“The world is your urinal.” She giggles, pinches my ass and skips over the ladie’s room.
“Sweet Josh?” asks/chuckles the gentleman behind me, a portly fellow wearing an old-school, well weathered brown Padre’s ballcap from the 70s.
I look back to meet his smile and inwardly remember that members of the warrior caste general eschew being called “sweet” or “cute.” We prefer descriptives like “fierce” and “shit-hot.” Ass pinching? That’s right out…unless it’s Beth pinching Josh’s ass, which this fortuitously was. I don’t mind and I smile back at the guy “I’m gonna marry that girl. I figure ‘sweet’ is a small price to pay.”
“Fair enough,” he says with an approving grin. “Good choice too, she’s a real looker.”
“Yeah, even a nimrod can get lucky. Me, that is…I’m the nimrod, not her. ‘Cause then I probably wouldn’t want to marry her and I definitely wouldn’t take to being called sweet at a ballpark or having my ass pinched. Um, you know what I mean?” Christ, warriors don’t gush either, at least they’re not supposed to. “Nice hat, by the way.”
“Thanks, got it during the ’76 season. It was a gift from my wife.” He smiles knowingly.
“You’ll like being married kid.”
“I know I will. Enjoy the game, Mister.”
So, I pee. And I wash my hands. And I exchange a manly, goodbye nod with Mr. 1976 Ugly Brown But Oh, So Cool Padres Hat. And I go back outside to find Beth. She isn’t there. I look left and right of the immediate are of the two bathrooms and I wait dutifully outside of the ladies room for a good five minutes, thinking perhaps that she had to take a hutch, giggling inwardly at the general annoyance of crapping at a ballpark. Still, after the time went by, there is no Beth. I return down the aisle within view of our seats, and still no Beth. Now, mind you, we have been an item and quite serious for months. I harbor no concerns of her ditching me at the park or running off with some rabidly muscled meat head. In stead, I’m thinking bad thoughts like injury, sickness, or God-only-knows what else. I get slightly alarmed but lapse into typical Naval Aviator problem solving mode and set a course around the mezzanine to see if I can find her. I do, and the sight is both a relief and somewhat puzzling.
Beth is holding a small child, a girl , whom she is holding against her chest while rocking gently from side-to-side and singing a James Taylor song.
“Madeline,” she says sweetly to the little girl who, I’ve only just noticed, is crying softly, “this is my boyfriend Josh. He’s going to help us find your parents.” And then she winks at me and goes back to singing James Taylor quietly. The implicit message as Little Madeline sniffles and holds her hand out to me is: “OK, sweatheart, please go find this child’s parents. I’ll stay with her and comfort her.” Madeline, obviously, is lost. How she came to be in Beth’s arms I can readily imagine. A young child, perhaps four or five, frantically running about Petco’s mezzanine, crying pitifully for her Mommy, when the World’s Nicest, Most-Caring Person notices and takes the first and most subtly important action—she comforts the girl first and waits for her fool companion to come and find them, which she knows he surely will.
I stare at her briefly in wonderment. This kindness of the spirit is a rare quality in a cynical, hard world, and one fortunate enough to be blessed with the affection of just such a person had best hold onto them. I make a mental note—shop for a ring soon. Little Madeline, meanwhile, is crying softly, barely at all, and she’s humming along with Beth, who is now gently singing “It Ain’t Easy Being Green.” It isn’t, you know. I brush the child’s curly red hair away from her eyes.
“Madeline? Hi, I’m Josh. I’m pleased to meet you. Can you tell me your last name or where you last saw your mommy and daddy?”
She shakes her head shyly at me: noooo.
“Madeline,” I try again, “it’s important that I know so I can go find them.”
“Momma said I’m not s’pposed to talk with strangers.”
“But he’s not a stranger, Madeline,” Beth says. “I introduced you to him properly, so now you know him. And, besides, nobody with ears as big as his can possibly be mean, right?” She winks at me. Madeline looks at me judgingly. And Josh the Eternal Fool does the only thing he can to placate the terror of a small child. I reach up, pull both ears—mine, not hers—to their full extension, make a monkey face, and start grunting and hopping in little circles. It works.
“You’re funny,” the little girl says.
“…Looking,” the older girl adds.
“Whadya say, Maddie? What’s your last name?” I stop the silly monkey dance but I keep holding my ears at full, Dumboesque extension.
“My poppa calls me Maddie. Momma doesn’t like it. My last name is Rosenbloom.” And then she suddenly remembers that all little girls, regardless of race or creed, are required by physics, nature, and God to do two things above all others, namely flirt and then remember to be shy. She does the first with a beautiful little smile that’s a reflection of what is sure to become a man-melter later in life, and then she burries her head in Beth’s shoulder, obligating to the second requirement. Beth winks at me.
“Back in a flash,” I say as I meander away doing my monkey-man act. If a crying child is a glimpse into the truest nature of sorrow, then a laughing one is reassurance that humanity might survive in spite of itself.
Out of sight, I revert to Naval Aviator mode, specifically that of problem solver. It’s funny, but we are taught many things aside from flying, tactics, and war-fighting. There’s a subtle yet evident undertone within the ever-present facet of continuing education in Naval Aviation to teach compartmentalization and problem solving. And it’s one of the few things I tend to be good at. I spot a cop jabber-jawing at the customer service kiosk. I walk up, present my military identification, introduce myself, and explain the problem. I also ask the customer service representative to check to see if a Mr. or Mrs. Rosenbloom have reported a missing little girl named Madeline, about five years old with curly red hair, Oshkosh B’Gosh blue jeans, and a Tony Gwynne replica jersey. I grab a slip of paper, scribble the officer’s name and badge number on it along with my cell phone number, and signal for the officer to follow me.
When he and I find Beth and Madeline again, we are amusedly shocked. In front of the northern mezzanine Jamba Juice kiosk, a gorgeous blonde and a cute little red-head are playing Hokey-Pokey with each other, putting their feet in, taking them out, and, of course, shaking them all about.
“Monkey!” she laughs, pointing at me as we walk up.
The cop looks at me suspiciously with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Hey, what can I say? Chicks dig me….” He laughs and talks into his shoulder-mounted walkie talkie. Beth and Madeline finish with their dance and start singing the ABC song together while we wait for the Rosenblooms, who are apparently being escorted to our area by another cop. They arrive about five minutes later, Mrs. Rosenbloom’s faced streaked with dried tears. This ordeal cannot have been much fun. She runs over to Maddie, who, in turn runs to her and then drags her back to Beth. The women are talking, laughing, and I notice that Beth has her arm in Mrs. Rosenbloom’s arm reassuringly. Maddie tells them that she and her new best friend Beth sang songs and she wasn’t frightened anymore. I’m watching the whole thing in wonderment. Aside from everything else, the female of the species is also apparently endowed with the gift of run-on speech from birth.
Mr. Rosenbloom introduces himself to me as Dan. His relief is evident. Being men, we recognize the harsh reality of a cold, cruel world, and as the cop coldly recites child abduction statistics, Dan and I look at each other dudishly and nod knowingly. Disaster averted, all is well, lesson learned. I get a big hug from Madeline, Beth gets a kiss, the Rosenblooms thank us again, and we go our separate ways. As the two parents walk hand-in-hand with their daughter, I distinctly hear the little one singing to them a song she leanred from her new friend Beth. “I, want to rock and roll all night, and party e-ver-y day…”
I stare at Beth. This was a rare insight, I realize, into the kindness of an even rarer soul who understands that everyone needs someone sometimes, whether climbing a granite face, lost in a stadium full of adults, or while navigating the perilous waters of a hard adult world. Beth is a keeper, and I know it. The Kiss? That’s just style baby, pure style.

Jamie, back to Jamie. Why? Reassurance, justification for a decision well made. The wedding, as I’ve told you, was terrific. We got a Protestant Minister and a Reformed Jewish Rabbi to conduct a joint ceremony. The minister was female and hysterical. I’ve often thought that there’s not much that separates a carnival showman from a conman from a zealous member of the clothe. In this case, the minister also added comedian to the witch’s brew. The rabbi was good too, but nothing special; kinda like a koogle that doesn’t have enough cinnamon. It’s a Yid thing.
Together, however, they made a good ceremony grand. We combined the best of both traditions and backgrounds, I stomped a glass, and while all my relatives shouted “Le Chi’am,” (or however the shit that’s spelled) Beth’s bridesmaids and my groomsmen all produced Viking helmets complete with horns, plopped them on their heads, and shouted “Bonsai!” Surreal? I don’t know about that, but it was most certainly silly. I’m good with silly…silly works for me. Thus, the ceremony ended and the fiesta began. That’s where Field Marshall Jamie went to work. Her assistant ushered the revelers off to the Officers’ Club to begin the wholesale imbibery while she ushered us off to the tip of Point Loma to have our photographs taken. While we went through every conceivable permutation of pose, smile, light angle, etc, Jamie directed the entire event while simultaneously cell-phoning remote party/reception directions to her assistant back at the O’ Club.
“Dahlingk, I don’t care if the caterer says that he’s running out of New Zealand muscles. We paid him for 100 pounds of them, and he’d better either produce the goods or drive his lil’ fanny down to Point Loma Seafoods to get some more…on his own dime…pronto…most ricky tick…capiche?” And so on and so forth.
Yet through it all, while our mouths froze into perma grins and our backs got sore from poses and sun angles and roll after endless roll of film, the Supreme Wedding Warrior managed to somehow produce a small plate of brie and crackers and a bottle of ’95 Vinter’s Reserve La Crema Chardonnay, properly chilled of course. We photographed, the photographer fretted about tiny shadows and whatnot, SW2 relayed party directions via cell phone, yet she still managed to think about us and our food needs. Granted, this woman was a marriage professional and such activity was in her credo. Still, the cold efficiency of it all appealed to the military strongman wannabe in me. Beth, apparently, saw a whole different side.
After what seemed like an eternity of clicking shutters, Jamie and the photographer drove us over to the O’ Club while Jamie explained the mechanics of the Bride/Groom arrival. There are rules to these things, you know. Apparently I didn’t. Being the Big Dumb Male, I share in certain advantages in life like bright plumage, muscles, and the ability to pee standing up when camping in the woods, but I was obviously denied the ability to understand the intrinsic universal constant of Proper Wedding Reception Etiquette. Fortuitous indeed, then, it was that I had at my disposal the Reigning Mistress of Wedding Ceremony Decorum, the SW2. Jamie ‘spalined everything.
And it went well. We all entered in order, Viking helmets and all. We drank, we danced, we made merry. Mostly we got drunk and our respective families thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Somewhere towards the end of the evening, Beth and I snuck off for a little heavy petting in smoochville. I’d like to think that I had particularly turned her on while I dragged her garter off with my teeth, but the run my incisors put in her expensive Frederick’s of Hollywood “CFM” stockings probably put the kibosh on that. Truthfully, I’m fairly certain that Beth was in love with me and wanted some time alone to share a few tender moments with her new husband. I didn’t mind, so off we crept into a dark corner of the Officers’ Club. Giggling and fumbling our way towards the darkened back corner of the management office, we clumsily stumbled over furniture while tickling and groping our way inside. I managed to pin her up against the wall and began to nibble at the base of her neck when she hissed at me. Granted, odd noises are bound to emminate from those about to enter into the throws of passion, but hissing is right out. I stopped.
“Shhh, Josh.”
“Wha….”
“Shhhh!” One more h in the shush for emphasis.
Somewhere in the back office complex was the sound of someone crying. I heard it distinctly. Beth grabbed my hand and led me and my erect penis out of the corner to investigate. Girls, apparently, aren’t embarrassed by public erections. Good for them.
Rounding the corner into the caterer’s office, I first noticed an open window with lots of moonlight streaming through along with a light Pacific breeze. The air was cool and crisp and the room had a delicate blue hue to it in the light reflecting from the moon’s fullness on the horizon. Sitting at a desk chair by that window was Jamie, softly sobbing, her tiny shoulders jerking up and down with each sob.
Beth placed a tentative hand on my wrist, gave me a sorrowful look with large wet eyes and went over to our wedding coordinator and stooped beside her.
“Jamie, Sweatheart,” she said sweetly while lightly draping a gowned arm around the smaller woman’s shoulders. “Shhh, Honey, it’s going to be alright.” Beth looked at me with one tear streaming down her face.
I stood there—Big Dumb Male sans Really Big Belt Buckle—not knowing what the hell to do. Typical. Nothing to fight or beat off, so the male of the species stands in befuddled confusion. This is where the sabertooth tiger jumps us from behind and drags our lifeless corpse off to provide dinner for the kittens, but in my case I just got to stand there. Jamie wept and Beth held her. Whatever it was Beth knew, specifically as I was educated later, Beth instinctively knew that Jamie’s façade wasn’t quite enough in any of her multitudinous weddings to keep the emotion and the memories at bay. The SW2 façade was just that, a put-on face meant to hide the pain still lurking inside her. And my wife, my Beth, knew all that without words and immediately went to share that pain in the hopes that by taking some herself she might lessen that of the woman before us, a person whom we really barely knew beyond the superficial confines of our client/consultant relationship. Beth knew, Beth shared and Beth ached with her…on her wedding night, when dancing and fun and merrymaking were happening one floor down in honor of her. In stead, she chose to spend close to an hour with this suddenly small, sobbing woman. I got shooed out of the room early on, so I returned to the party.
I vaguely remembering fielding various questions about Beth’s whereabouts, and mostly I seem to remember telling people that she was talking with an old friend. Somehow in retrospect that doesn’t seem too far from the truth, for Beth was a rare soul with a rare gift to befriend people at merely a glance. How she could share so much of herself so freely without concern for her own emotional protection in an age of cynical protectionism was/is/will always be beyond my meager, pitiful comprehension. She was something I could only aspire to—a glimpse of divine, altruistic love. Yet somehow and for some strange reason she chose me, me, the tall, skinny, boring turd in a sea of shining diamonds. She saw something in me and selected me to be her mate, and while I entertained the wedding guests and drank shots and laughed and joked, my wife sat upstairs in a darkened room and quietly comforted a soul in need, and I realized more than ever that I loved that woman beyond life itself for if she was my soul-mate, then I might be saved from an eternity of mediocrity and self-induced hell. Love filled me up beyond my capacity for words; it was amazing, and when I saw the two of them come back downstairs, I beamed at Beth with wet eyes. She cocked her lovely head slightly to the side and smiled subtly back at me.
I walked over to them at the base of the stairs and noticed they were hand in hand.
Beth and Jamie hugged long and deeply, and Beth whispered something in her ear. Jamie looked at me, the façade torn down and the emotional vulnerabilities laid bare. I did what a gentleman is supposed to do; more importantly, I did what I was learning to do courtesy of my lovely wife. I was learning to empathize. I leaned down, hugged and kissed her lightly on the check. She hugged back and whispered to me “Dalingk, thank you. You take care of this girl, you hear me? She’s a catch. Oh, by the way, did anyone say anything about the boner you walked downstairs with?”
We both laughed. Beth hadn’t heard the last line and looked quizzically, a slight smile on her angelic face. Was it my imagination, or was there a preternatural glow to her?
“I’m going now, kids. You’re wedding is my best work ever. Be good to each other, because, you know, you are good for each other.”
“Thank you, Jamie,” we both said.
“And, Dalingk, I sure hope that check clears!” My SW2 was back. As she turned to leave, I did what manhood and piggishness demanded of me: I smacked her hard on the ass. She giggled, and Beth’s hand found its way into mine while we looked out past the driveway towards the moonlit silohoutted mass of Point Loma.
“I love you,” Beth said.
“Thank you,” I responded, and we let the moment linger a bit longer before turning in to rejoin the party.