The Wedding Beat (13 page)

I watched Amy and Mike place rings on each other’s fingers. He laughed when he couldn’t get hers on, and she tenderly helped him. I understood why they were together in a way I hadn’t before. It wasn’t that they were a perfect couple, but that they balanced each other. His optimism was the antidote to her nervousness. Her caution tempered his bravado.

The judge pronounced them husband and wife, and a boom box blasted as Mike scooped Amy into his arms. Like a certain green ogre and his bride, they kissed to the accompaniment of “I’m a Believer.”

The Russo family didn’t believe that less was more. The reception was a ten-course Italian-style banquet, and it was family tradition for everyone to give a toast.

Amy’s father started the ball rolling, asking if he still had to pay for the bridal gown. Mike’s parents recited a lengthy list of relatives who hadn’t been able to make it to the event (some of whom I suspected were long dead). Then the microphone was indiscriminately passed to assorted cousins, neighbors and a Rainbow Room bartender. We were well into the third hour of speeches when Brody took the microphone hostage.

“Love means never having to shave your back,” he declared. Wearing his tuxedo jacket over a T-shirt and torn jeans, Brody seemed to be auditioning for a stand-up comedy show. On cable-access in Latvia. For twenty-five minutes, he rambled on. The longer he talked, the more he drank. The more he drank, the slower he talked.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, trying to
mitigate the ache in my lower back from the five hours I had been on my feet. When waiters started serving the roast duckling entrees, Brody got the hint (or got hungry). It was time to make my exit. However, I was stopped by the sound of a clinking wineglass. Amy was standing at her table.

“Everyone knows how much I hate talking in public,” she said, “so I’m going to make this very short.” She thanked Mike, their parents and their fifty hardy guests.

“And I want to thank Gavin Greene, who’s hiding behind a mirrored column in the back of the room.” I wasn’t hiding so much as cringing. “I put him in an impossible situation, and against his better judgment, he offered me some very good advice. Sometimes it truly is harder to give than it is to receive, and I want him to know that I’ll always be grateful.”

She had potentially just destroyed my career. If anyone at The Paper learned how far I had strayed from my observer’s role, the story would be killed along with my reputation.

I had made a foolish choice. Yet a warm feeling emanated from my chest. I felt flattered and appreciated. More than that. I felt proud. I had somehow managed to say the right thing when I hadn’t even been sure there was one. Maybe writing about so many weddings had taught me something about relationships. Maybe Mike should be the one asking me questions. The future seemed a lot less foreboding than it had only hours earlier.

As I was on my way out of the room, Brody grabbed me by the arm, a glass of whiskey sloshing precariously in his other hand. “Hey,” he said, “you didn’t interview me yet. Don’t you want the best man’s take on the big event?”

I had purposely been avoiding him, but since Brody had grown up with Mike in Boston, there was a chance he had a good anecdote to share. I reluctantly opened up my pad, flipping
to my last page of notes. “So, why do you think Amy is the right person for Mike?”

“Who said I thought she was right for him?” he tittered, taking a gulp of his whiskey. “I’m just joshing with you. I think she’s great. I think they’re great together. I hope they have an amazing time tonight. Because it doesn’t last.”

“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I heard right.

“You know what you should do? You should do a column about what happens after the wedding. You should do a column about what happens six months later. Six years later.” I noticed a pale band of skin around the ring finger of his left hand. “Now, that would be something useful to read.”

The drunk and bitter best man was not a Hollywood myth but a flesh-and-blood reality. I had learned to approach with the same wary respect a mail carrier must show an unleashed pit bull.

“Thanks for the suggestions,” I said. “I’ll pass them along.” I was finished with the interview, but I was concerned that closing my pad would be taken as an act of aggression.

“Are you married?” Brody asked me. I didn’t answer. He violently grabbed my left arm again and thrust it into the air.

“No ring!” he bellowed. “What the hell are you doing writing about weddings? Are you some kind of wedding Peeping Tom?”

My arm was wrenched above my head and my back was against a wall. I tried to pull away, but he was clutching my arm tightly and not letting go.

I was eleven years old again, being blocked in a back hallway of middle school by an older bully who wouldn’t let me get to my class. No, I was a reporter for The Paper. He couldn’t do this to me.

“What do you know about what Mike’s getting himself into?”
he persisted, daring me to retaliate, but there was no way I was going to let him goad me into a fistfight. “What do you know about devoting your life to someone and getting your heart ripped out in return? You want to write about something, then get yourself on the front lines and learn about it firsthand. Have someone take your home and your life savings and see what you think of some asshole writing romantic fairy tales.” His mouth was only inches from my nose. Each word was expelled with a sour odor that made me gag. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear.

“This is bullshit,” he said, abruptly dropping my arm. “What the fuck do you know about marriage?”

Chapter Fourteen

I
was a fraud. It was obvious to Brody. It was obvious to the cashier at the Westside Market, where I stopped a little before midnight to pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. I saw myself reflected in the store window. My thin black tie and pressed white shirt were visible beneath my wool coat as I emptied my grocery basket of the chicken, milk, eggs, Frosted Flakes and a jar of tomato sauce. A New York Lifestyles reporter living it up on a Saturday night.

The cashier, a kind-faced Hispanic teenager, seemed to look at me with pity as she rang up my meager items. She probably had a hot date lined up after her shift. She gave me an encouraging smile when she handed me my change, as if to say, “You’re not such a bad-looking guy. A little scrawny for my taste, but I’m sure there’s a woman somewhere who would be willing to go out with you.”

As I trudged home, I needed moral support. I started dialing Hope’s
number before allowing myself to consider if it was too late to call.

She answered her phone breathlessly. “I’m on a date.”

I assumed she wouldn’t respond well if I asked how that was possible.

“Match-dot-com,” she said as if reading my mind. “You should join!”

I had forgotten that Hope had been preaching the gospel of Internet dating since her third coffee date in two weeks. I had refrained from reminding her that the last time she was on Match, she had two dozen coffee dates but no second dates.

“So you’ve graduated past coffee,” I said, sounding only half as churlish as I felt.

“I was instant messaging with a guy, and he invited me for a midnight drink at Lansky Lounge.”

“That’s not a date. That’s a booty call. He’s a player.”

“He’s a pediatrician. And am I better off staying home alone?” A flurry-flecked couple passed me on the sidewalk, holding each other close. “He said, ‘A snowstorm is a terrible thing to waste.’ Isn’t that sweet?”

“Very,” I said sourly. “So, why are you answering your phone?”

“I can’t find him. I’ve been looking for fifteen minutes. It’s very dark.”

“The outlook?”

“The room!”

I felt guilty about teasing her, and I was going to feel even worse if the guy turned out to be a no-show. A blast of wind caught me as I climbed the steps leading to the front of my apartment building.

“Maybe he’s waiting for me outside,” she said with a quiver in her voice.

“Maybe,” I said, though it seemed doubtful. She deserved
better. Much better. If I blew off transcribing my notes from the wedding, I could jump in a taxi and be at Lansky Lounge in ten minutes.

“Or maybe,” Hope’s voice rose an octave, “he’s sitting at a fireside table with two wineglasses and an open bottle of cabernet. Oh, my God, he’s standing up. He looks even cuter than his picture. And taller!” She bubbled over with delight. “Gotta go.”

I sat down in front of my computer without taking off my suit. Without putting away my groceries. I opened my Web browser and typed in
www.JDate.com
.

I had mostly avoided online dating because I found it too much like shopping and I’m not a good shopper. I tend to get overwhelmed in stores and leave empty-handed or rashly buy something just to validate the time invested.

Come to think of it, that was how I dated.

I stripped the chicken of white meat while intently scrolling through pictures of single Jewesses. I chose JDate because given my relationship track record, I thought it might be a good idea to start with something in common, and since there wasn’t a dating site for people with literary aspirations who were soon to be unemployed, JDate would have to suffice.

I quickly learned that unemployed would be a deal breaker. Even employed, I wasn’t necessarily going to make the cut. At least not for Manhattan women with svelte figures and Ivy League degrees (though I was, admittedly, setting my sights a little high). A six-figure income was a popular prerequisite for initiating e-mail contact. “Tall” and “successful” popped up regularly along with “comfortable in a tuxedo or blue jeans.” (Were they looking for James Bond or a date?) But the number-one desired attribute was “a guy’s guy.”
As opposed to what?
I wondered.
A girl’s guy?
And if there was such a person as a girl’s guy, wouldn’t that be a good thing?

George Clooney’s name was mentioned so often as the ideal mate that I questioned people’s grasp of reality. Not that I was any better, compulsively clicking on any woman’s photo that vaguely resembled the Semitic beauty of Natalie Portman.

There was something sordid about it. Like I should be wearing a raincoat as I hunched over my keyboard, trolling through profiles by the bluish light of my screen.

Then at one a.m. I saw her. Her. The one. ComeFlyWithMe was her screen name. She had the almond eyes and olive skin of Emmanuelle Chriqui from
Entourage
, with the same dark, flowing locks (and the cleavage). She was a graphic designer addicted to Frosted Flakes, and she worked off the carbs by running along the Hudson and dancing late into the night. Her favorite place to be was an international airport, “because there are so many possibilities.” She said she was looking for a smart, funny guy with “passion to burn and a song in his heart.”

I was SO that guy.

All I needed was a chance to prove it. I set to work composing a witty, unaffected, confident yet humble, erudite and effervescent e-mail. It didn’t go well. It was hard to be clever without sounding fey. Even harder to be both seductive and sincere. After an hour of effort, I was tempted to just say I was “a guy’s guy” and leave it at that.

It was past two by the time I finished the e-mail to ComeFlyWithMe. Then I had to come up with an amusing subject line. It was another half hour until I settled on “I’ve Got a Crush On You.” Sinatra reference in place, I finally hit
SEND
. A pop-up balloon appeared on my screen, informing me that ComeFlyWithMe was online. A flashing icon propositioned me, asking,
DO YOU WANT TO CHAT LIVE?

It had taken me almost two hours to write one e-mail. I couldn’t take the pressure of instant messaging.

But what if she also got a message saying I was online? Would she wonder why I wasn’t writing? Her smile beckoned from a shot of her in a sleeveless yellow sundress. Though it wasn’t her smile I was staring at.

“Nice photo on the beach,” I wrote.

There was no response. For more than a minute. Then: “What are you doing looking at my pictures in the middle of the night?”

I felt like a five-year-old caught looking up a girl’s dress. (It happened only once, and I was picking up a stray marble.) I had blown it. Then I received a second IM:

“:-)”

It was on. “What are
you
doing messaging strangers at strange hours?” I wrote.

“Someone has to take pity on all the lonely men at their computer monitors,” she quickly replied, upping the dare level.

“I thought that’s what your pictures were there for.” I marveled at the amount of damage I could do with a mouse and a keyboard.

There was radio silence. I started typing. “I do much better on delayed telecast.”

“Are you hungry?” flashed on my screen. Followed by, “Get your mind out of the gutter. I know a great all-night kebab place.”

My phone rang, and I jumped, thinking it was her before remembering that it couldn’t be.

“Gavin!” It was my grandmother. She had a habit of calling late when she couldn’t sleep, forgetting that, unlike Gary, I was in the same time zone. “I’m so glad you’re there.”

“So what’s your feeling about skewered meat?” ComeFlyWithMe queried, as if I needed more enticement.

“I like meat,” I typed, cradling the phone against my shoulder.

“How much?” was the response.

“Bernie had some kind of seizure.” My grandmother’s voice was shrill. “I think it starts with a ‘P.’ I can’t remember the name.” She sounded frantic.

“It’s okay, Grandma.”

“No, it’s not okay. I’m telling you he had a seizure.”

“I mean it’s okay you don’t know the name.” I glanced at my screen. “How much?” appeared a second time.

“Ostrovsky. I think that’s the name,” my grandmother said.

“Of the seizure?” I asked.

“Of the doctor. A young doctor. He talks very fast. He said Bernie needs emergency surgery.”

Images of skewered flesh and surgical instruments flashed through my mind in disturbing combination. Multitasking wasn’t working.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I typed, wincing with every keystroke. “I’d really like to
meat
some other time.” The pun seemed funny in my head, which is where I devoutly wished it had stayed, since ComeFlyWithMe didn’t write back.