New Ugly
Please update your This Ugly Dog's Life bookmark to its new url, www.getugly.org/blog. Or you can wait for this page to auto-direct to the new site in about 10 seconds. You will also be able to modify your RSS feed over there if you read the posts that way.
This page will remain for the next few months as I migrate my posts and readers to the new site.
Read Entire Post
The Hand That Feeds
Aggravation. That and fatigue. That, and coming down from a huge alcoholic buzz after a five hour flight. Those three things – aggravation, fatigue, and the fading effects of the buzz – didn’t make for a pleasant departure from my aircraft into
The aggravation was almost self-explanatory: I hated flying. I hated it so much that the only way I knew to deal with it was through mass volumes of alcohol. If I was lucky I’d fall asleep and miss out on the flight entirely but that was rarely the case. This time the aggravation was even more so after finding out from Jenna at Wired that I could only get on a flight as a standby passenger, and that always meant the worst seat on the plane, as if there was any other.
“This sounds like a blow off,” she coldly replied after hearing my story about Kevin Kelly, about Wired, and about Philcon.
“No, I really have to go. He called me on the way home from your place last night. The guy who was all lined up for this convention backed out. It came together at the last minute. Really.”
“So, if I were to call Stephanie this weekend I don’t suppose she would know where you are? She wouldn’t roll over in bed and hand the phone to you?”
“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe we’re still talking about this.” For a woman who maintained that she wasn’t jealous, she sure wavered a lot.
“Well, are we? Are we?” she questioned.
“I don’t have time for this,” I replied. “I have to go. My flight’s just boarded the first class passengers and they’ll begin loading the rest of us any minute.”
She started to say something but was drowned out by the overhead speaker in the terminal announcing a gate change. When she repeated it she’d backed off her stance.
“I’m sorry. I can be passive-aggressive at times. Especially when I suspect somebody else is involved.”
The term is delusional, I thought to myself. Still, I thought better of burning the bridge. She did have her moments when she could be as sweet as a schoolgirl with a crush. And she had a body to die for.
“I have to go,” I responded, not acknowledging her last comment. “I’ll call you once I am back in town and my story has been filed.”
“You’re gonna forget,” she teased.
“I am not going to forget,” I maintained.
“I’m joking. Okay, have a good trip. By-” I hung up on her before she finished.
The fatigue factor usually resolved itself through sleep, but being that I was going to fly, rest would have to wait until I was good and liquored up. Usually that meant having a stiff one at home, taking a cab to the airport ahead of schedule so I could plop down in the terminal bar and have some overpriced Jack and Cokes while watching SportsCenter repeats and waiting for my flight to board. Today’s plan fared differently, however. The planned early arrival was cut short due to heavy traffic on the 405 freeway, and by the time I’d reached the check-in counter I was just a half hour away from the scheduled boarding time. That left time for only one drink in the bar, and I knew I had to make it count. I had barely downed my double Ketel One martini when the overhead PA announcement went off for my flight. Now I’d be nervous; nervous, fatigued, and far below my consumption level for flying. I felt sorry for the poor person who would have to sit next to me.
Luckily a modicum of rescue came in the form of Jeannette, the statuesque flight attendant servicing the rear of the plane. When she saw the fear in my eyes she leaned in to calm me.
“First time flying, hun?”
“No, but every time I wish it would be the last.”
“That’s so sad to hear! Fear of heights?”
“No.” I paused and looked around at the people in the surrounding rows. Some were so bored they strained to listen, as though we might be sharing some great news from the outside world. We’d been in the air for not even an hour and already it felt like it had been days.
“I’ve never gotten used to the idea of being comfortable in a flying metal death trap,” I told her.
“Now now,” she said while she curled her bronzed hair behind her ears and stooped a bit lower to talk, as if speaking to a child, “it is a well established fact that airline travel is one of the safest ways to get across the country.”
“That was in Rainman, and this isn’t Quantas we're flying,” I scoffed. I was getting more nervous. I gripped both arms of the seat hard.
“Well, you’re stuck with me for the next few hours,” she replied. “How do you normally deal with your flying fears?”
“By getting housed.”
“Excuse me?”
“Housed. Sauced. Stinking, filthy drunk,” I responded.
She nodded in acknowledgement. “A lot of people do that.” She removed a hand from her knee and stood upright, adjusting the wrinkles in her uniform sweater vest.
“I don’t suppose at this point you’d be the discriminating type. I’ll see if I can bring you a bottle of Johnnie Walker to help you cope.”
I smiled faintly. Most people would shun the alcohol for some alternative form of treatment like pills, but the flight attendant understood my needs. She also understood that if the booze made me a calmer passenger, then those around me would likely be more at ease too.
“Thank you, uh…”
"Jeannette.” She tapped at the plastic golden name badge pinned to her vest. “The name is Jeannette.” She leaned in again. “And don’t think you’re going to be able to suck down as many bottles as you like. The airline has a strict policy regarding alcohol consumption while traveling and enforcing it is no laughing matter.”
I held my palms outward in a Mea Culpa manner. “I understand. And if there’s more drinking to be done you and I will just have to get a cocktail once we’re on the ground in
She smiled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tiger. I already have plans with my fiancé once we land. But don’t worry – I have a few single girlfriends who are as presumptuous as you. Maybe I could arrange something.” She laughed and walked towards the service area of the aircraft.
___________________________________________________________________
“Hey buddy, where to?”
“Wherever the nerds hang out.”
“Huh?”
I smiled as I plopped my carry on onto the seat beside me. “Marriott downtown.” I paused while I consulted my itinerary sheet. “The one on
“Relax buddy, I know where it is.” The cabbie started the meter and pulled into traffic.
After a few minutes of silence he spoke up again. “You attending that convention there?”
“Yes, but not as a fan. I’m covering it for a magazine.”
“Yeah? Those whack jobs actually get some press attention?” he asked.
I laughed. “Whack jobs, huh?”
“Well,” he began, his voice gravelly with the bass of lifetime chain smoker, “you know…Mammas boys. The guys playing their computer games. They never get laid.”
“That’s a lot of assumptions there, pal. What if I told you I was one of those guys?”
He paused for a few seconds, clawing at the skin under his five o’clock shadow. “But you’re not, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Yeah, I knew it, see. You look like the type of person who gives a crap about how he looks. You’re getting laid – somewhere, somehow.”
“Well, as long as you’re sure.” He laughed a loud, bellowing guffaw.
“So,” I continued, “what’s there to do in this town that’s fun?”
The cabbie started to slow. “Hold on, I gotta take this turn onto
“Charming. That’s it?”
“Believe me, after a day with your nerd friends, that’s what you’ll need,” he laughed. “Seriously though,” he continued, pointing out the window, “it’s winter in case you hadn’t notice. A lot of stuff here shuts down.”
“Too bad,” I commented.
“You can still find stuff to do. I mean, you can’t go to
“Yeah, I know,” I said disappointingly. “Cheese steaks.”
The cabbie dismissed the notion. “Nah, that’s what everyone thinks we’re about, but it ain’t. You like Russian food? There’s this place on
“I’ll take your word for it,” I replied.
The cabbie turned the car onto
“If you just want to grab a bite, go across from your hotel to the Gallery Market. You can find all kinds of stuff.” He paused. “Though I have to warn you, a lot of your fellow conventioners will be there, on account of them being afraid to venture too far out from the nest.”
We pulled up to the hotel driveway. “The Marriott Downtown…on Market,” he announced.
The doorman opened the door. “Welcome to the downtown Marriott, sir.”
“On Market!!” the cabbie added from inside the car with a howl. I shook my head and stepped out of the cab, trying to hold down a laugh. The cabbie was right; it was winter, and it was cold. Not as cold or with the accompanying biting winds that I remember of
Once I checked in I found my way to the registration desk. I was handed a packet with somebody else’s typed name blacked out and mine written off to the side with a Sharpie pen.
“Last minute replacement,” the guy running the table asked. It was more a statement than a question.
“Yes. Wired called for relief from the bullpen,” I replied, trying to make it sound like I was somebody they should care about.
The ploy worked. The man sat up in his metal folding chair and smiled. “Well, to give you some quick background we not only are a gathering place for writers and fan groups of the horror, fantasy, and science fiction genres, we’re also one of the largest exhibitors of science fiction themed art.”
“Is that a fact?” I asked, trying to sound interesting.
“It is, it is,” he repeated, “both in flat and 3D artwork,” he added. “There will be a charity art auction on Sunday. You can contact Joni Dashoff for more information on that. It’s all in the packet.” He paused and frowned. “Don’t you want to write this stuff down?” he asked.
I tapped my forefinger to my head. “It’s all up here.” I smiled. “I won’t forget.”
___________________________________________________________________
It was only three hours into the Philcon convention and already I was maxed out on a lifetime allotment of nerd lifestyle, nerd philosophy, and nerd culture. I’d just come from a keynote address in the main ballroom delivered by sci-fi writer David Weber, who lamented the death of pacifism in the sci-fi writer’s community. He felt the passive voice in stories of galaxies at war had been supplanted by the need to be graphic in order to sell more books. I looked about the half-filled room and thought, he’s selling books? I picked up a copy of his latest, In Fury Born from a table in the rear where they were being sold and read the reviews on the back of the jacket: “Packs enough punch to blast a starship to smithereens,” said Publishers Weekly. That didn't sound like something a guy bemoaning the death of pacifism would write, I thought, but then again, at least the guy was getting published.
I walked towards one of the breakout rooms where the next symposium, a discussion on Star Trek founder Gene Roddenberry’s universe and its impact on the science fiction genre, was to occur. Kill me now.
“Hey,” said a voice, and I looked up just in time to avoid colliding with her. She was dressed up as a sci-fi princess of some sort. “You’re with Wired? That’s so cool! I read that magazine all the time.” She’d made out the overly large “WIRED MAGAZINE” printed on my credential pass swinging from my neck lanyard.
“No, not the magazine, it’s their website component. Wired blogs, if you will,” I said.
“That’s still cool. It’s cooler than being paid to dress up as the princess from the Hyperverse comics.”
“I don’t know,” I started, “the last time I was paid to dress up like a princess…” she laughed.
“I’m Lynda,” she said. “Glad to meet you, Tom.”
“Tom? Why do you think I’m a Tom?” I realized she got it from the badge. I never noticed they hadn’t updated the credential badge after the last guy – I guess his name was Tom – bowed out.
“They didn’t change the badge after the first guy Wired got to do this had to cancel. I’m Reed,” I told her.
“Well, nice to meet you Reed. That’s a much better name than Tom, anyhow.”
“Watch it, Lynda, flattery gets you everywhere,” I joked. “So what do you do here, exactly.”
Lynda sighed. “Oh, you know, you get your picture taken with the fans, you learn the chronology and storylines so you can answer the fan boy questions. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had my ass squeezed in the last day. But then again it’s probably been ages since any of them have seen a girl.”
I suppose where you live determines the levels to which beauty is equated. I think the women of
“Do you have to go listen to all the seminars?” she asked.
“Yeah, a good sampling of them. My strategy will be to jump from room to room and get a good overview of the place.” I dug a schedule out of my packet and handed it to her. “It’s a good thing too, because some of these topics are simply horrendous.”
She giggled as she read over the seminar schedule. “Time Travel for Idiots. Dark Matter and Dark Energy. Harry Potter and the Menace of Puberty. Fun With Drawing Robots. My Other Car is a Rocket. God, these are horrible!”
“They are, aren’t they,” I agreed. “How long do they have you parading around for the masses?” I asked.
“They have me ‘parading’ until 6,” Lynda responded.
“Well then, would a space age princess be interested in escorting a lowly member of the press to a nearby bar for a drink or a bite to eat?”
She laughed again. “Okay, but I’m changing first. You’re nuts to think I’m going out in the cold like this.” She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and slightly adjusted the girdle under her princess dress. Girdle aside, she looked like she needed to adjust little to look good. She looked like the type of girl who was used to looking good and got places because of it.
“Where do you want to go?” She asked. I never got a recommendation from the cabbie on decent bars in the area, only the Russian restaurant on
“I don’t know. You’re from around here, right? What do you suggest?” I asked, turning the tables on her.
Lynda stroked her chin in thought as if challenged to come up with the premier spot in town. “Standard Tap over on
"There you go,” I said in agreement.
“Hold on mister, I’m not done yet!” Lynda exclaimed, planting a mock slap on my wrist. “Standard Tap isn’t the only place where we can have a good time. There’s Fergie’s Pub just down the street from here, and then there’s Tattooed Mom on the other side of town. Good burgers there when the kitchen is open. Let’s see…umm, there’s also Johnny Brenda’s in fishtown, but that’s not really a bar.”
Lynda attempted to keep going but I stopped her, putting my arms around the edges of her shoulders and squeezing.
“I’m sure all those places are great. Tell you what – I will put myself in your hands and you can be my guide tonight. Pick a place, a place you would want to go to. Don’t try to guess what I would like.”
She smiled.
“It will be fine,” I reassured her.
“So, I suppose a hot-shot media type like you is staying here in the hotel, huh?”
I nodded.
“I’ll pick you up around 7:30 then.” She winked and gathered up the bottoms of her princess outfit so she wouldn’t trip.
“Have fun making nice with the nerds today.”
___________________________________________________________________
I was going to take my life soon, I was certain of it. Plunging a ball point pen through my rib cage and into my heart never seemed as genius an idea as it did now. I’d navigated an insufferable afternoon of nerdish love topics, culminating in a seminar entitled “Logical Language Group Meets the Klingon Language Institute,” a juxtaposition of English and the made-up farcical language of the villains of the Star Trek television shows and movie franchise. Most of the banter involved a heated conversation around the finite levels of Klingon math and how its numerology compared with its real-life counterpart. With each utterance of their gibberish I found myself coming up with new and inventive ways to roll my eyes. By the second half of the session I had given myself a headache.
The session ended with little fanfare and as I packed my notes and laptop, the moderators approached me.
“Hey you, you’re the guy from Wired covering Philcon, right?” the lanky one of the bunch asked.
I nodded.
“We know you guys don’t think much of our event,” interjected another, a much shorter and stouter young man.
“Is there a question in there?” I asked.
“No, a message,” responded the lanky one. “You can tell your bosses to not make so much fun of us.”
“Yeah,” the stout one chimed in.
The third guy, a bearded stoner looking college kid, remained silent.
“You got anything to add, Cheech?” I asked the third guy, who remained silent.
“You’re probably some hired gun, because every year it’s a different person coming out here, but just because we are Star Trek fan boys and comic book readers gives you no right to write us off like second class citizens,” added the stout one.
“Well, at least you know what you’ll be in for when this gets published,” I said with a wince. I didn’t know these guys and I had no personal reason to mock them, but after spending an hour being tortured with the finer points of a fictional language with no practical use, I was ready to blast these guys in print. Apparently I wasn’t the first to come away from the convention feeling this way.
“Why? Why do you have to be like that?” asked the lanky one.
I finished putting my items into my Coach messenger bag as I answered. “That you guys are approaching me right now means you’re expecting it to happen. And why? Because you are easy targets. I assume you know that as well. So while I have you here let me ask you – and you’re on the record by the way – why allow yourselves to be such easy targets?”
“There’s no shame in liking science fiction,” the last one finally said.
“I’m not saying there is,” I responded.
“Sure you are!” exclaimed the stout one. “You, and everyone ever assigned to come in from the outside and cover these conventions. I see how you all are, with your chin held high and you feel just fine looking down on us, sneering down the end of your nose as we do things that seem foreign to you, that seem pointless.”
I chuckled, which only made the threesome angrier.
“You think it’s funny?” one said.
“No, I think you’ve been waiting a long time to say that to someone, and unfortunately for you you said it to someone who really doesn’t care.” I fastened the buckle on the bag and turned around. “Look, you know it’s weird and nerdy to everyone outside of this convention hall by our reactions. There’s a saying that goes 'if you can’t change the world then change yourself'. You’re never going to get people like me to come around to this Klingon nonsense. That’s a fact. The vast majority of people watching Star Trek end their relationship with the subculture the minute they switch off their televisions. You’re not going to make any of them embrace your goofball language.”
They scowled.
“My point is since you can’t change them, change the approach of this show. Look at this sheet,” I said, picking up the event schedule from its spot on a nearby chair. “I see events about literature, events about movies, events about art, events about comic books.” I stopped. “Okay, that’s pretty nerdy. But the first three are not. They’re quite universal in fact, and have an innate appeal. Hype those aspects of your show and you won’t seem so geeky.”
“That would be a front,” the lanky one said, finally relaxing his stance and leaning against a chair. “We embrace it all equally.”
I reached around and unbuckled my bag, reaching around blindly until I found my notepad. I flipped it open to my last partially filled page and then removed the Cartier from my inside coat pocket.
“All of it equally,” I repeated as I screwed the cap off my pen. “That’s great, it really is. I see here on the schedule there are a number of seminars littered throughout the weekend about writing in the science fiction genre and ways to go about getting published. How many of you do any writing?”
The last one, the bearded one who had been silent until moments ago, reluctantly raised his hand.
“Good for you, don’t be shy about it. There are plenty of people outside the doors of this convention who aspire to be writers of literature and poetry. You know who's not out there? People fluent in Klingon.”
I scribbled a few things on the pad. “So tell me Goethe, do you write short stories or some form of intergalactic poetry?”
“Um, I write short stories mostly, but I want, you know, maybe to string them together into some longer story someday.”
“Ah, an epic. You’ll have your work cut out for you. So who do you draw upon for inspiration?” I asked.
“The usuals: Battlestar Galactica, the Star Trek world, Star Wars, Robotech -”
“I meant writers,” I interrupted. “Who do you pattern yourself after? Your style, your approach. Those things.”
He paused and scratched the back of his neck, and then stroked his beard. “I dunno, I don’t really read that much, except Marvel comics and some Dark Horse stuff.”
I stopped writing. “You don’t read? How can you ever improve yourself as a writer? How can you develop – I mean, really develop – a story with legs if you don’t immerse yourself in text? You can’t learn any other way.”
I scribbled and muttered under my breath “doesn’t read. That’s ridiculous.”
I put the pad away for the last time and slipped the pen back into my coat pocket. “It’s a damn shame too, buddy,” I said, addressing the bearded one, “at least as a writer of poetry, a constructor of words, you’d have a leg up wooing the gals, because knowing the Klingon math structure isn’t a marketable skill.” I grabbed my bag. “Good luck to you guys, I really mean it. Just don’t go dipping into the Wired blogs if you know what’s good for you.”
___________________________________________________________________
There’s a stereotype most of us grew up with, a stereotype of nerdy teenage boys in their parents’ basement playing epic length, Pepsi-and-Bugle-fueled Dungeons n’ Dragons games while the rest of us were experiencing life. As we’ve grown up the occasional thought has passed: Whatever happened to these dateless, fashion-backward individuals? Did they all really turn into some variation of the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons? Unfortunately they never moved on, never evolved like the rest of us, and they gather yearly in the City of
“Oh my god, what the fuck is this, Becker?” exclaimed Kevin Kelly, the managing editor of Wired. I removed my Bluetooth earpiece and held the phone to the side while he continued.
“You completely alienated the attendees!” he yelled. I had to hold the phone away from my ear intermittently.
“You asked for sarcasm,” I said in my defense.
“Yeah, but I didn’t ask for a total character assassination!” Kevin paused as he went through the report I'd filed. “I mean, it’s in every paragraph. This is extreme. I’d hate to cross you.”
“Come on, these guys knew it was coming. They even approached my about it. They were already bracing for the inevitable.”
“That doesn’t give you license to go right at them, Becker.” He dropped the phone and cursed in the background as he retrieved it. “And don’t think the intent of the Dante line didn’t escape me.”
“But that’s exactly how it was, Kevin, it was a decent into hell. A decent into a pointless convention of freaks and geeks.”
“Those freaks and geeks make up a sizable amount of our readership, both in print and online. Especially online. God, I can see it now, they start checking out their RSS feeds and there you are, firing a shot right between their eyes. And then word makes it to the message boards. And then everybody gets pissed.”
“You’re not being a little hyperbolic?” I suggested.
“No,” he said with a sigh, “it’s happened before. It happens a lot with the freelancers we bring in. They aim a little too high and try to impress a little too much but it ends up backfiring. And I’m left to clean up the mess.”
We were both silent for a moment while Keving stammered, starting and stopping. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can publish this. I will pay your expenses for the flight and hotel as agreed, but I can’t pay you for this piece. And there’s no time to re-write it. If it doesn’t post now, then it’s old news and there's no point.”
Crap. I didn’t exactly need the money, but it would have been nice to say I’d been published by Wired.
“Well, if that’s how you feel,” I concluded. “Personally I think you’re overreacting, but you know the business better than I.”
“Believe me, I’m not overreacting. If I forwarded the hate mail you’d quickly see my point. Maybe another time, Becker, another opportunity, okay?”
I smiled to myself, trying not to let the sting of rejection get to me too much. “Certainly,” I replied with as much grace as I could summon.
“And Becker?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”
Read Entire Post
Exile in Nerdville
Her living room was normal and every bit like an ordinary single girl’s apartment would be: Off-white walls sparsely decorated with art prints purchased on sale at Frames Plus, and a few artsy-veined things bought at a crafts fair or cobbled together from ingredients purchased at Michaels. There were some definitively girly things visible, too, like her well-worn copy of He’s Just Not That Into You on an end table next to some framed, dated photos of Stacy as a teen posing with a cat she’d owned. On the opposite wall there was a photo from her prom, and another of her parent’s wedding. Candles of varying scents from Party Lite littered all areas of the room as if she was expecting an oncoming blackout or a conversion to a monastery.
Stacy returned to the sofa and placed her wine glass on the chrome and glass tabletop before resuming her position on top of me. There was the weight again. I was convinced it was from her ass, though she didn’t have a disproportionately large one or any bubbling size that would have suggested the bonus weight. It was a mystery. But the weight was most definitely bottom heavy.
“Now, s-s-sexy, where were we?” She arched her back and flung her long hair to one side of her neck before lowering her mouth to within a few inches of my earlobe. “S-s-such a s-s-sa-weet piece of skin.” Great, now she was slurring from going Mario Andretti on the wine.
The truth was Stacy was right: I was having second thoughts about all of this. Much of her soliloquy about the stigma of those working in adult entertainment industry was on my mind, and had been since the moment I’d picked up the phone and called her to first go out. I wanted to think Stacy was a good girl and exhibited none of the baggage the women on the starring side of the camera were notorious for carrying, but I couldn’t be certain. As much as the little voice inside my head told me that she probably was not in the porn danger zone and that in time the facts would come out once she was comfortable sharing them, another voice asked if I was really going to stay around long enough to find out? Likely not. And it wasn’t as if I was some shining pillar of moral and sexual virtue, but in Stacy’s case I was thinking it took one to know one. Something wasn’t right, and I didn’t like it.
Before she could lower her lips to mine again, I held up a hand between us. “This is going to sound so strange, me being a guy with a woman on top of me three quarters naked and ready to go, but we should call it a night.”
The blood dropped out of her face. “Why? What’s-s-s wrong? What did I do?”
I started to roll my weight under her and placed my hands on her thighs, shifting her weight to one side to indicate she could get off me now. She flopped over to the right and sat on the couch beside me, looking straight ahead with crossed arms and one leg tightly crossed over the other.
“It’s the porn thing, isn’t it?” she said in monotone, never taking her gaze away from the wall on the other side of the living room. She called it porn, not adult entertainment. Perhaps she was trying to make a point. Either that or there was no room for political correctness at a time like this.
Sidestepping that issue I opted to cover another, one that was bothering me almost as much.
“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
“What?” she took her eyes away from the wall and turned to me.
“It’s like this: I have a difficult time respecting somebody who is drunk. It’s the way I’ve been for as long as I can remember. It’s a non-gender, non-sexual thing. Doesn’t matter who you are; if you can’t hold your liquor it repels me.”
“So, what – you think because you don’t get drunk you’re better than everybody?” she fumed.
“I know, it’s incredibly judgmental, but let’s face it – we live in a judgmental world. It’s not you.”
Stacy shot me a cold, steely look.
“Okay, point taken, in this case it is about you. But what I mean is, it’s more about what the inebriation says to me. It tells me that person has an issue with self control. If they can’t say no to a couple of extra drinks and deal with the damage done, what does that say for their self control and decision making when it comes to bigger things?”
Stacy paused, and then curled some hair behind her ear. “Oh. That's awfully big picture, don't you think? I just got caught up in the fun we were having.” She gave me a playful punch in the shoulder. “You don’t have to be a stick in the mud.”
“I know. It’s just one of my things.” I got up and put my shirt back on, smoothing it out along the sides before tucking it into my pants.
“So you won’t reconsider?” Stacy asked, biting her bottom lip.
She paused, and while looking down without directing her gaze towards me, said "I'm only going to ask this because it's been bothering me and I have to know. Call it crazy woman stuff, but I have to know: Is this because of Stephanie?"
I was puzzled. "Stephanie? What does she have to do with it?"
Stacy threw her arms up in frustration. "I mean yeah, she's Sunrise Adams, and she's beautiful and smart, and has a great body. You two hang out a lot." I gave her the I give up gesture so she continued. "I tell myself I'm not going to get jealous, but it's so hard. And with a body like that, who wouldn't want to fuck her? Which is fine, because it's not like we are anything else but casual, but still..."
I held up a hand and cut her off. "You're running around in circles over nothing. Nothing," I repeated. "Stephanie and I are just friends. We go out. We have a few drinks together. Sometimes, we hit a party or a club."
"Right. So you're telling me you're not sleeping with Sunrise Adams."
"There's no way!" Stacy exclaimed. "I've seen the type of men she's been with. And I see how she acts around you. There's no way you're not screwing her."
"Well I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but we are strictly platonic." Wait a minute, why wasn't I screwing her? Stay on topic, the little voice said to me.
“Let’s just scrap tonight," I continued. "Tell you what – why don’t we go out this weekend. I know this great spot in the
She giggled. "That sounds lovely.”
I pulled my jacket from its spot on the couch, folded it over one arm, and turned to go. As I reached for the door I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve.
“I’m sorry I let you down.”
“If you let me down I wouldn’t want to see you again,” I replied.
A bittersweet smile slowly appeared on her face. She knew she’d have to take her lumps tonight.
I’d barely made it down to street level before my phone rang. “Sure I can’t coax you to come back up?” she asked.
“No,” I sighed. “We’ll just try it again this weekend, okay?”
“All right. I’m not going to push you. I don’t want to do anything to drive you away,” she replied.
That damage may have already been done, I thought. “I’ll call you later. Good night, Stacy.” I clicked the phone off and slipped it back into my coat pocket.
Five minutes later it went off again. She wasn’t going to push me, eh? I clicked the talk button and, perturbed, said “Now what?”
There was a pause and then the voice on the other end cleared his throat. “Oh,” he began, slightly startled, “I was looking for Reed Becker. Did I get the wrong number?”
“No, no,” I assured him. “Sorry about that, I was expecting it to be somebody else. This is Reed; what can I do for you?”
“This is Kevin Kelly. I am the editorial operations manager for Wired Magazine.”
I shifted my phone to the other hand as I continued driving. “Cool magazine,” I replied.
He ignored the assessment. “You know, for a while I’ve been reading bits of that dog thing you write, and the whole time I’m thinking to myself that this can’t be the only thing he’s ever written. He must have done this for something or somebody else. Maybe he's on somebody's payroll. So I started sleuthing around, and I finally figured out who you are.”
“Oh?” I replied, half expecting him to tell me I was John Grisham or Tom Clancy.
“Once I traced you to All Music I thought I’d find a way to get to the next stepping stone, but you don’t write for them regularly, do you?”
There was a garble of frequency noise over the phone as he said something and once it was gone he was still talking. It sounded like he wasn’t looking for an answer.
“Then I found the hockey stuff, but that only led me back to All Music. Luckily their supervising editor told me how I could get in touch with you, so here we are.”
“Here we are,” I repeated while turning on to
“You write for anybody else, anyone I’m leaving out?” he asked. He sounded very pleased with himself over solving whatever case he thought he had solved.
“I’ve written off and on for Go Fug Yourself,” I replied nonchalantly.
“Yeah? I didn’t catch that one."
“Well, when one of their founders is a girl you dated in college and you want to help them get their site going with content, you do what you can. I did those for free. I guess it didn’t pop up on the grid.”
“Suppose so,” he replied. “So...you ever ghostwrite anything for your uncle?"
I changed hands between the wheel and the phone and switched over to the other ear. "No. Well, no comment."
"Fair enough. So, have you done anything that's gone to print?” he asked.
“Nope, it’s all web stuff. Nothing like Wired.”
“Well, funny thing about that. What I represent isn’t Wired as the general public knows it, it’s Wired’s Online News page. It’s still part of the Conde Naste empire, but it’s a smaller entity called Conde Net Enterprises. We contract regularly with lots of writers from all over the U.S. to write stories for the page. The very best ones even make it in some distilled form into the magazine under the 'Dispatches from the Wired Frontier' section.”
“That I’ve heard of.” I made a right on Sunset and began the long straightaway that would take me towards
“So, Mr. Kelly, you want me to write for the Wired Frontier?” I asked.
“No, to be clear, we want to pick you up as a correspondent for an event that you’ll cover for Wired Online News. I could dangle the carrot that your story might make it into the pages of Wired as well, but with so many writers vying for so little space, you can do the math.”
He paused and I could hear him writing some notes on a pad. “Should I be discussing details with your agent, Becker?”
I laughed. “There’s no agent. Like you just said, I don’t have any demand.”
“Touché. Here’s the nitty gritty: There’s a science fiction show that goes on every year in
“That’s this weekend,” I interrupted.
“Right. Anyway, it consists of a couple of sub headers like anime, gaming, writing – anything under the banner of science fiction. So the gig is you get out there, cover it, and turn in a 1000 word piece summarizing the vibe and topics of the event. It needs to be littered with some quotes from the public or a key speaker.”
“Sounds like a nerd fest,” I said.
He laughed. “It is, but they also represent a sizable portion of our readership. We’ll pay for the plane ticket and expenses – within reason – as well as $1,500 to write the piece. It’s late notice I realize, but are you available to do it?”
I hadn’t been working for the past few months so scheduling wasn’t a problem. Going meant I’d have to postpone things with Stacy, which would make it look even more like I was being driven away from her, or sleeping with Stephanie.
I slowed the car to a stop at a red light. “Sorry to sound like a dick, but why not get somebody who already lives in Philly to do the gig?”
“We already tried that, but our guy canceled on us earlier today. Thus the reason I’m talking to you. Plus, I like the undercurrent of sarcasm you bring to your stuff, something I’m hoping you can incorporate it into this piece. Nothing too heavy, just that magic you do so well.”
“The phrase is ‘the voodoo that you do so well,’” I replied, correcting him. I thought quietly for a moment.
“I suppose you need an answer now,” I said.
“You’ve done this before,” Kevin laughed.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want the job. It had been nearly six months since I’d had a job – any job – so the prospect of working again albeit briefly came as a shock. The little voice inside my head told me I was being lazy. It was moving me to action.
“Okay,” I told Kevin, “I’m in.”
I heard a quick exhale through the phone. “Fantastic. I need to send you a bunch of forms to fill out: Independent contractor stuff, indemnification, deal memo, et cetera. Give me your email address and it will be in your inbox in five minutes.”
I gave him my address, spelling it out for him three times before he got it right.
“Oh, looking at it on paper now, I get it. Ha. Once you’ve filled out the forms I need them faxed back to my attention at the number I’ll list in the email. Also, I’m going to forward along a number for Jenna Wortham. She’s one of my intern assistants. Call her in the morning and she can take care of all your travel details – flight, hotel, and so on. I’ll let her know to expect your call.”
It hit me then that I was going to have to fly. In an airplane. I hated that.
“Got it. Jenna Wortham,” I repeated.
I pulled to the gate of the community where my mother lived and lowered the window to wave to the guard before he raised the reflective candy cane striped entry arm.
“Good, good, we’re all set,” Kevin said, glad he’d found his last-minute fill in.
“And Becker?”
“Yeah?”
“Have fun at the nerd fest.”
Read Entire Post
Union
The phone rang far too early, during the fleeting moments when the body knows it will soon be roused and yet manages somehow to get its best sleep. Those moments when REM cycles flash at a feverish pitch and the mind concocts visions both real and make believe. It was early enough that it was still dark outside, but presumably late enough for my phone to be ringing. I let it go a few times before reaching an arm out from under the covers to retrieve it.
“Mmm mmm,” I mumbled.
“We have a problem,” said a nervous voice on the other end. It was Vanessa, the bride-to-be who was getting married in only a matter of hours.
I shot up in my bed half expecting to find lying next to me one of Vanessa’s bridesmaids or a visiting relative from Australia who I’d scurried off to my room during the alcohol-filed haze of the previous night. Seeing nobody, I felt around the blankets and bedspreads to confirm the visual before responding.
“We do? What’s the problem?” I tried to sound horrified and concerned but what I was really felt was relief.
“My maid of honor is missing.”
“Come again?”
“Samantha is missing along with Anita, the girl who came over from home. They went out last night and they didn’t come back to the hotel this morning.” She was beginning to race through the words as if frantic, as if fighting off tears.
"Are you certain?"
“They’re not here and we need to go to the hair salon and then the makeup place and I don’t know where they are and nobody’s heard from them and they haven’t left a message with anyone, and, and”
“Let’s hold on now, Vanessa,” I began as I got out of bed and put on a shirt. “I’m sure they’re fine. I tell you what – I will grab Ken and the both of us will track them down, okay? Don’t worry. We'll will find them.”
Her breathing came through heavy and rapid on the other side of the phone, as if she was in a hyperventilating state.
“Okay...okay. Thank you Reed.”
“No problem. Best Man at your service.”
Before I hung up she urged me to wait. “Please don’t say anything to Aaron about this. Please. Everything has to be perfect today. Promise me.”
“Okay.”
When I called over to Ken I was greeted with an unceremonious “Jesus, do you know what time it is? Did you not notice we all drank tankers of booze last night?”
“I know. Believe me, I’d much rather be sleeping. We have an assignment.”
“An assignment? Who the fuck are we, The Untouchables?” responded Ken.
“It’s more reconnaissance,” I replied. “We have to find two AWOL broads from the wedding party.”
When I picked Ken up at the hotel he was wearing golfing shorts, a sweater and sunglasses. At 8 in the morning.
“This better be good,” he hissed as he opened the car door and poured himself into the passenger seat.
Just as I was about to pull out of the carport Aaron came outside and flagged us down. “Where are you guys off to?”
“Vanessa is missing a maid of honor.”
Ken leaned over the center console. “Yeah, we’re Holmes and Watson.”
Ignoring Ken, I said, “We’ll be back in a bit, I think I know where they are.” Just as I pulled away, I added, “Oh yeah, Vanessa didn’t want you to know that, so do me a favor and don’t mention any of this to her.”
One of the best kept secrets in all of the Santa Barbara area is a natural hot springs just outside of town and to the north of Goleta, halfway to the Santa Ynez wine country that's glorified in the book and movie Sideways. Most of the locals don’t know of the place and the weekend tourists certainly don’t know the springs exist as it wasn’t in any travel brochure or Sunday paper roundup of getaway vacation hotspots. The secret of the hot springs was one kept and guarded by UC Santa Barbara students, mostly because of the urban myths about the springs hosting impromptu hot tub orgies. Every year a new batch of students went hoping for a re-education in carnal knowledge, and every year they went away disappointed. But the springs were a good place to open up the pores and relax, and as early morning was the best time to hit the springs, I was fairly certain Samantha and her new friend stole away to help relieve whatever hangover they still suffered from.
“You really think that’s where they went?” Ken asked when he learned where we were headed.
“Pretty sure.”
“I was thinking maybe Samantha and this girl Anita were in some threesome with one of the guys from the bar.” Ken smirked as the visual flooded his head. “Yeah, I could go for some of that. I bet Samantha does that kind of shit, too.”
“Uh huh,” I said to placate him.
We parked the car by the road and hiked the hundred or so yards of path leading to the big oaks which shrouded the springs. We found Samantha and the other girl in the far spring, wading about.
“After all this time, still predictable,” I said, announcing our arrival. The girls looked up, startled.
“Don’t you keep your cell phone on?” I asked.
“Goddammit Reed, you startled us!” shouted Samantha in response. “And, can you give us a little privacy here,” she added, “we’re both naked.”
“Well then let’s get this party started right!” exclaimed Ken. “I didn’t get up early for nothing.”
Samantha shot him a death stare, a not-if-you-were-the-last-person-on-earth glare.
“Look, right now you have a very worried blushing bride-to-be waiting back at the hotel, whose cheeks are reddened with fury because two of her girls went sneaking away from camp on the day she needs you most.” I went over and picked up the towels draped over a nearby rock. "Let’s get out of here and back to the hotel, okay?” I tossed a towel in each girl’s direction.
Ken went to the edge of the closest pool to the road and looked out at the highway. “How did you two even get out here?” he asked.
The Australian girl spoke up. “My mum gave us a ride on her way in to town.”
“You might want to let her know you won’t need a ride back.” She nodded.
Inside the car Samantha had moved into Queen Bitch mode and continued the entire ride back.
“I don’t know why Vanessa is freaking out,” she began. “Really. It’s so early and the wedding isn’t even until four. There’s plenty of time to get our hair done and put up, and the makeup, and the nails, and the dresses. I don’t know what the big deal is. There’s still plenty of time left before the ceremony for pictures and...”
Ken shook his head from his spot in the passenger seat before leaning over towards me, away from Samantha.
“Bitches, man. Seriously, I swear,” he said with another shake of the head.
________________________________________________________________________________________
After dropping the group off at the hotel I looked at my watch and adjusted my schedule. By my calculations I would have enough time to gather up my things from my brother’s place and have breakfast with his family before having to move into the hotel for the night.
I quietly pulled the car up to the garage and gently opened their front door, taking special care to walk softly on the terra cota entry pavers that led down into the living room. No such luck; Marie was already awake and sipping coffee while she read the morning paper at the table.
“Are you just getting home?” she asked. “What was her name this time, or did you even get a name? Aren’t you getting a little too old for this?”
I waved my hand about. “No, this time it was honorable. The bride sent us out on an errand.” I took another look at my watch. “I was hoping I’d be quiet enough to not wake anyone up.”
“Not with your car, mister. I heard that thing coming up the driveway,” she replied.
Marie offered coffee, which I thankfully took before heading for the guest bedroom to pack up my things. Soon the whole household was in full swing and Tyler came in, dressed in his tae kwon do outfit.
“You will bow down to me!” he exclaimed in a deep, pseudo-heroic voice before kicking his leg upward and into me, narrowly missing my crotch. My niece Lena, standing in the doorway, squealed with delight. Kids never tire of the take-it-in-the-nuts comedy display.
“You’d better watch it with that foot,” I warned him.
“Pretty cool, huh? It’s a lethal weapon!”
“It’s a guaranteed way to get smacked is what it is.” I organized some clothes on the bed and felt around the end table for a gift I’d need later.
“Uh, Tyler? Where is the little package we picked up yesterday?”
“It’s in my room. Lena and I were playing with it.”
“Go get it for me, will you?” Tyler returned moments later with it and handed it gently to me. I looked at its dull shine, then examined it further when I noticed one section was more hazy than the rest.
“Jesus...Lena, were you putting this in your mouth?” I asked, holding it out in front of her. Between laughs she tried grabbing at it.
________________________________________________________________________________________
My phone rang at the same moment I burst through the doors of the hotel with the valet in tow. I should just wear the earpiece this morning, I thought.
“Hello?”
“We’ve got a problem.” This time it was Aaron.
I looked at my watch. It was barely ten thirty in the morning. What could have gone wrong now?
“In all of our preparations and running around taking care of the little things we forgot a very big thing.”
“Don’t tell me you left the ring at home, Aaron. Don’t say that.”
He laughed nervously. “It’s not that, but it’s almost as bad. We don’t have a song.”
“A song?” I asked.
“You know, a song for the bride and groom's dance, the first dance at the reception when we box step like fools around the parquet floor.”
Oh, that song. Aaron and Vanessa had often mentioned needing a song and that they had to set aside some time to find their perfect song, but that time never came. And now it was getting to be too late.
“Um...okay. I guess I can find you something,” I said with hesitation.
“You can?”
This time I tried sounding more resolute. “Of course I can. I know what you two like, I know what kind of songs get played at weddings.”
“Thanks man. We’d do it ourselves but there’s just no time.” He laughed. “I just realized we’ve been saying that for the past six months.”
“Don’t worry about it, you’re in good hands.”
“Great,” he said. “Just don’t pick out anything like ‘Baby Got Back,’ okay?”
“Have a little faith. It will be fine. Unless I hear back from you I’ll meet up at the church at 2:30. Cool?”
“Cool. And thanks again.”
“Always a pleasure,” I replied before clicking off.
The valet, who’d heard the majority of the conversation, was not impressed. “They’re getting married today and they still don’t have their own song?”
“They’ve been busy,” I shrugged.
“Yeah, but still, what kind of dopes don’t decide on their song while they’re dating or at least while making all the wedding plans. That’s just, well...stupid.” He was making his tip evaporate right before his eyes.
“I guess not everybody has it as together as you will when your day comes, skippy.”
He frowned when he heard me call him that.
“Got any songs you can suggest?” I asked of him while he opened the door to my room.
“Hmm. Maybe 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight', or perhaps something by Chicago?” I turned back and looked at him to make sure he wasn’t laughing or making a joke. He was doing neither. I guess he was serious.
I handed him his tip. “Those are awful.”
Inside the room I gently laid out the Jill Sander tuxedo on the bed and opened up the overnight bag, fishing around for my iPod. It was lucky for me I traveled with 60 gigs of music. Furiously scrolling the wheel with steady pressure, I scanned the list of artists for a possible suitor. Etta James, maybe. Dean Martin, sure, but his songs were filled with double entendres that might offend the wrong person. It had to be the right song. Sarah Vaughn, Harry Connick – I was finding the right types but not the right match. I put down the iPod and picked up the phone, pressing the voice recognition button on the side.
“Aaron,” I announced loudly. The phone began dialing.
“I need the DJ phone number from you, Aaron.”
“Did you find a good song?” he asked enthusiastically.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First things first.” He said he’d have to call me back and within moments of putting down the phone and picking up the tuxedo to unwrap and brush, my phone began ringing.
“Here’s the number,” Aaron proclaimed. “And thanks again, buddy. I’ll see you at the church.”
After the tuxedo was brushed I tried the DJ, phone in one hand, iPod in the other. When he answered I explained the situation.
“If I gave you an iPod do you have the means to hook it up to your rig and play back a song?”
“Certainly, we do it often. Just tape a piece of paper to the back of your iPod with the name of the artist and song, and track number if it’s relevant. And thanks for letting us know. We can usually roll with the punches just fine but if we have advance notice there won’t be any problems pulling this off smoothly.”
I thanked him and hung up just as I landed on the perfect song. I smiled as a fleeting vision shot through my memory banks and I remembered the last time I had heard this song. One problem – it was a song meant to be for me and somebody else.
________________________________________________________________________________________
“These things always have a start time on the invite, but how often does a wedding really start on time?” The question was being posed by Ken as we sat in the church rectory with the rest of Aaron’s groom’s men, waiting for the groom to arrive. Ken and Mike tossed a tennis ball back and forth.
“Did you ever think Aaron would settle down with a girl like Vanessa?” asked Mike. “I mean, she seems nice and all, but almost too good for him.”
Ken scratched his chin before tossing the ball back to Mike. “I know what you mean. If you could go back to when we were all in school and see some of the women Aaron dated you’d really be amazed he found anyone worth settling down with.” He paused. “Hey Reed, who was the girl he dated with the dyed red hair and the tattoos running all the way down one of her arms? The one who screamed like a banshee when they'd have sex.”
Mike looked confused.
“We all lived in a frat house with paper thin walls so you either told the girl you were screwing to keep it under wraps, or else everyone would hear it. Hey Reed, what was her name?”
I was standing by the window playing lookout. It was 2:40 and Aaron was running late. Heck of a day to be late.
Turning from the window just long enough to answer Ken, I replied “Erica. No wait. Lorna. That was it, Lorna.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Lorna.” Ken paused. “What a train wreck she was. I think she had to transfer to a JC by junior year because of bad grades and s bad home life.” Ken caught a return toss of the ball from Mike.
“Come to think of it,” Ken continued, “Most of Aaron’s girls have been disaster shows. There was the one with the nose piercing who was all into the earth and naturalism but she pretty much just got high all the time; there was Kathy – that cunt – who emasculated Aaron and every guy she was around; there was that little tiny girl freshman year when we were still in the dorms, the one who was two-timing Aaron most of the time they were together, and even when he and Vanessa were dating early on there was that time"
“Do you think we can do without the play-by-play recap?” I interrupted. “This is supposed to be a happy day, a celebration. So let’s not bag on all the terrible relationships Aaron has been in. He’s not the only one.” I pointed at Aaron. “You’ve been there. I’ve been there.” I took the tennis ball from Mike’s hand. “Instead, let’s celebrate and congratulate Aaron on finding the one perfect girl for him, a girl he is wholeheartedly ready to spend the rest of his life with and make the sacrifices that come with it. Don’t pick apart and analyze his past fuck-ups; laud him for the one good choice he’s about to make.”
The guys muttered something in agreement before splitting apart to continue dressing in opposite corners of the rectory, finishing just as Aaron walked into the room.
“Hey hey, man of the hour,” Mike said from the back.
“Sorry I’m late, guys – my parents insisted they drive me here and they weren’t ready in time. Leave it to the parents to fuck with your shit all the way up to the last.” Aaron slung his clothes over a chair and began getting dressed. It was three o’clock and the guests would begin arriving in the next half hour.
When everyone was dressed, primped and preened, Aaron gathered us in a huddle and handed out the traditional groom’s men gifts – monogrammed Coach liquor flasks.
“I want to thank each of you for being my wingmen today. It means a lot to Vanessa, our families, and especially to me.” He clasped a couple of us by the shoulders. “I can’t think of a better group I’d want standing by my side up there.” He shook some hands and we bullshitted about in the rectory until 3:30, when the groom’s men made their way into the church to begin seating the arriving guests.
Aaron withdrew some at this point and sat in a lone chair in the middle of the room.
“I’d ask what’s on your mind,” I began, “but that would be a stupid question.”
He mussed his hair some and looked up. “What do you think, man? About all this?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what you think.”
“I know, I know. I love Vanessa, there’s no doubting that. And while I’m not nervous about marrying her, I am nervous about...” he waved his hand about in the air. “All this.”
I pulled over a chair, its wooden feet squealing some on the cold marble floor, and sat down next to Aaron. “I don’t think you are nervous about marriage either. I think you’re nervous because for the first time in your life you have to worry about someone other than yourself, and that’s a big step.” I started chuckling. “And you’ve succeeded in getting my opinion out too, so much for that.”
Aaron slumped in his chair and stretched out his legs. “Now that you’ve started you can’t stop. Do you think I am marrying the right girl?”
I cautiously approached the question. I held no ill-will against Vanessa; I never saw a red flag in her behavior to give me pause, yet I didn’t want to say anything Aaron could construe as a curve ball only moments before saying “I do.”
“Only you know the answer to that question, but I’ll say this: I don’t know two people better suited for each other than you and Vanessa. People romanticize marriage and forget it is a partnership, it’s a business. And you need the right partner to weather the stormy times. You couldn’t have come up with a better partner.”
“Thanks, Reed. That means a lot to me.”
“No problem. Best Man at your service.” I stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in my tuxedo. “Hey, look at the time,” I said, pointing at the clock high on the bland crème rectory wall. “It’s almost the witching hour.”
Aaron stood and in similar fashion adjusted his tuxedo. “We’d better get out there. How do I look?”
I brought my finger to my lips, balancing the elbow of my left arm in my right hand. Giving him the once over I checked off the list in my head: Boutonnière, check. Properly tied Windsor knot, check. Wrinkle free Jill Sander tuxedo, check.
“You got the ring?” I asked.
“I do,” he said, reaching into his pant pocket. “I suppose I should remember that phrase,” he added with a laugh before producing the ring and handing it to me.
“I think we’re all set,” I replied. “Oh, one thing – shoot your cuffs. You have no shirt cuff showing below the jacket arm. You look like Pee Wee Herman.”
He smiled and adjusted his sleeves. “You couldn’t shave off that beard,” he said, “not even for my wedding?”
“It’s not time. Besides, I did give it a trim. It’s cut back some and better groomed.”
“It still looks full and heavy. And ugly.”
“Now it’s less Unabomber and more Dan Fouts. Let’s go get you married, all right?”
____________________________________________________________________
“I want to introduce Reed, the best man, who will give the traditional first toast. Reed, come on up.”
The DJ/MC of the evening motioned for me from the makeshift podium placed at the center of the table. I’d been talking with some wedding guests, many whom I hadn’t seen in years when I was summoned to the front. Excusing myself with a smile and a handshake, I ran a hand through my hair, making sure it was acceptably styled and made for the podium at the center of the head table. As I approached I started to run through the game plan and quickly realized I had no game plan other than to open with a light and deprecating story about Aaron. The rest I hadn’t planned out, instead hoping I’d be struck by some divine inspiration at the last minute. The best parachuters learn on their first trip down.
The crowd looked warm and inviting as I looked into the eyes of what would be my audience and critic, and then took the microphone from the DJ’s outstretched hand. The microphone body was clammy and eel-like to the touch, its dull metal casing holding back all of the heat from the transistors within. Before moving the microphone closer to my mouth I cleared my throat, and with my free hand reached into my pocket to confirm my visual aid was still there.
“Good evening everyone,” I began with a warm and heartfelt smile. “Aaron and Vanessa along with their families want to thank you for sharing in such an important day. You flatter them by being here, and if I may say so Aaron, you flatter me by honoring me with the job of being your best man.”
I took a quick visual of the room and darted my eyes from one random person to the next, trying to gauge if the crowd thought I was sucking up too much too soon. My glances were met with smiles. I hadn’t lost them yet.
“When Aaron first asked me to be his best man, he told me that when it came time to give the toast I’d have to speak slowly and annunciate clearly,” I continued, “because Vanessa’s family would be here and they are from Australia.” I shot Aaron a sly grin. He looked a bit puzzled.
“That’s when I had to break it to him the Australians are known to speak English, quite often in fact.” Scattered chuckles started about the room. “That’s one of their commonalities that draws them to us.” More laughter. I paused and added as an aside - “Well, that and our shared love of Russell Crowe, who is so dreamy.”
The room laughed in unison and Aaron began turning red in embarrassment.
“I kid, I kid. When Aaron and Vanessa asked me to share in their special day I knew this moment would come – this one right now, with me up here speaking. And I didn’t know if I would have anything witty or insightful to say. I racked my brain trying to think of something, and then yesterday afternoon I found myself in my nephew’s room thumbing through – of all things – a collection of fairytales. And that’s when it hit me, the importance of this day.”
I took another quick scan of the room. They were still with me.
“A woman dreams of this day – this moment right here as we stand – as a little girl. The dress, the perfect moment and the perfect people here to share it with her. For her it’s the stuff that dreams are made of.”
I shot Aaron another look. He had a blank stare of utter confusion on his face.
“Guys, on the other hand, are a little slow to catch up. Our dreams consist of growing up to be a baseball player or a fireman or astronaut. A few of us even want to be rock stars. When we realize that we will likely never be a single one of those things, usually around age 18 or 20, we begin to look at the bigger picture and with whom we want to share it.
“Vanessa, your father told me something earlier in the week that provided a wealth of insight.” I paused and gave him a slight nod of reverence before I continued. “He told me marriage is something where you have to have each other’s back and be a team as you go through life. You need that kind of friendship, as you grow older. I think that’s beautiful and I want to thank him for sharing his wisdom.
“Now I’ve seen the receiving room and the stack of gifts already there, but I want to present you with what I hope is your first gift.” I pulled the item from my pocket and handed it to Vanessa.
“It’s a quarter,” she said.
“It is a quarter, yes. Leave it to the woman to know her money.” A flurry of laughs, mostly from the men, erupted around the room. I motioned to Vanessa: “Would you tell me what’s different about this particular quarter, Vanessa?”
She flipped it over a few times and examined its surface. “It’s got two heads to it,” she proclaimed.
“That’s right. I was out spending time with my nephew when I saw it in a shop window and it at once spoke to me about the two of you. About how you are two sides of the same coin. About how I have never met two individuals better suited for each other.”
A few “aahs” leaked out at the tables in front of us.
“And so, before I allow this to become any more sappy,” I concluded, taking the glass of champagne in my hand, “let’s raise a glass to Aaron and Vanessa. To this perfect team, to a long life of happiness and laughter, and to the stuff that dreams are made. Many happy returns.”
A scattering of “here, here” and the clinking of champagne flutes followed. When I put down the glass I caught the DJ out of the corner of my eye holding up my iPod as a reminder that the newlyweds still had their dance to get to.
I picked the microphone back up and when the toasting stopped, continued: “We made the horrifying discovery earlier today that Vanessa and Aaron didn’t have a wedding song to dance their first dance to. So we decided to take care of it for you. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give the newlyweds a little encouragement as they come to the center of the dance floor for their first dance as man and wife, huh?”
The crowd started clapping and whistling as Aaron whisked Vanessa from her hair, gingerly leading her by the hand to the dance floor. I looked over at the row of girls on Vanessa’s side of the table. They all looked incredibly beautiful, especially Samantha. There was always an unmistakable wow factor when Samantha wore a formal dress. She was definitely a head-turner.
I spun around to find the DJ shooting darts at me with his eyes. Unbeknownst to me I’d just stolen some of his MC thunder.
Once Aaron and Vanessa were on the dance floor and in position I continued: “This song is very near and dear to me, but consider it yours for as long you want it.”
I lowered the microphone and moments later the first strains of the song began: I’m gonna love you, like nobody’s loved you, come rain or come shine, began the plaintive moan of Frank Sinatra.
While Aaron and Vanessa danced around the floor of the ballroom I slipped towards the back where the bar was.
“You were pretty slick up there,” said the bartender, an early-twenties blonde with her hair pulled back in a ponytail while she shifted around bottles of Sierra Nevada in an ice tub.
“Thanks. I was starting to think I was rambling so I cut it short.”
“I think you could have talked for another five minutes and not lost anyone’s attention,” she replied, looking up to make eye contact and smile.
I returned the smile and was about to order when I heard a voice behind me. “So, can a girl buy a guy a drink at these things?” I turned around and Samantha was standing there, a hand on her hip and one strap of her dress starting to come off her shoulder.
“Hey you,” I responded, “pony up to the bar.”
She hunched over the bar and got comfortable. “That was a good toast up there. Still got the charm.” She called the bartender girl and ordered. “I’ll have a vodka gimlet and he’ll have a Scotch, neat.” When the girl grabbed a bottle of J&B Samantha added, “no no dear, single malt preferably.” She turned to face me and leaned against the bar.
“You remembered. I’m impressed.”
“I’m told I have that effect on people,” she replied nonchalantly.
“You forgot modest,” I added with a smirk.
When the bartender came back with the drinks and the tab, I instinctively reached for my wallet. Samantha waved me off.
“I said I’d pay for it. Consider it your keep for the good toast.”
I eyed her suspiciously.
“Seriously, put the wallet away. You men and your darned gender roles.” Samantha took a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, and then shoved an arm down the front of her dress and came up with a $20.
“Awesome,” I remarked. “You keep Tic Tacs in there too?”
“Look at this outfit I squeezed into. Do you think there’s any place I can stow money away?”
“Oh, I’m looking. I could stare at you all night in that outfit.” I took the Scotch and brought it to my nose for a cursory sniff. “What can I say, you’re the bees knees.” I touched my glass to hers. “Cheers. And thanks again for the drink.” Samantha nodded in return.
Across the room one of the bride’s maids was motioning our way, at first we thought for Samantha, but then realized she was motioning for me and pointed towards where Vanessa was. They’d already begun the dollar dance. I excused myself and headed to the front of the line.
When I cut in Vanessa had been waiting for me. “You know, I’m starting to feel like I’m not the one getting the most attention here. I mean I am the bride and yet someone is stealing my thunder,” she said with her light Australian tone.
“Oh?”I said innocently.
“All my friends, instead of falling over themselves trying to congratulate me and take photos are instead asking about Aaron’s friend the best man, and whether he’s single.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And those are just the married gals!”
I tossed the idea aside. “It’s all puppy love. You’re still the center of the universe today.”
“You really hit it out of the park, Reed. It had everything – kids, fairy tales, companionship, Sinatra. Oh, thanks for that, it was the perfect song. I think you could have your pick of almost any woman at the reception after that toast.”
“How heavy is your dress?” I asked her.
“I am not one of those women, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I stuck out my tongue playfully. “No, I’m going to dip you. Let’s wait until the beat is right. 1,2,3, now!” I lowered her gently while sliding my hand down her back to cradle her waistline before popping her back into place.
“Let’s see Aaron do that!” I proclaimed.
“He’s no dancer, that’s for certain,” Vanessa agreed. “Let’s see you do what he does and balance the state budget in 10 hours while finding a windfall.”
“Uncle,” I declared.
Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. We turned around to find Samantha.
“Mind if I steal him away for a dance of my own?” she asked.
“Ladies, ladies – I am not going to come between two women unless it means a tickle fight and I get the television rights.”
“Oh god,” Vanessa exclaimed, “Take him. I don’t think I can pump up his ego any more than it already is.”
“I’ll have to make due,” Samantha replied, leading me away.
“You’ve just pissed off several women, I’ll have you know,” I told her.
“Yeah? How many?”
“At least two. Maybe three.”
“I can take ‘em.”
_________________________________________________________________
The knock on the door came far too early, during those fleeting moments when the body knows it will soon be roused and yet manages somehow to get its best sleep. Those moments when REM cycles flash at a feverish pitch and the mind concocts visions both real and make-believe. It was early enough that it was still dark outside, but presumably late enough for someone to be knocking on the door to my room.
“Mmmph,” I mumbled in some gobbelty-gook.
“Go back to bed, I’ll get it.” She slipped out from under the covers and put on my tuxedo shirt and jacket before making for the door.
“Good morning guys.”
“Uh, hey, good morning Samantha.” It was Ken. “Is Reed in there?”
“Yes he is, but he’s still asleep. Do you boys mind if he calls you in a couple of hours?”
“Umm…okay, sure.”
“I’ll tell him you stopped by.” She closed the door and came back in, depositing the jacket and shirt on the nearby chair.
She sat down on my side of the bed and ran her hand across my chest. “I’m going to take a shower. Want to join me?” she coyly asked. With that she walked towards the bathroom and I watched her bare ass sway back and forth as she left the room. I got out of bed and walked over to the table where I had set my cuff links and watch the night before. There was a voicemail on my phone. Upon checking it I found out it was Stacy, who I'd met at the party in the Hollywood Hills a few nights earlier. She was calling to say she hoped we could get together sometime during the week, maybe for a small bite or a drink on the Promenade.
“Reed, you coming?” asked Samantha from the bathroom. I could hear the shower heads pulsating.
I listened to the message a second time before erasing it and running off to join Samantha. Best Man duties – it’s not all as bad as it’s cracked up to be.
Read Entire Post
