There was never any difficulty in imagining him married. Even though he had never had a steady girlfriend, or even many dates in the few years that I had known him, it was still so easy to see what married life would be like for him. During one of our rather odd phone calls, in which we both wanted the company of another human being but were too lazy to actually go out and get it, I told him that I pictured him living "a vaguely weird life with some really cool chick." He laughed heartily and agreed. I think it's turning out to be more than just "vaguely weird," but that's their problem, and I'm getting ahead of myself, and you, for that matter, so keep up.
I pictured the kind of girl I thought he would finally end up with, (thin, fairly small, long dark hair, European or Mediterranean skin and features, beautiful, funny, fiery, brilliant). I pictured the courtship they would probably have (fast, intense, on-again-off-again, stormy, powerful, frightening D and watch out for the fallout, friends and neighbors). I pictured the meetings with the parents and families (tense D think eggshells and tightropes for the first ones, and later .38 shells and garrote ropes, or at least the threats thereof). Had I allowed myself, I could probably have even imagined what their more intimate moments might have been like, but I passed on that little pleasure, as I could not afford the years of psychotherapy that those particular pictures would have necessitated, (let's just say "twisted squared," and leave it at that).
I never told Max about all these little pictures, but it turned out that I was right about most of them, or at least about those parts that I chose to imagine. I never did get around to asking him why he keeps 3-pronged fish hooks next to the condoms in his bureau. If you really want to know, youask him. There are just a few items of curiosity in this life that I can let go. I feel fairly certain that that's a little piece of information I'll never need. (And just how did I happen to find out that they're there? Well, that's just a little piece of information that you'llnever need, so shut up and forget about it.)
No, the name "Selena" was no big surprise. The gypsy heritage was no big surprise. The pet kinkajou was no big surprise. Okay, thatparticular tattoo, around thatparticular piercing of thatparticular body part was a bit unexpected, but if she had had no surprises, she would not have been Selena, and she would not have been right for Max.
No, Max and Selena fit each other better than most folks fit with their partners. Considering the personalities involved, though, some of us still send congratulatory cards on their anniversaries, simply because we're so impressed that they're both still alive.
(I believe there may be certain family members on both sides who send cards with slightly different messages. "Words of encouragement" one might say, if one had a homicidal bent. Personally, I couldn't send somebody a card that said: "Go for it D off him already," or "Take her out. We know you can do it. Love, Your Family." Since I'm not a member of either family, however, I feel slightly hesitant about judging. It seems odd to me, but I would venture to guess that my own family has a few oddities of its own.)
It's not too tough to imagine what the rest of their married life is like either: many decades of two people trying desperately not to kill each other, but wishing that they could, because they love each other so much. It's not quite what I would wish for myself, but I might well wish it for Max, because I think it's probably as close to a happy life as he really wishes to get. White picket, 9 to 5, 2.3 is just not his ideal. Walking the edge next to someone who is just as likely to push him over as pull him back seems to be far more interesting and worthwhile for my friend, Max. And at the end of it all, I can really picture him looking back and nodding in satisfaction and saying, "I married a freakin' Daemon . . . . and I'm glad I did."
No, the only real trouble I ever had in all this imagining of Max' life (and since I don't have one of my own, I had plenty of time for it), was trying to picture what the wedding itself might be like.
I think that it actually took something like three and-a-half or four days. It's still a little hard to distinguish when they were finally, officially married and when the celebrating began. It's not so much because of the condition we were in, which probably couldn't have been called straight or sober the entire time, but more the effect of so many different rites being enacted throughout the ceremony.
With the various backgrounds of the participants, and their desire to honor all of their beliefs, I think we must have paid homage to at least a score of gods in maybe a dozen different pantheons. Not being an accountant nor an historian myself, I am certain that I lost count of the rites and the meanings, but I believe that I am erring on the side of underestimation, as I have a play-book D uh, I mean a wedding program D that lists the names of gods from over one hundred countries. I could be mistaken; maybe that list is like the front of the books where the authors say "Thanks also to," or some such cat poop so that none of their friends or ex-friends call and say, "Hey! How come you didn't mention me? You know you couldn't have done it without me!" (At which point most authors mentally respond, "Yeah, right, Dad. Whatever.")
So anyway, I'm perusing this list of godnames, silently, of course, because most of them couldn't be pronounced by the gods that owned them, and trying to recall which of the rites actually happened and which were hallucinations from my overindulgence in whatever the hell drugs they fed me during this ordeal - uh... these festivities. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that most of what I remember actually happened. There seem to be correlating notes in the program, and I have this goddamn broken nose and torn tux that simply refuse to be explained away as delirium.
Honestly, the whole shindig was worth it, broken nose and all. For one thing, I'm pretty certain Max and Selena wouldn't have been able to consider themselves officially hitched if they hadn't gone through all that. (Although I'm not quite certain that all of those gods really needed the rest of us to go through it, but you never know 'til you're dead, huh?) Besides all that though, I wouldn't have missed it for all the world, or even the underworld, now that I think I know a little about that, too. It was a wedding truly fit for all the gods. I feel certain that none of them could be offended or even disappointed after such a show.
For me, though, the entertainment came not so much from the performance of all these rites and ceremonies, but more from the behavior of my fellow attendants. I understood the meaning, or at least the emotion behind most of the words and actions of the bride, the groom, and the assorted clergy. It was the way the families and guests behaved that rather astounded and amused me. That amusement may be partially responsible for the broken nose, as I didn't have sense enough to keep my smiles hidden, but it's hard to tell. With the way objects and people were flying, a broken something was pretty likely no matter how well I hid my smirks.
It was rather obvious that more than an average wedding was going to take place from the invitation itself. The postmark was from a very small town in central Mexico, the envelope was created from some sort of handmade paper that seemed a little too "scaly" for comfort, and the ink was that reddish-brown that you just know isn't any kind of commercial ink, even down there. I knew that Max and Selena had taken a vacation out of the country, and I now knew where they had gone. I still don't know all of what they did and saw down there, but they have since assured me that nothing they did there was truly illegal, at least in a metaphysical sense (what the hell does thatmean?!), and that they even pictured me engaging in some of the same activities. (Selena giggled in a very disturbing way when they mentioned that, so I didn't question them further. Ignorance may not be bliss, but with those two, I have learned that it sometimes means survival, or at least sanity.)
So this frightening, mysterious envelope is loitering with intent in my mailbox when I get home one day. Thinking quickly, I dropped it on the kitchen table with the rest of the mail while I went to feed my own collection of housepets. Okay, I wasn't thinking quickly D I just hadn't noticed it yet, buried as it was beneath Ed McMahon's marriage proposal, or whatever the hell it was that he was promising me this time.
After I fed the rats to the roaches (it wastheir turn), I went back to the kitchen and sorted the mail. That was when I discovered this rather unsettling piece of post. (All apologies D alliteration often appears in amazingly awkward areas.) I figured immediately that it had to have come from Max and his betrothed in their secret vacation hideaway. It wasn't the news that they were to be married that was so disturbing; it had more to do with when and where and how and how long it would take and what would be required of those in attendance.
There was no mention of why they were to be married, but I'm not sure if that was because they figured it was nobody else's business, or if they just didn't know. I didn't worry about it at the time, as I was obviously going to be very busy with my duties as outlined in the letter, as well as with my other, unmentioned duties of helping to keep the families and friends as close to sane as possible, at least until we had sent the happy(?) couple on their way. After that, I didn't much care who said or did what, but Max and Selena - (If I just write M & S, will you know who I mean? Spelling it out is becoming a bit tedious. Trust me, I won't write S & M D too obvious, and probably too true.) - M & S had obviously already put so much thought and effort into this, and they had asked me to assist in pulling the whole thing off. I considered it part of my duties as one of the "Men of Honor" to make sure that none of the less opened-minded attendees were allowed to spoil what was certain to be one of the strangest and most beautiful weddings in history.
Thus I set about, in my most diplomatic manner, to "get everyone into the spirit of things." Any good my attempts at psychological preparation may have done was obliterated the moment Max' father arrived at the first site for the ceremonies.
Angus bellowed, "If that goddamned witch has turned my son into anything other than a human being, I'll have her gonads!"
I'm fairly certain he had already been dipping into the private stash of reception punch by then, as it is common knowledge that Max was never really considered human, even by his kindest and closest friends, and that witches generally don't have gonads. Be all that as it may, Max' dad had made it rather clear where he stood on the whole affair, and made few friends in the doing of it.
Selena's family, of that vague and ominous heritage usually described as, "somewhere in the Middle East," was more patient and discreet with their venom, but no less poisonous. These people seem to be possessed of amazingly long memories, and sometimes even longer reaches. Even though most of them have returned to their respective deserts of origin, Max still tells me that he and Selena occasionally receive questionable packages that they just automatically take to either the police station or the zoo, and ask the appropriate experts to open. The bomb squad and zookeepers do this for them at no charge, because the extra practice is always worth it to them, and extra specimens are always appreciated. If you want to see a little sample, stop by the reptile house, and ask to see the "gifts" that M & S have made to the zoo. You will be treated to a fine and frightening collection of creatures that you probably didn't even know existed.
Obviously, Selena's family was no fonder of this union than Max' family was. Selena's father, Vladimer, knew his daughter well enough, though, to make sure that he didn't obviously attempt to hinder her. That didn't prevent him from arranging some rather devious interferences, though. The fact that they didn't all come off could only be attributed to the presence of so many deities and Vladimir's fondness for Ouzo.
A few of Vlad's plans did come off all right, though. My favorite one was when he took the goat that had been sacrificed early on the second day of the ceremonies and prepared a special plate for Angus, presenting it to him graciously as a "peace offering." The bride and groom were both absent during this, but the rest of us were treated to a rather amusing or alarming incident, depending on which side you were cheering for.
The dish itself was scary enough, what with the two rather suspicious-looking ovoid pieces of meat surrounded by a very questionable red sauce, but when Angus opened the card that Vlad had penned to him, he blanched and had a bit of trouble breathing for quite a few moments. I got a look at the card when I slipped Angus a glass of wine to help him regain his composure. I was truly amused at Vlad's subtly when I read, "Looks like Selena wasn't the one to lose her gonads, after all. Perhaps they can adopt. Best wishes, (signed) Vlad."
Diplomat and Man of Honor that I was being, I didn't even crack a smile. I knew that Selena's entire family would take it as a great insult and breach of etiquette if any of the dishes in the wedding feasts were rejected. They might even use it as an excuse to forcibly cancel the wedding altogether. Thus I decided that I had to "bite the . . . . bullet," so to speak. I just held my breath, leaned over the plate with knife and fork, and forced myself to look like I was thoroughly enjoying my first taste of goat nuts. As Angus' eyes grew round in horror, I swallowed quickly, and managed to make the words, "Delicious goat testes," sound convincing to the Gypsies and reassuring to the Catholics all at once.
I then slipped into the kitchen and indulged in a considerable amount of Ouzo, myself.
This was, of course, late in the second day of the ceremonies, and, though it obviously had to be about halfway over, I still had quite a bit of trepidation about what might yet follow. We had already participated in rites that seemed more like Olympic events than wedding ceremonies, and the play-book/program wasn't all that clear about what might happen next. All any of us knew was that bathing suits were optional for the upcoming moonlight honoring of Poseidon. That was enough to make even someone as open-minded as myself a little leery, with the way some of Selena's aunts were eyeing me.
Fortunately, this is a story about a wedding, and not about my little misadventures, so suffice it to say that Poseidon, Thor, and Isis were all properly honored that night, much to the delight of all the guests, and probably the gods, themselves.
The third day arrived with no discernible demarcation. In other words, the party was still going on when the sun came up. Daybreak was to include some sort of sunrise service, to honor Ra, Baldur, Grandfather Sun, Quetzal-coatl, and various other names and faces of Sol, prosperity, and fertility. I kept my mouth shut, and did not volunteer that I had been honoring at least some of those gods all night long. I just took a quick dip in the lake, dried off and gathered up most of the missing pieces of my tuxedo. No one even remarked on the absence of my bow tie.
This ceremony was set to take place in an actual chapel on the campgrounds were most of us had spent the previous night. A few of the guests had gone to a nearby hotel, and managed to get their guest privileges there revoked for life. They're still not telling how, but a month later, the hotel was still boarded up and the sign said "Closed for repairs."
Whatever they did, everyone was at the chapel by daybreak, except for the bride, and the groom's sister, Nicole. I could not recall if this was part of the plan, but the music being played that morning was entertaining enough to keep me occupied. They had brought in a live band that spent the weekend with us, and this morning they were playing some kind of a cross between a Scottish jig, a Gregorian chant and Lalapalooza. It was a trick keeping up with them, but it helped keep my mind off my hang-over, and the other aches and pains I had acquired the previous night.
After about half an hour of dancing, or whatever it was we were doing, we heard the band shift into a Red Hot Chili Pepper-ish version of "Here Comes the Bride." Everyone applauded as they found their way to their seats and collapsed in the pews. The other Men of Honor were lined up in their dark blue suits near the narthex at the back of the chapel, waiting for the pastel-adorned Women of Honor that they were to accompany, so I joined them there. Apparently Selena and Nicole had finally arrived, and we were about to take the "traditional" walk down the aisle.
As the women came out of the vestibule, one at a time, I noticed a certain quietness about all of them. I assumed that it was simply because this part of the ceremony was taking place in a church - an actual "House of God," in many of their minds. I had no idea that there might be something amiss.
I awaited my turn, as I was to accompany Nicole, and we were to be the last couple before Selena. Nicole came out looking rather somber, I thought, considering the wedding was finally going to look a little like something her mother and father might approve of. As I looked closer, I saw some rather dark circles under her eyes. Obviously they had been covered with make-up, but it looked to be a pretty hasty job. It would probably pass with the guests, but I could tell that she had had no more sleep than me, and seemed to be worse for the wear.
I wasn't too worried about what the guests thought of my appearance, as I was escorting the second-loveliest lady in the whole place. I wouldn't be given a second glance.
Nicole looked ravishing, even considering the eyebags, but I knew her well enough to know that there was something more than lack of sleep troubling her. In the relative quiet of the chapel, there was no opportunity to ask what was bothering her, so I just gave her are a reassuring squeeze as I wrapped it around my own, and led her down the aisle. Thinking it was no more than some minor tiff with a guy, or something equally transitory, I beamed my way all the way to the front of the chapel.
At first, the entire congregation was beaming right back at me. When we were two-thirds of the way to the rail, though, everyone looked right past Nicole and I, and gasped. Something was obviously very wrong behind us, but I could not turn and look. Whatever it was would have to wait until we reached the front and I could look back without drawing any more attention to whoever had the bad grace to disrupt this pretty picture.
Actually, I figured it was Max' older brother, drunk and stupid enough to moon, or perhaps even sun the entire congregation, or something else of the sort. By the time I reached the rail, parted with Nicole and took my place next to the other Men of Honor, I was wishing it was something as trivial as that.
I looked up that aisle, expecting to see somebody making an ass of himself, and then see Selena nonchalantly shrugging off whatever it was, and striding down that walkway with that poise and confidence that fits her so well.
Instead, I experienced a shock that nearly floored even me, and I've seen a hell of a lot of what we human people can do to ourselves and each other.
Selena has always been a stunningly beautiful woman, but, at this moment, she was only stunning. As in: we were all completely and paralytically stunned. Somehow, amazingly, this lovely woman's skin had been turned from its usual creamy white with a light olive tint into a completely non-human shade of blue.
Truly. It was absolutely incredible. Every visible centimeter of her skin was the color of a late-afternoon summer sky.
This was not the blue of the tantrum-throwing child who has held her breath too long. It wasn't the blue of a drowning victim fished from a Canadian lake in January. It wasn't even the blue that you get under your nail when you smash your finger in the cash register. (Ouch!!)
No, this was a blue that the human body does not produce of its own accord.
(It was a lovely shade, though, especially offset as it was by that beautiful white gown. It looked like it would go nicely with the tuxedos, too. Totally clashed with the bouquet, though.)
(She'll have my 'nads, now, if she ever reads this. Ah, well. Maybe I'll be holed up in Zambia by then....I hope.)
Selena gave us all probably a full minute to absorb the shock. She slowly scanned the entire chapel, glaring at every one of us, and silently daring anyone to be so rude as to make a negative comment about the bride's appearance at her wedding. No matter what color her skin might be, it was blazingly obvious that her temper was still red-hot.
That astonishing lady successfully stared down and intimidated and commanded the silence of over a hundred people, each one of whom had just been subjected to probably the most shocking site of any of their lives.
Standing next to Selena, of course, was her father, who offered nearly as much contrast as her gown. Vlad usually seemed rather dark, both of complexion and demeanor, but at that moment, given the choice, I would have rather sat down with Satan to negotiate the exact particulars of my already-guaranteed eternities in his domain, even if Satan happened that day to be suffering from constipation, PMS, and just having gotten dumped. The Lord of Hell would have seemed a pleasant coffee-companion, compared to Vlad. The idea of being the recipient of the savageries and tortures that were obviously being planned behind the eyes of that Middle East madman would have given even Dante nightmares.
Next, I glanced over to Max, wondering how my friend was taking this latest turn of events, not to mention shades. I had often known Max to be calm and philosophical in times of crisis, but I still thought it to be a little bit of bad form on his part to lean against me and take a nap while his fianc*, or maybe-wife-by-now (who could tell?) was going through such an obvious trauma. I was about to shake him awake as his knees began to fold and I began to realize that my friend, the stoic, unshakable, unflappable Max, had fainted.
I still had a hold on his arm and was attempting to shake him when his body let gravity win that round. Max isn't a huge man but neither am I, so his weight and my grasp were enough to bring us both tumbling to the floor in a rather ungraceful heap. Somehow in the fall, his arm managed to slip into my jacket and my leg got trapped in his armpit. As I was struggling to free myself, one of the other Men of Honor came over to help, but ended up tripping over the flailing limbs and became entangled with us.
Nicole later said that we looked like a bunch of homosexual penguins on acid playing Twisterš. I'm not speaking to Nicole right now.
Apparently our ruckus at the rail was a bit of an ice-breaker for the rest of the congregation. The tension that had filled the room with silence only a moment earlier had suddenly given way to more than a hundred babbling voices. And mind you, these were not the pleasant, cheery voices that you might have heard, say, between the opposing armies at Gettysburg just before they began slaughtering each other. No, this was a combination of a mental asylum and a Metallica concert. Any sanity we guests and families had been pretending to for the past three days was dismissed and forgotten during the next few minutes.
It was probably fortunate for me that I was on the floor, still "tangled up in blue." (Can I get sued for that, too? I sure could use the publicity....) The Men of Honor who were still standing, and most of the Women of Honor, as well, ended up being more involved than I would have liked in the next part of the ceremony. In my recounting of events, I consider this particular ritual a sort of impromptu homage to Eris, Ares, Mars, Tyr, Nixon, Freya, Loki, Osiris, Shiva, and all other gods and goddesses who reign over and revel in Madness and War.
My one ill-timed and ill-considered attempt to stand up and reason the crowd back into a wedding-appropriate frame of mind was met by Nicole's right roundhouse across my nose. Thinking quickly once again, I fell on my ass, and enjoyed the rest of the brawl in the relative peace of Max' still-prone shadow. I decided, perhaps a bit selfishly, that a man who has already fainted is less likely to suffer significantly than one who is still awake and nursing a broken nose. Besides, who was I to interfere with this obviously greatly-needed stress reliever?
After a couple of minutes of God's Little Home by the Wayside being turned into My Favorite Biker's Brawlroom, the clergy decided to make themselves heard. There were three ministers for this morning's round of rites, but it was the Lutheran who actually grabbed the band's microphone and began singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." It could have been that song that calmed everyone down, but it may also have been the effect of hearing a Negro spiritual written for foghorn-voiced men being sung by a blond soprano female Lutheran minister. Or maybe someone had slipped some time-released Valium into the coffee urn, and it just happened to kick in for everybody at the same time. You just never know about these things.
Whatever the case, everyone quieted down and looked, perhaps a bit sheepishly, toward the minister, who returned their collective gaze with a gentle firmness rivaled only by Weird Al, and maybe Jesus. In the kindest and yet most commanding voice I had ever heard, this bastion of rationality calmly said, "That's quite enough of that. Please return to your seats."
Everyone did this, of course, except for those of us who were supposed to be standing. Don (the other queer penguin) and I had finally succeeding in arousing Max. (Awakening him from his faint, you perverts! Sheesh!) The three of us stumbled awkwardly to our places at the rail and turned to await Max' bride. Still blue.
It seemed more appropriate now, though. More acceptable. Somehow, engaging in that fight seemed to put Selena's new complexion in a better light for all of us. The rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch. Or with a hitch, I guess I should say. Well, they got hitched, anyway.
The blue washed off about eight hours later, in the midst of a sensational and successful rain-dance. That, too, was a sight to see.
I later found out how Selena was "colorized," but I have been effectively sworn to secrecy. The culprit has arranged that, if I ever divulge the secret, or that person's identity, I will have certain body parts permanently stained a particularly nauseating shade of neon orange. I know that this could and would be done, and, having no desire to resemble a push-up for the rest of my life, I'll leave that last piece as just another very small thing that you don't need to know, so shut up and forget about it.
Send the kids a card and mention them in your prayers. As all the gods must know by now, they need all the help they can get. If you should ever feel like giving them gifts, though, don't send anything blue. For some reason, Selena seems to hate blue, these days....
for Andy, and also for Sara, whether she likes it or not
(The original version of this story first appeared in Pith, vol. I, issue 2. All rights reserved and revered.)