I’m a Wedding Artist.

19 Oct

After eight or so years of dating, my friends Lanny and Angela are getting married. This is pretty exciting, I’ll admit. They want to have a pretty traditional ceremony. I would like to respectfully say that that idea sucks. Weddings should be tremendous, theatrical affairs that no one will ever forget. Your wedding day should mark the best day of your married life, with all days following becoming worse and worse until you die in each other’s arms Notebook style.

The other day I texted Lanny, asking if he wanted to get loaded on Dayquil and shoot stuff at the junkyard, and he told me that he was doing “Wedding planning stuff.” Off hand, I asked him where they were planning at. He told me they were planning at his house in like thirty minutes. I chugged my Dayquil, fired a couple rounds at what I thought to be a bat but was actually a shadow, and got in my car.

When I get to Lanny’s house, they’re already meeting in the kitchen, sitting around the table. I stroll in, still dazed as hell from the Quil.

“Kyle? What are you doing here?” One of the blurs in front of me asks.

I pointed at the blur and said “Dsfeeeeet.” Then I fell down. With somebody’s help, I get up, shake out the cobwebs, and sit down on a chair opposite the rest of the group. I think I suffered a concussion.

“Are you all right?” Lupe Frayre, Angela’s mom, asks.

“I’m good. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Yea, I’m good.” I mean to give the whole gang a ‘thumbs-up,’ but my motor functions are still malfunctioning, so I end up flipping them all off. A collective gasp shoots through the room. My vision is still not 100%, so I think it’s a family of snakes hissing at me. I get scared, start swinging my arms wildly, and fall down again. This time, however, I’m able to get myself back into my seat. After another concussion, my vision is almost entirely restored.

“Do you need us to call a doctor?” Lanny’s father asks. Angela is sitting in silence, arms crossed, shaking her head at me.

“Yea, I do,” I say. Lucy Thompson, Lanny’s mother, walks toward the phone. “A wedding doctor.” I lean over the table and smile wryly. Silence.

“Jesus,” Henry Frayre whispers.

“Maybe you should go home,” Lanny says.

“I plan on it. My house is where my porn is.” I wink at no one in particular. I elbow Henry and he immediately recoils. “But first, I have a few ideas for the wedding–if you’d be so kind to hear them.”

“We won’t,” Angela says. There is murder in her stare.

“Well, I parked the wrong way on the driveway, so you guys can’t leave and might as well hear what I have to say.” Gary Thompson’s face is now in his hands. “Plus, I need to come down off the Dayquil and the two concussions.”

“Hurry,” Lanny says.

“OK.” I put my hands together and stand. “As you all know, I’ve been a father figure to Angela and Lanny for almost ten years now.”

“I actually don’t know that,” Gary, Lanny’s father, says.

“Yes, I’d agree. I feel like I’ve been more of a father figure to Angela, considering that I actually am her real father,” Henry says.

“Well,” I say. I begin to pace around the room as if it were a stage. “I’ve helped mold them into the people they are. In a way, I helped create them. They are my babies. My babies.”

“With all due respect, Kyle, two years ago I had to teach you how to make scrambled eggs,” Lanny says.

“It’s a complicated process,” I say.

“It’s putting eggs in a pan.”

“It’s putting my foot in your ass if you keep talking to your father like that.” Everybody seems to pretty upset by this. “OK, OK, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Can I go on?” Gary leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “OK, so. This is what I’m getting at.” I put both palms down on the table, scanning both families. “I want to walk Angela down the aisle.”

“What?! No,” Henry interjects. Similar sentiments are being put forth by Angela’s mother.

“This is getting ridiculous. Kyle, Henry has waited his entire life to walk Angela down the aisle.” Lupe reaches over and puts her hand on Henry’s shoulder, patting him lightly.

“And I’ve been waiting for the past three or four days when I first had this idea.” Nobody seems moved. “I almost, like, cried.” Still, no one seems to care. “OK. I can understand your anger, but I’ve worked on a compromise.”

“Let’s hear it,” Gary says.

“I want to walk Lanny down the aisle.”

“Good Christ,” Angela says.

“Angela!” Lupe says.

“I’m pretty sure Jesus is up in heaven hating every second of this,” Angela says. “I’m almost positive this guy isn’t going to heaven. Almost positive.”

“Angela can be waiting at the altar,” I say.

“I’m positive now.”

2 Responses to “I’m a Wedding Artist.”

  1. angela at 1:01 pm #

    Two things:
    For every time I am mentioned in this blog, that’s how many times I’m going to punch you square in the face.

    Also, small typo: “This is getting ridiculous. Kyle, Henry has waited his entire life to walk Angela down the aisle.” Lupe reaches over and puts her hand on Lupe’s shoulder, patting him lightly.” *Henry’s shoulder

    I giggled quite a bit. Thank you for this, Iron Kyle.

  2. Amanda at 1:45 pm #

    I’m sad I wasn’t at this planning session. It sounds great!

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