A Day in the Life...

I used to be a little boy So old in my shoes And what I choose is my choice What's a boy supposed to do The killer in me is the killer in you, my love I send this smile over to you --Smashing Pumpkins, "Disarm" Friday, 8 AM meeting. "I want lively discusson," comes the message from Bill. "You do know it's an 8 AM meeting, right?" I reply. Friday. Begin the day with red name, end with black words. Legitimacy. It's official. Red means temp. Black means permanent. It's nice. So long in flux, so long without security. Fell ass-backwards in to right place at right time. Still, dreading end of day. Rehearsal. Why am I here? The church I once called home. I left, it moved. First wedding on new campus. I call the place "The Monstrosity on North Under the Shadow of the Majestic Prayer Penis." Wordy, yes. 144-foot backlit prayer tower seems a little extreme. It's there over the trees more than two miles away. A light to the world I'm sure. Wedding's in the chapel. Everyone agrees it's almost as big as the sanctuary of the old building. Main auditorium is smaller than I'd thought. Still, 2000 seats. Stadium, almost. Jesus Christ, Superstar, I guess. It's a place for concerts, not congregations. Plays, not prayers. Pastor is a blow hard. Going to present the gospel as part of the wedding ceremony. Didn't like it in the past when done by pastors I liked and respected. Pull the groom aside, "Are you really going to let him do that?" "Yeah," is the confused reply. Apparently I'm the crazy one for asking. Why am I here? Why am I best man? Why did I say yes? Wedding traditions. Kind of insane. Mother and father give the bride away. What the fuck is that? If I ever get married that won't be in the ceremony if I have a say. Give the bride away. No one gives the groom away. Does anyone listen to the words, or are they just there? Is it just tradition? Give the bride away. I don't care here. No dog in the fight. If I get married, though, it's not to property. She won't belong to me. Rehearsal breaks down. Everybody's goofing off. Only ran through once. Where am I supposed to be? Everyone wants dinner. Time to leave. Groom stands alone, surrounded by mother, father, bride to be, me. "What's wrong?" "No one was paying attention." "We'll talk about it in the car." Walk back up the aisle. Grab my old friend. "It's almost over. Twenty-four hours and you'll be married." Deep breath. "Less than that." Starting to remember why I'm here. Restaurant. Bride's father prays. Madonna's "Material Girl" playing softly above. Strangely apropos. Bridal party gifts. Best Man gets two. Sweet. Engraved pen. It's nice. I like pens. I'm a writer, after all. Even if my preferred tool is a nine-year-old Toshiba laptop. Always a place for a pen. Other gift. Hefty. Metal. Cylinder. "Friends Through Time" written on top. It probably opens. something must be inside. "Twist it." "Oh." It's a clock. Somehow I already knew. "Do you remember?" "Of course." How could I forget? Friends through time. Seventh grade. School principle who couldn't set his own clock. Fourteen years later I'm best man. This is why I'm here. How could I forget? Get some beers. Groom, best man, two groomsmen, a wife, a fiancee. White Sox on TV. Winning when we arrive, but playing in Oakland. Automatic loss. Drop game 6-4. Swear at TV. Two couples, a groom-to-be, and me. Hacker-Pschorr, Newcastle, Fat Tire. I like to keep my beer varied. They drink mixes, Killian's, whatever. Talk turns to impending marriage. Realize I don't really care. Marriage. Couples. Not my world. I'm that guy. Closer to thirty than twenty and single. No prospects, either. Not really looking. New job. Storytelling. Writing. No time. Besides, it all seems like a pain in the ass. What the hell is the point? I don't get it. Bar is filled with women. Drunk girl nearby is falling out of her top, dancing awkwardly with Abercrombie & Fitch fratboy. Other girl looked on the verge of tears twenty minutes ago, now having lots of fun. Jukebox has all kinds of stuff, nothing I really like. Settle on Candlebox's "Far Behind," Nirvana's "Lithium." Candlebox released a new CD this year. Ten years off. Where the hell have they been? Where have I been? 1998. High school. Oh, right. Couples and groom to be discuss marriage. Olympics on TV. Diving. Random circles and arrows highlight aspects of a competition I don't understand. I fill in the muted words. "See, she's got feet." "She's standing straight up." "Look, an ear." Girls in tank tops and shorts walk back and forth. I really don't care. There's nothing there, no point. Where's the waitress? Maybe she'll come back. I like the waitress. She's not falling out of her shirt. She's got a little too much eyeliner. Other girls in the bar are probably hotter. But the waitress just has...something. It's the eyes. They're bright, wide, accented by a nice smile, pleasant features in a round face. I like round faces. Weddings. Marriages. Couples. Too much talk from my table mates. What's the point? I don't want to get married. Who would? Where's the waitress? Why does it matter? Night air. Walk back to the car. Plenty of others out. I wonder if they think there's a plan, a grand design to the world. There isn't one. I miss "Rita." We all remember her, right? Wait. No I don't. I couldn't stand her by the end. My family, all my friends, at least the one's who's opinion I trusted, say I'm better off. Not in that fake, "There's plenty of fish in the sea," sort of way, but in the, "She was a bitch. We kept trying to tell you. You didn't listen," sort of way. Harsh. But true. I don't miss her. I miss the idea of her. What happened? Where have I been between Candlebox CDs? Where am I going? What's the plan? Weddings are stupid. Maybe. I don't know. Johnnie Walker Black. Ice. Words on a screen, a laptop I call Dinosaur, Jr., after the band. I knew a girl once. I think she was everything I wanted, maybe everything I needed. Check that. I thought she was everything. If I saw her now I think I'd just pass by. I thought Rita was the only answer. Now she's just another word. I suspect that I am to her, too. Funny how that happens. One day they're your world, the next they might as well be on another planet. I couldn't call her if I wanted to. Took her number off my phone, deleted all her emails. I know a girl now. She might be everything I want, everything I need. But there's one little detail that's actually a big problem. I'm a child, anyway. A little boy. I can barely take care of myself. Why would I think I'm capable of taking care of anyone else? Another life time, maybe. When I'm not such a fool. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. That's how it goes, right? What if I can't love? What if I don't marry? What if the entire female gender is smart enough to realize that there's no way I should be given responsibility for a tiny little life? Where's that waitress? Clocks. Time. 1998. 1994. Soundgarden released Superunknown that year. I made a friend through time. I listened to Superunknown on my way to the rehearsal. Coincidence, not design. Just in the mood. I'm starting to remember. I'm starting to forget. Do my questions have answers? Or are there just more questions? Ah, well. Sleep. Time enough for that in the morning.