The Best Man
I’m getting married.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!!!!!!!!!!!!
Fine, I know I’m way too old to be running around yelling and shrieking just because I recently got engaged. But you only get engaged once (hopefully), and I’ve already been a bridesmaid four times, so I feel like I’m due. It’s my turn, gosh darn it!
Ted and I are continuing to make this long distance thing work for just a little while longer. Right after he proposed to me, he stuck around another week, and I’ve made it out to Mountain View once since then. We do FaceTime every day. We watch movies together while talking on the phone. And every month, he sends me these adorable care packages filled with cookies and stuffed animals holding hearts that sing to me.
And of course, it’s not like this is a permanent situation. We’re not going to have to FaceTime our baby’s birth. Ted has feelers out, and he’s going to relocate to New York or New Jersey as soon as he gets a decent opportunity out here. Which shouldn’t be long, because he’s amazing at what he does.
Honestly, he’s the best fiancé I could possibly ask for.
Last night, Ted called me to let me know that he put down a deposit for six months from now on a location for the wedding in Niagara Falls—my dream location. It’s supposed to be a beautiful place to get married. We argued about this, because most of Ted’s friends are on the west coast, and obviously, Niagara Falls is on the east coast. But Ted’s family is all on the east coast, and all of my family and friends are on the east coast.
“So that’s three-quarters of our guests who are on the east coast,” I pointed out to Ted during a recent FaceTime chat.
“Yes,” he agreed, “but doesn’t that mean we should pick a place to get married that’s three-quarters of the way between California and New Jersey?”
So we looked at a map to see where three-quarters of the way between California and New Jersey was, and we ended up with Indiana. Nothing against Indiana, but neither of us were particularly excited about getting married there. So… Niagara Falls it was. And Ted is now completely on board with it.
Because Ted has compromised so much, I have been trying to acquiesce to all his requests. Such as the one he made when we were chatting on the phone a few nights ago.
“So, listen, Kirby,” he began.
I could already tell from Ted’s voice that he was going to ask a favor of me. That’s how well I know him, even though we’ve never lived within a two-thousand mile radius of one another.
“So you know how I told you that my best man John doesn’t live too far away from you?” Ted said.
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“I was just wondering,” he said, “if you might be willing to go help him out with some of the best man duties.”
I crinkled my nose. This did not sound like a fun request, like when he asked me if I’d pick out some edible lingerie for the next time we got together. “Like what?”
“Like picking out a stripper for my bachelor party,” Ted joked. (I think he was joking. Hmm, maybe not.) “Seriously though, he might appreciate the help. Anyway, you ought to meet Johnny. He’s my best friend in the whole world since we were eight years old.”
I had to admit, I was curious to meet John. Even though I’d never even spoken to the guy, I felt like I knew him after hearing Ted’s stories about how the two guys went kayaking or camping together, or hilarious stories about their failed attempts to pick up girls. (“John’s an even worse nerd than I am!”) I didn’t see any way I could not like the guy.
So that, in case you’re wondering, is why I’m wandering around a Barnes and Noble in east Jersey, searching for John, who assured me on the phone that he’d be wearing a Mets cap. I didn’t see him in the café when I first came in, so I started walking around the bookstore, briefly getting distracted by the 30% rack, and now I’m back at the café and still no Mets cap.
I’m nervous as all hell. We may be engaged, but technically, Ted and I have only been together a year, and it would mean a lot to get the Best Friend Stamp of Approval. How awesome would it be if John texted Ted after our meeting and told him how cool I am? That is, if he ever shows up.
I swear, if he doesn’t come soon, I’m going to have to buy this rustic apple tart I keep eying and then my jeans won’t fit me anymore.
While I’m doing my best to not buy the apple tart (don’t do it, Kirby!), I notice that there’s this guy slouched forward slightly in a wheelchair who keeps staring at me. The wheelchair isn’t the kind you see at the hospital, with the giant handles on the back and clunky metal footrests. This one is smaller and sleeker, although the backrest goes up to his shoulder blades. I always think of old people as needing wheelchairs, but this guy isn’t old at all—he looks a little older than I am, maybe early thirties. And he isn’t bad looking—just the opposite. He’s crazy hot. Not conventionally handsome the way Ted is, but in a more exotic way, with high cheekbones and deep brown, slightly slanted almond-shaped eyes. Even though his skin is as white as mine, it’s clear his relatives came from somewhere more interesting than England and Ireland, like mine.
I have no idea why this guy is staring at me, but it occurs to me that while it is not really okay for him to stare at me, it’s really not okay for me to stare at him. I mean, I’m not four years old.
Look away, Kirby. Look away now, before it gets creepy.
“Hey,” the guy says to me.
Oh no. He’s going to call me out for staring at him. What’s wrong with me? Sometimes I think they shouldn’t let me go out in public with other human beings. I try to hide my face and pretend I didn’t hear him.
“Kirby?”
My mouth falls open. How does this guy know my name?
And that’s when I realize that there’s a Mets cap on the table in front of him.
“John?” I say breathlessly.
He nods. “That’s me.”
I am going to kill Ted. How could he not mention to me that his best friend in the entire world is disabled? Yes, it shouldn’t matter and everyone is perfect in their own way and all that crap, but I’m too aggravated to be politically correct in my head. How could that bastard not warn me about this? What was up with all those camping stories? John can’t… I mean, I don’t see how he could possibly…
“I’m really sorry,” I say as I slide into the seat across from John. “I just didn’t realize that… I mean, Ted never told me you were…”
John smiles crookedly. “Half-Asian? Yeah, that throws some people off. But you get used to it.”
Ha ha. Well, at least the guy has a sense of humor. I can see the half-Asian thing is true too, although I might not have guessed it if he hadn’t pointed it out. Like I said, his skin is as white as mine, but it explains those slightly slanted, slightly sexy almond eyes.
Now that I’m sitting with John, I have an excuse to study him for a minute. He obviously has some sort of impairment beyond the fact that he can’t walk. And by that I mean that his hands are impaired too. There are deep grooves between the tendons on the back of his hands, and I notice he uses his wrists to steady a mystery drink that he’s got in a paper bag (alcohol?) with a long straw sticking out of it. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, but from what I can see of his forearms, the muscles are just as wasted as in his hands. I have no idea what’s wrong with him, but it’s definitely not a broken ankle or something like that. It’s something serious and permanent.
I cough. “Ted just never told me that you use a… you know…”
John leans forward and stage-whispers, “It’s called a wheelchair.”
“Right.” I try to smile. It’s not easy. “I just didn’t know. Otherwise, I would have recognized you. Obviously.”
Why did I say it like that? God, I sound like such an idiot sometimes.
“You’re just not exactly what I expected,” I finish awkwardly. And then I crawl into a hole and die. So much for the Best Friend Stamp of Approval.
John raises his eyebrows at me. “Yeah? Well, neither are you, to be honest.”
What is that supposed to mean?
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
John shrugs his thin shoulders. “I don’t know. I’ve just never seen Ted date a girl who looks anything like you before, that’s all.”
What?
“So what kind of girl does he usually date?”
“Usually?” John rubs his chin with the ball of his hand. “Usually he seems to like these skinny blond types.”
What???
“Are you saying that I’m not as attractive as Ted’s previous girlfriends?” I nearly scream. A few people in the café turn to look at us, and I feel my cheeks grow hot.
“I didn’t say that at all.” A tiny smile twitches at the corners of John’s lips. “I just noted that they were blond and skinny. You made that interesting leap about attractiveness all by yourself.” He pauses as my cheeks grow still warmer. “Although now that you mention it, yeah, they were all pretty hot.”
Forget me getting John’s stamp of approval. I don’t think he’s getting mine.
If this were anyone else besides my future husband’s best friend, I probably would have marched out on him by now. But I can’t do that. I may be seeing this guy hundreds, maybe thousands of times over the rest of my life, and I have to make an effort.
“Listen,” I say quietly. “How about if we start over?”
John leans in to take a sip from the straw sticking out of his mystery bag. He nudges the bag slightly closer with one of his stiff, thin hands. By now, it’s become obvious to me that he can’t move his hands at all. Does he have cerebral palsy? Lou Gehrig’s disease? I have no idea. My mind is a blank. “Start over?”
“Like, start fresh,” I say. “I mean, when you agreed to meet your best friend’s fiancée, is this how you imagined our conversation going?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” John smiles crookedly. “But then again, I had information you didn’t.”
That’s for sure.
“But yeah, that sounds fine,” he says. “Let’s start over.” Then he adds, “Whatever that means.”
Starting over apparently means sitting together in awkward silence for the next several minutes, until I finally crack and run over to get that apple tart. I consider offering to get something for John, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how he’d be able to eat it and I’m terrified of saying one more stupid, ignorant thing.
I bring my warm apple tart back to the table, as images of Ted’s alleged skinny, blond ex-girlfriends dance before my eyes. Goddamn you, John.
“Christ,” John mutters, breaking the silence between us. “I really hate Barnes and Noble.”
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “What’s to like? Bookstores are completely passé—they’re on their way to being extinct. Like travel agents and bubble gum.”
Hey, what’s wrong with bubble gum? But I’ll deal with that one later.
“I love bookstores,” I argue. “It’s so fun to just browse around the store, pull books off the rack that you like, and then get to have them immediately.”
“Um,” John says. “You realize you could do that in a library, right? And there the books are free instead of ridiculously overpriced. Why would you pay fifteen bucks for something you’ll only read once? It’s a waste of both paper and money.”
“I love the smell of a new book,” I say.
John stares at me. “Really? That’s your best argument. The smell. Of a book. Wow.”
Asshole.
“Anyway,” he says. “Paper books probably won’t exist at all in fifty years from now. Everything will be in electronic form.”
“You are completely wrong,” I say, getting so worked up that I nearly slam my fist against the table. “There’s no substitute for the feel of a book in your hands.”
John squints at me. “Yeah, I’ll have to take your word for it.”
My face flushes. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who’s made me quite this simultaneously angry and uncomfortable in the course of twenty minutes.
John nods his head at the line for the cashier. “Just look at all those idiots buying overpriced books. What’s wrong with people?”
I take a deep cleansing breath, like I learned to during the three month period when I attempted to go to yoga classes until I realized I hated yoga. I’m releasing my inner chi, or some crap like that. Namaste. No, I am not going to get angry at John. He’s just an asshole, and it’s not worth my energy.
“Look,” I say. “I actually sort of have to go.”
“Oh yeah?” John raises his eyebrows. “You said in your email that you’d be free all afternoon.”
Yes, but that was before I realized you were a dick.
“Right,” I mumble. “But I had to make an emergency doctor’s appointment.” John raises his eyebrows again, and I quickly add, “It’s nothing serious. It’s just this thing. With my… leg. It’s just… yeah.”
John gives me a curious look, but doesn’t probe further. “Well, it was nice to meet you then, Kirby. I guess.”
I yank my purse off the back of the chair, and pull on my coat. As I look at John sitting there in his wheelchair, it occurs to me that maybe now he’s stuck here. I’m assuming someone must have driven him here and now he’ll have to wait for whoever dropped him off. It’s clear he wouldn’t ask for help, but I feel obligated to offer. I may hate the guy, but I’m not totally heartless.
“Hey,” I say. “Do you need help… getting back home?”
That crooked smile touches John’s lips. And that’s when I know that I’m in for it.
Get !