Читать книгу That Crazy Perfect Someday - Michael Mazza - Страница 13

6

The Friday-night rehearsal dinner is a classy sit-down soirée in a private room at Hotel del Flor’s Circa, a waterfront establishment that goes beyond the usual fare, with its exotic seafood and a Catalan chef. Tonight, it’s suits, ties, and dresses—my little black go-to with heels—but trust me, the wedding tomorrow is going to be a total Louis the XIV psychedelic partay. Twenty-five happy, anticipatory faces are seated along a beautifully dressed table jeweled with votive candles, calligraphic place cards, and glass vases filled with white tulips, the slat-wood ceiling spreading its ribs in an arc above. Beaded light sheens on the same fancy plates that the bride, my friend Penelope, has on her wedding registry.

Glasses clink, and the guests focus on Jerry, the best man, who’s standing at the head of the table with his champagne glass held high while Paul, the groom, a strapping Marine with biceps as thick as my thighs, looks on.

“Please stand up. Let’s raise a glass to Paul and Penelope . . .” yada yada “. . . found each other . . .” yada “. . . new road ahead . . .” yada. “I know about fifteen guys who, as of tomorrow, will be sobbing in their beer at the thought of Penelope with a wedding ring on her finger . . .”

The toast continues with a story of the couple stuck in a Jamaican hurricane, declarations of their love in the face of catastrophe, and closes with a wish for a hundred years of health and happiness. Penelope goes gooey with a thank-you and blows Jerry a kiss.

They seem like the perfect couple: Penelope, blond and pixie cute with a bubbly SoCal personality, a biology degree, and a brain Einstein would envy, and Paul, fresh out of the corps, taking on med school like he’s charging a hill. I’m truly happy for her, but I must admit to a tinge of envy. If I could ever get a relationship to take hold I wonder what a wedding would be like for me. Daddy blames himself for my relationship woes, since being raised by the Pentagon meant we never laid down roots anywhere. He holds this notion that maybe if I’d had a normal childhood—you know, growing up in the same house on the same street with a dog or cat with a gaggle of friends, actually having personal things (a stuffed animal collection or a bicycle, maybe)—and if I hadn’t had to pack up every six months, I might actually fit in somewhere, bleed all the salt from my veins, and be able to connect with a guy for longer than a few dates. But I think it’s more about what happens to a guy’s ego when he learns that I rode the Cortes wave that crushes any ideas of a first date. And the Olympian thing? Oh my God, talk about a repelling force field, which is pretty darn bad for a gal who gets a crush on any cute guy that walks by.

Anyway, there’s a big syrupy awwww before everyone stands, cheers, and clinks glasses. The skinny kid next to me, swallowed inside a blue suit, is Penelope’s seventeen-year-old brother, Nixon. We’re paired together in the wedding party. He’s sweet and cute, but tying a tie is clearly not his thing. On the flipside, his loopy brown curls, this untamed ’fro cascading off his head and dropping to his jawline, taking on a life of groovydom is wild, wonderful, plush, and ooh! I just want to dig my fingers into it. He’s computer-geek innocent, but though I’ll come to learn that he’s part Swedish, Guatemalan, and Chinese, his face is shocking white even in the dim candlelight.

Nixon clinks his glass against mine hard enough to slosh the champagne.

“Sorry,” he says with a nervous laugh. He clinks his glass on a few others, lifts it to his lips, then glances across the table to his father, who nods, it’s cool. He takes a sip and winces. We sit down.

“You like champagne?” he asks, setting his glass in front of him.

“It’s OK.” I say taking a sip. “The bubbles get me drunk super fast. You?”

“Of course,” he says, “Who doesn’t?”

There’s an incredible vulnerability in his soft brown eyes when he tells me this.

It’s weird, but he knows all about me, I mean, not just the public stuff. He knows my pizza preference (Hawaiian) and that I’m into the band Junk Bees. He knows that I have a penchant for mango-and-pineapple ice cream, that I’m a Pisces, and that my favorite earrings are a pair of little silver turtledoves. But the most interesting detail he knows is that I’m named after an atoll in the Maldives archipelago, a lonely little eyelash of an island in the Indian Ocean, surrounded by a ring of cerulean blue. I figure that Penelope briefed him so he wouldn’t feel awkward sitting next to me with nothing to say, but lack of conversation isn’t a problem.

“So, how long have you known my sister?”

“Five years,” I say. “You and I met when you were younger, but you just ignored me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, but you’re forgiven.”

I give Nixon the top line—became friends at UCSD, dated the same guy (who turned out to be a total cheat), both had a crush on our biology teacher, went to Cabo together for spring break—and leave out the part where we got drunk and ran down the beach at night completely naked, only to lose our clothes and use palm fronds to cover ourselves until we got back to the room. And also that I was there when Penny broke her ankle in the Veterans for Animal Rights 10K.

“I hear you’re now into gaming or something,” I say.

“Sort of,” he says, “I’m a pro gamer. I won the Amazon.com World Challenge in Tokyo last fall. Put me at number three in the world rankings. I’m shooting for the top spot, but the competition is pretty gnarly.”

“I know how that can be.”

“The Olympic hopeful thing is sick.”

“Number three in the world isn’t too stupid either,” I say.

“I won enough money to buy a Ferrari.”

“Really,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“I’d offer you a ride, but the law says I have to wait a few more weeks. It’s out in the parking lot. You can have a look if you want.”

“I’ll just take you up on that.”

“Insurance is like a zillion dollars, but my dad’s cool about covering it.”

Nixon breaks off a piece of bread, smearing it and his fingers with butter.

“So, where are you from originally?” he asks, taking a bite.

“Everywhere and nowhere,” I say. Nixon’s face scrunches. “I’m a navy brat. I was born in Guam, but I’ve lived all over: Florida, Tokyo, Italy. Ping-ponged around. Never long enough to call anywhere home.”

“I’m adopted and haven’t met my birth parents, so I can kind of relate—on the roots thing.”

“Do you want to meet them?”

“Yeah, I guess. Someday. But this is my family,” he says, gesturing around the table, “and they’re really pretty cool.”

Penelope’s family has a genuine pride and love for Nixon. Even though he’s not blood, he’s treated as such, which is what’s in store, I guess, when the baby of the family claims dizzying success. I have the same love and pride but without a huge group creating a tight love-circle around me when things go to hell. At best, I had some semblance of a family unit when Mom was alive: she, Daddy, and Pac. Small and nomadic is what navy life taught me. Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder what a big family would be like instead of an ever-shrinking unit. Now, with Mom gone, and Daddy off to wherever his mind takes him, I’m beginning to feel more and more alone.

“I think it’s totally cool that you rode that wave. You know, I like the smell of neoprene,” Nixon says.

“Whoa. Not sure what to react to, the wave or the neoprene.”

“The wave. Must have been pretty intense.”

I walk him through the whole experience, and we talk about competition at a world-class level—the pressure, expectation, and loneliness—and there’s a nonverbal connection, a link, and thrill that only elite competitors can understand.

In the parking lot, the night is still and starry. I can make out warships outlined in lights across the bay. I smell the diesel fuel, the tarry decks, and at once I’m back at the sea wall with my mom and a bunch of other navy families, watching Daddy the captain on the bridge of his carrier, signal-flashing I love you before the big gray ship slips through the channel and makes its way out to sea.

The partygoers drift down the illuminated walk lined with dwarf palms, say their good-byes, and slide into their cars, but not before reminding each other of the big day ahead.

Off at the far end of the lot, alone on the velvety black asphalt, is Nixon’s blue Ferrari 958 Italia hybrid. The sugary sapphire paint burns like a polished jewel under the lot’s cool lights.

“Are you on Facebook?” he asks as we meander toward his car.

“Yes and no. Who is anymore? I’ve been off social lately, but I jump on and off YouMee and Surfline social on occasion. You?”

“No,” he says, his face in ticks. “My parents use it. I’ve been diagnosed with social-sharing anxiety disorder, so Facebook’s not my bag—and it’s for old people. I mean, I have a page for the older gamers who follow me, but it’s like a party I’ve been invited to and I’m sitting in the corner of the room alone watching everyone talk with each other and have a good time. Besides, some dudes were writing junk about me. It really doesn’t bother me, though; I can take it, but my therapist advised that I stay off, at least for now.”

“I’ve got people writing nasty stuff about me, too. Doesn’t feel good, does it?”

“Negative.”

“Negative?”

“Why is that funny?”

“It’s not. But it’s used in the military a lot, and it just struck me, with my dad being a captain and all, or former captain. Anyway, I came to realize that I had twelve thousand “friends” and not a real one among them, so yeah.”

It occurs to me that talking to Nixon is a good step in supporting the growing trend to disconnect from social in favor of real personal relationships, and I think Nixon will help me get to that goal. He’s seven years younger, but I feel his sadness and isolation, and though I like to think of myself as a happy person with the stuff to punch a hole in the world, the little corner of sadness hanging out in my brain somehow connects with his.

“I’ve hacked my Facebook account into bot mode,” he tells me as we approach his Ferrari. “Recorded a bunch of phrases and put it through natural language processing so it answers my gaming fans with something funny. I even programmed some good comebacks for the trash talkers, which I’m not good at in real life. The AI is so good, nobody knows if it’s really me or not.”

“That’s so cool. I’d love to put my social pages in bot mode, too. I’m surprised you got away with it.”

“For now,” he says, opening his door with a click and a hush. “There aren’t any real person exchanges online anymore, anyway. So it’s kind of not new.”

“Whoa—nice ride, dude. The white interior is straight-up official.”

“Thanks. It’s pretty decent, I guess.”

“Tell you what,” I say. “Let’s go primitive. How about we exchange phone numbers?”

We bump phones to trade digits, and say good-bye. Soon, I’m in my Charger stopped behind Nixon’s Ferrari, its chrome stallion blinking orange in the light of his right-turn signal. Nixon turns onto the tree-lined boulevard, the car letting loose a throaty purr. You’d think it’d be all-out rubber and smoke. Instead, Nixon slides into the far-right lane and turtles along. I follow for fifty yards or so, then pull alongside him, hoping he’ll catch my eye and take my signal for a drag when I rev and lurch the Charger forward. But when I glance through his window, he’s hiked high in the driver’s seat, leaning forward with his hands at ten and two, driving like an old man ten below the limit. With a friendly honk, I smile and wave. Nixon smiles, too, a sweet orthodontics smile, and gives me a thumbs-up to acknowledge the Charger’s American cool.

Tomorrow’s an early one. I punch the gas and go.