Dxx Abroad

"One in the lobby, one under the table."

A* hands me Melanie's left pump. I bend over and lift the table skirting.

"No, fool." She points across the ballroom, beyond the sea of wedding guests now awkwardly gyrating to Beyonce's "Single Ladies" to the cluster of tables closest to the bar.   I am momentarily distracted by two doughy men emulating Beyonce's video in the circle that has been cleared on the dancefloor. They cross paths, bent at the waist and throwing timed punches at their own feet. I know A* has seen it too when I hear her groan. Minutes earlier I had amused her by dubbing myself Dancefloor Moses, raising my arms and commanding "Bounce, Pasty Motherfuckers" as the Black Eyed Peas reached the 'Easy Come! Easy Go!' portion of "I Gotta Feeling". And, predictable as any group of intoxicated caucasian heteros could be, bounce they did. "Not our table. Too easy. I want this loudmouthed asshat searching for her shoes until we come down for brunch."

The whole thing is juvenile. We both know it. But we can't help ourselves. When A* and I are in the same room, which these days is often less than twice a year, a certain alchemy takes place. Alchemy that usually ends with some deserving party as the subject of our combined malice. Emphasis on the deserving.

Tonight's victim is Melanie. Originally we had targeted the bride's Father and his wife. After watching the man belittle Leslie from the day I met her in college through the day she and her now husband moved out of the apartment the three of us shared in Manhattan, only to paint himself as some sort of model parent at her wedding, I wanted to throw a rock on the karmic scales.  Dad and his (fifth) wife are orthodox jews; Dad converted late in life so that he could marry the harridan and adopted the extra obnoxious religious zeal that comes with having to justify to oneself a major realignment of faith after fifty-odd years. His fervor for all things Hebrew transformed his role in Leslie's life from that of cameo annoyance to full time nag, backed by God.  It came as no surprise to me that Leslie walked herself down the aisle, or that she and her husband chose to have a ceremony devoid of religion, asking their closest friends instead to read carefully chosen song lyrics that they felt most spoke to them as a couple. Being asked to stand up and read the chorus to Bon Jovi's "Born to Be My Baby" felt a million times more appropriate for Leslie's wedding than that trite "Love is Patient, Love is Kind..." crap that mindlessly makes its way into every ceremony. Leslie and her husband embody that song: tongue-in-cheek rock and roll. And I love them for it.

The plan was fairly simple: A*, the Maid of Honour and I developed a game wherein the winner would be the one who touched their target parent the most times throughout the evening - Orthodox Jews are not permitted to have physical contact with members of the opposite sex save their spouses and immediate family, or they are subject to some sort of ritual cleansing. So began our campaign of frottage, escalating from a shoulder bump during cocktail hour to my sadly unrealized notion to honk StepMother's Boob. "Fuck 'em," were the Maid of Honour's exact words as she downed her third champagne, "They made Leslie miserable for years. I'm gonna hug the bastard. And then he'll have to take it up with God."

This was the plan. A way for A* and I to amuse ourselves at the expense of those that had it coming. And then Melanie sat down at the dinner table and started talking about her vagina as the salads were being served.

"I dunno... Someone said I had a scared vagina!" I look down at my salad and chase a cube of beet around the plate with my fork. "I don't know what that means, scared. I mean, I know there are different styles... some look scalloped and some-"

"Melanie! is it?" A* is squeezing my knee under the table, a long-ago developed signal that I must tactfully stop someone from speaking before she steps in to ensure it ends in tears. "Really...great to meet you. Leslie has told me so many nice things about you. But do you think, I mean, I'm sitting at the Ritz Carlton. I've got the Versace on. It looks like you had your hair done. We're all playing at better versions of ourselves. Any chance we can talk a little...less about your vagina?"

Apparently we can not. The conversation shifts briefly, but returns squarely to Melanie's nethers in a matter of minutes. And so we pass through 3 courses, the volume of Melanie's voice making it impossible to concentrate on anything other than her chosen topic of conversation. A*, quietly stewing to my right, reaches her limit as the entrees arrive.

"Melanie, I guess I wasn't here when you pulled 'vagina' from the hat of ice breaker discussion topics. But really, I'm about to have my dinner. And I'd like to enjoy my haddock. So please. I beg you. Talk about something else." Thankfully it is at this moment that the toasts begin.

Dad is up first with his welcome speech, which lasts some twenty minutes, includes three clearly delineated "concepts" and provides him, despite Leslie's repeated insistence that the day involve no religion other than whatever she calls out during the conjugal portion of the wedding night, with opportunity to force four readings from the Talmud into his daughter's special day.  Dick. A* leans into my ear and promises to "accidentally" grab his ass on the dance floor. StepMother is crouched in front of me taking photos. I lean forward and tap her on the shoulder, motioning for her to move to the left and provide me a better view. The Maid of Honour raises her glass to me from across the room.

The Best Man and Maid of Honour make short, heartfelt toasts, and then the Groom takes the mic. He spends the next five minutes paying such loving tribute to his bride, one of my oldest and closest friends, that I actually find myself close to tears. He lists all the ways in which she has changed him, admits that he never thought himself capable of settling down until he found her, and details those qualities that drew not only him, but everyone in attendance to her. The room is intoxicated with his adoration, seeing her through the eyes of the one man who could possibly love her more than any of us.

"...Generous to fault. Possessed of a sense of humor like no one I know. You're strikingly beautiful - "

The moment and every gorgeously heady and romantic thing about it are obliterated in a heartbeat. His speech instantly becomes memorable for an entirely different reason.

Melanie cackles.

The entire room does a spit take in her direction. Leslie actually breaks gaze with her husband and mouths, to no one in particular "What's funny about that?" The Maid of Honour slams back the last of her champagne and looks to me and A*, who leans forward of simply breathes "Oh. Nooooo." into my ear.

Melanie offers no excuse, just looks around and shrugs her shoulders and quacks "Whaaaaat?" at the crowd. No apology. This wasn't church giggles. Not nervous laughter. Melanie has exposed herself as little more than an obnoxious twat. She may as well have used the red wine clutched in her left hand to paint a bullseye on her dress. I can hear A* mentally cocking a pistol. The toast continues. When it's over we're brought sorbet. No one mentions Melanie's guffaw. No one mentions her vagina, either.

So now, hours later, the incident forgotten for the time being by everyone except A* and myself, Melanie has removed her expensively tacky shoes to participate in the exercise in public embarassment that is wedding reception dancing. She is a lifelong friend of Leslie's, though judging by the others at our table one who was invited simply by virtue of her membership in a group of lifelong friends who have more or less grown apart. This relationship makes direct assault inadvisable at best. And so A* and I must take the low road. As I make my way around the outside of the ball room I catch sight of Melanie thrusting her not-inconsiderable backside in the direction of Leslie's husband to the tune of "Jungle Boogie". A* turns and waves to me from the exit before slipping between the doors and into the lobby. I will not ask her where she put her shoe. She will not ask where I put mine. Like terrorists we operate independently on our personal missions within the greater plan so we can not implicate each other should one of us be caught and questioned.

We rendez-vous at the corner of the dance floor and make our way into the crowd. Leslie and her husband shout "Friends!" at us ('Friend' being the pet name we four use for each other interchangeably) and embrace us in a group hug. "I'm so happy you guys came all this way. It means the world to me." Leslie is almost crying. To my surprise I am too. "I hope you're having fun!"  We assure her, truthfully, that we are. Our foursome is absorbed by the dancing horde and A* and I become 2 slightly swarthier bodies among them. Between us we possess infinitely more rhythm, a lifetime's worth of absurd stories and the sole knowledge that come sunup, Melanie will still be looking for her shoes.