Every Boy's Got One

PDA of Cal Langdon

PDA of Cal Langdon

I was right from the beginning. From the moment I first laid eyes on her—holding all those water bottles in the duty free shop back at JFK— I thought to myself, “There’s a nut case.”

I called it.

And yet… she made some very miserable people very happy tonight. I never saw a bigger pair of sad sacks than Holly and Mark, slumped at that giant dining table, when we walked through the door tonight. Mark, of course, looked particularly lost, since he’s blind as a bat without his glasses. I walked in and handed them to him — I actually had to put them on his head, since he couldn’t even see me holding them out to him — and then Jane slapped that form onto the table with a big, “Here’s your wedding present.”

I actually thought Frau Schumacher might have a heart attack, she was so excited.

And to tell you the truth, it was a little upsetting, because I could picture myself, having to give her mouth-to-mouth to revive her, while Mark pounded on her chest. And I have the disturbing idea— maybe from the way the woman hangs on my every word (though surely this is because I’m the only one here who speaks German?)—that if she came to and found my lips on hers, even giving her the breath of life, she might actually… well, sort of enjoy it. Maybe even slip me the tongue.

Could it be that Jane is right? Could there possibly be something to her theory that marriage is all right for some people—that it didn’t work out for Valerie and me because Valerie was… well, a “ho”?

This seems an oversimplification of the problems Valerie and I had.

And yet…

Well, marriage certainly seems like it might be all right for Mark and Holly. They’re happy enough about it, jumping around as much as they can, considering their still queasy stomachs. I have to say, I can’t understand how anybody could be as delighted as they are at the prospect of being married by the socialist mayor of a town devoted to accordion construction, thousands of miles from their families.

But maybe there’s something romantic about it that I’m missing. Valerie always accused me of not being romantic enough. The sewing machine I got her for Valentine’s Day was always a bone of contention. She said she’d have preferred a diamond tennis bracelet.

But I thought a sewing machine was a much more practical gift, considering how much she was spending on clothes…

Now Holly’s grabbed Jane and the two of them—followed closely by Frau Schumacher, who seems fairly spry for her age and apparently doesn’t like to be left out of anything—have disappeared, apparently in a panicked quest to ease the wrinkles out of the wedding gown none of the rest of us is allowed to see.

With the girls otherwise occupied, Peter and I attempted to throw perhaps the lamest, most pathetic bachelor party in the history of time for Mark. Lame because of course the groom is so weak from food poisoning he can barely lift his glass to his lips. Pathetic because the only entertainment are the stray cats from last night, back for another helping of fish.

That’s right. No lap dances or kamikazes for Mark.

But perhaps this is fitting for a man who has chosen such a perverse—and yet strangely right—place to wed.

Now Mark’s staggered back upstairs to bed—interrupting the girls while Holly was trying on the wedding gown, judging from the indignant screams I just heard floating down from the window—leaving me alone with young Peter, who just asked me if I thought Jane Harris would be back down, or if I thought she’d go straight to bed.

How touching that this young man believes I am in any way privy to Ms. Harris’s private thoughts or intentions. As this is an entirely erroneous assumption, however, I was forced to inform him that I did not, in fact, know.

Then the little malcontent had the nerve to look in my eye and ask me just what, precisely, were my intentions toward the lady in question.

Not in so many words, of course. His exact phrasing, uttered in a highly disapproving tone, was, “Are you and Jane Harris lowers?” by which I am assuming he meant lovers. I can’t say I cared for the smug look that crept over the kid’s face when I told him that we most certainly were not.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so adamant?

At least he didn’t say anything. Instead, he calmly produced a deck of cards from the back pocket of his jeans and asked if I cared to play a game of War.

Reduced to spending a beautiful, starlit night along the Adriatic coast playing War with a German teenager.

I can’t help wondering if the man at the consulate’s office wasn’t right this afternoon when he expressed his belief that it’s better to have a corpse in the house than a man from Le Marche. Not that there happen to be any of those in the vicinity. Just that… well, this place seems to do things to otherwise normal people.…

___________________________________________