long mirrors. I pressed on it, and of course it didn't budge.
Did I mention I hate parties? Luckily, I had a flash of a memory, something from middle school that gave me hope. I'd taken my friend Vivek to my church's end-of-summer roller skating party. Vivek was the only Indian kid in our town. His house had statues of human elephants and four-armed women who appeared regularly in my dreams. About halfway through the party, the youth pastor asked us to sit at the far end of the rink. He skated up. "Is everyone having a good time?" he asked. We all said yes. "Let me ask you a question," he said. "Does everyone here know for sure that they're going to Heaven?" Again, we all nodded. But the pastor looked puzzled. "Well, my question for you is, how doyou
know
? Let's try something else," he said. "Raise your hand if you've accepted Jesus Christ into your heart."
We all put our hands up. Everyone except Vivek. For a second, I watched him look blankly from person to person. Everyone was staring at him. His hand wavered, and then it went up too.
I'm not a particularly brave person. My school was small, and you were either in or you were out. And when you were out, you were really out.
But something about the whole situation rubbed me the wrong way. So, I put my hand down. I looked at Vivek, and after a moment, his hand came back down too.
I figured if God wanted to know what was in my heart, he could just look.
Now I
was
Vivek, in this vast room of strangers of a very different religion. I just hoped some of the karma from that day might swing back around tonight.
I was filled with a sudden sense of liberation. I started thinking of all the things I would do when tonight was over. I thought about that girl I met in the middle of the night and walked home, the one who spilled her oranges everywhere. I figured I might just march right up to her door, ring the doorbell, and ask her out. So what if she'd already turned me down? She was distraught. She thought I was judging her. She was judging herself. I wanted to tell her to lighten up, let it go, come have a slice of pizza and be a normal twenty-five-year-old for once. I mean, does everyone here have to take themselves so damn
seriously
? Is that what we get out of this school--the belief that everything we do is a matter of national importance? If that's the case, I thought, it's going to be hard to ever have fun again.
I looked at myself in the mirror, straightened my tie, checked my teeth, and marched into the crowd.
* * *
Halfway through my second drink, I bumped into a walrus of a man, complete with a comically curled mustache. His tuxedo shirt strained at the buttons, and his woolly hair was parted on the left and traveled away from his cowlick in two heavily gelled waves. I don't know if I walked into him or he walked into me; more likely, the crowd surged us together, until there was no choice but to say something. I would've been okay with "Excuse me," but he raised a plate and showed me a half-devoured piece of cake.
"I shouldn't be eating this," he confided.
"Why not?"
"Just had a quadro six months ago. Know what a quadro is?"
"Not really."
"Quadruple bypass. Fucking doctors cracked my chest wide open. Got a scar from here to here. Nasty. Wife says I look like Frankenstein."
Frankenstein on an all-brownie diet, maybe.
"Know the old saying 'Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse'?"
"Sure. Like James Dean."
"Right-o. My motto is, 'Live fast, see your cardiologist, and leave a fat old corpse!'"
He gave a wheezy, disturbing laugh that involved his hands and shoulders. He mopped the walrus mustache with a handkerchief.
"Beautiful ceremony, no?" he asked, mouth full of cake.
Ceremony? What was he talking about?
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Good grief, man, the
wedding
."
What wedding?
I decided to play along, for lack of a better plan.
"Yeah," I said. "It was great." I held out my hand. "Jeremy Davis."
"Ah. Gordon Perry." He crushed my hand in his
Did I mention I hate parties? Luckily, I had a flash of a memory, something from middle school that gave me hope. I'd taken my friend Vivek to my church's end-of-summer roller skating party. Vivek was the only Indian kid in our town. His house had statues of human elephants and four-armed women who appeared regularly in my dreams. About halfway through the party, the youth pastor asked us to sit at the far end of the rink. He skated up. "Is everyone having a good time?" he asked. We all said yes. "Let me ask you a question," he said. "Does everyone here know for sure that they're going to Heaven?" Again, we all nodded. But the pastor looked puzzled. "Well, my question for you is, how doyou
know
? Let's try something else," he said. "Raise your hand if you've accepted Jesus Christ into your heart."
We all put our hands up. Everyone except Vivek. For a second, I watched him look blankly from person to person. Everyone was staring at him. His hand wavered, and then it went up too.
I'm not a particularly brave person. My school was small, and you were either in or you were out. And when you were out, you were really out.
But something about the whole situation rubbed me the wrong way. So, I put my hand down. I looked at Vivek, and after a moment, his hand came back down too.
I figured if God wanted to know what was in my heart, he could just look.
Now I
was
Vivek, in this vast room of strangers of a very different religion. I just hoped some of the karma from that day might swing back around tonight.
I was filled with a sudden sense of liberation. I started thinking of all the things I would do when tonight was over. I thought about that girl I met in the middle of the night and walked home, the one who spilled her oranges everywhere. I figured I might just march right up to her door, ring the doorbell, and ask her out. So what if she'd already turned me down? She was distraught. She thought I was judging her. She was judging herself. I wanted to tell her to lighten up, let it go, come have a slice of pizza and be a normal twenty-five-year-old for once. I mean, does everyone here have to take themselves so damn
seriously
? Is that what we get out of this school--the belief that everything we do is a matter of national importance? If that's the case, I thought, it's going to be hard to ever have fun again.
I looked at myself in the mirror, straightened my tie, checked my teeth, and marched into the crowd.
* * *
Halfway through my second drink, I bumped into a walrus of a man, complete with a comically curled mustache. His tuxedo shirt strained at the buttons, and his woolly hair was parted on the left and traveled away from his cowlick in two heavily gelled waves. I don't know if I walked into him or he walked into me; more likely, the crowd surged us together, until there was no choice but to say something. I would've been okay with "Excuse me," but he raised a plate and showed me a half-devoured piece of cake.
"I shouldn't be eating this," he confided.
"Why not?"
"Just had a quadro six months ago. Know what a quadro is?"
"Not really."
"Quadruple bypass. Fucking doctors cracked my chest wide open. Got a scar from here to here. Nasty. Wife says I look like Frankenstein."
Frankenstein on an all-brownie diet, maybe.
"Know the old saying 'Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse'?"
"Sure. Like James Dean."
"Right-o. My motto is, 'Live fast, see your cardiologist, and leave a fat old corpse!'"
He gave a wheezy, disturbing laugh that involved his hands and shoulders. He mopped the walrus mustache with a handkerchief.
"Beautiful ceremony, no?" he asked, mouth full of cake.
Ceremony? What was he talking about?
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Good grief, man, the
wedding
."
What wedding?
I decided to play along, for lack of a better plan.
"Yeah," I said. "It was great." I held out my hand. "Jeremy Davis."
"Ah. Gordon Perry." He crushed my hand in his
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