From the fiction section of my new
e-book The Boys’ and Girls’ Little Book
of Alcohol, available at amazon, iTunes, and soon at Barnesandnoble.com:
Dan
and I got married on Saturday. This news may be shocking, given my little
peccadillo with Jack Fogg and the uproar when my stunned partner—now
husband—found out. But it led to the talk we should have had years ago, a
discussion too personal to chronicle. Let’s just say that we came to an
understanding, then made up, then out, and finally came in a very different
sense of the word.
We’re beyond being
best friends. My faults still register with Dan, but there’s a trace of a smile
on his face when I tell the same jokes I always tell. And I’m proud of being
married to the world’s greatest klutz. (Life with Dan: bang, crash, ”fuck!”)
We’re genuinely intertwined in ways we weren’t four years ago, when I was
diagnosed with…
Well, the fact is
that I have Parkinson’s disease. I haven’t mentioned it before because it
hasn’t been part of any of the stories I’ve told. It’s no fun, but I live with
it, and if you saw me you’d never guess I had it unless you happened to catch
me doing the last three reps of a weightlifting set. That’s when I tremor.
Dan has been there
for me throughout the whole bad trip, and I’ve been there for him, too. (The
six months leading to his promotion to VP at CogniTech was practically as
traumatic as my PD.) So when New York granted gay people marriage equality, we
went for it. The scene: the beach house. The characters: our friends Larry and
Heath, Dan and me. The state legislature took its time. I checked the news just
after 11 p.m.
“It passed!” I
yelled. We toasted with what was left of the dinner wine. Then:
Me: “We gettin’
married?”
Dan: “Yeah.”
Me: “When?”
Dan: “September.”
We’re clearly not
into the top-of-the-Empire-State-Building stuff.
So we got married.
There were 8 guests, including the judge who married us, who happened to be
Dan’s father. We got the private dining room of a terrific restaurant in our
neighborhood. The ceremony was 1 minute long. We said we loved each other, and
Dan’s father said, “I now pronounce you married.” Then lunch.
We left
immediately for the beach, arriving rather late. I brought a rack of lamb to
grill, some vegetables, and two cupcakes. But yechhh: the only champagne in the
refrigerator was not very good. (We keep some in there all the time—like Mary
Richards and her can of artichoke hearts—“just in case.”) “I hate that swill,” Dan said. “There’s no
need to fear,” I replied. “Underdog is here!”
We had Crème de Cassis, a blackcurrant liqueur.
Undrinkably sweet on its own, it’s the perfect solution to mediocre champagne.
I grilled the rack of lamb, roasted some fingerling potatoes, and sautéed
Brussels sprouts in butter. We drank two bottles of bad champagne transformed
into Kir Royales. The rest of the night I’ll leave to your imagination.
