“What? Oh my God, Dad, no.” I laughed a bit, thinking he was taking this pretty well.
“No, Dad, I’m serious. I’m going to marry him tomorrow. We are going to a chapel…”
I heard my dad mumble, then shout something before he threw the phone down. So there I was, sitting on the bed mouthing the words “he’s pissed” to Doug and my future mother-in-law, who walked in with her arms crossed with uncertainty.
My sister picked up the phone. With disapproval in her hushed voice, she said, “Emma, what did you say to him? He is pissed and I think he is crying.”
“I’m in Las Vegas and I’m getting married tomorrow,” I announced without hesitation.
“You are not! Are you kidding me? This is not funny. He is in the other room in tears, and Robert lost twenty pounds since you broke off the engagement. What are you doing?” she quietly yelled at me.
“He did?” I murmured.
“This is not funny. I don’t even want to talk to you right now.” I could hear her give the phone to my stepmother.
“Emma.” She drew out my name in a way that neither calmed nor scolded me. She used a pale, smooth voice and very slowly said, “Your dad is very upset. I don’t know what’s going on or what you said. I have never seen him like this, but I’m going to hang up now.”
I could tell she pushed the button on the phone to quietly end the call in eerie silence rather than the familiar clicking sound when you just put the receiver down. I looked to Doug, who was staring at me with eyes bigger than a Precious Moments figurine.
“Oh my God. He is crying,” I told him.
Doug translated the events to his mother in Spanish. She teared up a bit with loving, understanding eyes, and, in broken English, said, “I understand. It’s too mush, mijo. Too mush.” She shook her head and cried while explaining a few things in Spanish. I didn’t need to understand the words to get that we were not just building our dreams, but we were killing theirs.
Despite confusion and reservation, Doug’s family slap-dashed themselves into appropriate attire for an impromptu Vegas wedding. We traveled from chapel to chapel, trying to find one that was open. Unfortunately, it was around the Thanksgiving holiday and even in the City of Sin, locals closed shop early to spend time with their families.
Doug, in the backseat with me, became sullen as sweat oozed from each of his pores. At every chapel we were met with disappointment and neon “Closed” signs in the windows. Between stops the traffic was nearly halted to a complete stop, prolonging our disastrous attempt to be married.
After the first hour of chapel hunting, Doug began to smell so bad that we had to open the windows for fresh air. The sweat soaked through his clothing, and his face seemed to be an unnatural hue of green. “Are you okay, honey? You’re not talking much,” I said as I patted his forehead with the back of my hand.
“I’m okay,” he said with a forced smile. “I just don’t feel well. Maybe it’s nerves.”
“Well, you smell like ass. Do you want to go home?”
“I’m sorry, but no, I’m okay. Let’s get married.” He gathered all of his energy to push himself out of the slumped position he was in against the door. He was humble to pretend it was nothing but a case of bad nerves.
A half-hour and three closed chapels later, Doug was not laughing at any jokes and smelled like a hot landfill under the Georgia sun. By this point, the family was becoming fixated on locating any open chapel on the strip.
From the backseat I requested to go back home because it was obvious Douglas’s state of health was in jeopardy. “We should stop. Everything is closed and Doug is really sick. We can always come back.”
Rico, my future brother-in-law, turned from the driver’s seat, his butt-chin protruding in Doug’s general direction. “Maybe this is an omen telling you not to marry this dumb-leva!”
Doug’s mother scolded him for not paying attention to the road before they spoke in Spanish. Suddenly Rico was turning onto a side street, headed home, and I was smirking quietly in the back at my future mother-in-law’s ability to control her adult children with a few words. By the time we arrived, Doug was moaning horribly and smelled of sewer sludge. We helped him up the stairs, where he succumbed to vomiting and diarrhea from suspected food poisoning. Before going to bed, Doug asked me if I thought this really was an omen.
“No,” I told him. “This just means you are a jackass for eating rotten yams. Now go to sleep because you smell so fucking bad. I love you.”
In the week following our adventure to Las Vegas, I discussed my desperation for a place to marry with a coworker. A friend who received his judgeship was already in order to make it official. We did not choose the day of our marriage; it was a process of elimination that boiled down to availability of the judge, witnesses, and location.
For us, nothing was as important as the marriage itself. I remember Doug’s concern was real and genuine when he asked if ditching the traditions was what I really wanted to do on our return from Las Vegas. “Do you want to get married in a church?”
“For what? We’re not religious, so I think it would be hypocritical.”
“What about a dress and flowers?” He dug further to verify my wishes.
“Honey, you know I don’t give a shit about some dress. I don’t care if we get married in jeans.”
“Are you sure? Because you know I couldn’t care less about all that traditional crap. That’s a woman thing anyway, but, if you want it, I will make it happen.”
“I honestly swear to you that I don’t want it.” I placed my hand on his leg as he drove to assure him that the words coming out of my mouth were truth.
With sincerity and intention he proclaimed, “I’ll get you a ring in a few months, I promise.”
“Seriously, I don’t want a ring either,” I immediately corrected him. “A ring means nothing to me and, really, I think we should spend our money on things we need.”
He reiterated, “So no ring, no church, no dress?” as he held up a finger to each item.
“Right. And my judge friend will perform the ceremony for free. God, I’m the best fiancée on the planet! No wonder you love me.”
“The most important thing is getting married, not how or where it’s done,” he replied.
This truly was the case because when Jason, the newly ordained judge, arrived at the house, he was in a terrible hurry to coach his son’s baseball game. If something were more important to us than getting married, we would have never let Jason walk into that house in full uniform, including cleats, under his black judge’s robe.
Doug’s roommate, two of my coworkers, and the homeowners with whom I had met ten minutes prior to the ceremony were witnesses.
Judge Jason rolled up to the address with his window rolled down, “You want to get married in a house? Well, I hate to rush things, but I have my son’s game to coach and I am running so late, so I hope you don’t mind we hurry this up a bit. God, I am sweating. My air conditioner broke yesterday.” He walked and, as he did, the cleats he wore clicked against the cement.
“Well, this must be the lucky man!” Jason extended his hand to Doug for a hearty handshake.
Douglas tried to introduce himself and give thanks for doing this on such a short notice, but Jason was rushing him into the house with a hand on the middle of his back. “Listen, let’s go inside. Do they have a room so we can do a little private counseling before we start?” His eyes darted back and forth between us. Just then, the homeowners opened the door to their home. My friend, who organized the whole thing, pushed through the homeowners to give me a hug and shake Doug’s hand. Meanwhile, Jason introduced himself to everyone else as Doug whispered hard, “He has fucking cleats on. Did you see that?” Then he laughed so loud I had to rub the ringing in my ear out. Once we were in the door, we immediately noticed artwork that we both found horrendous. Doug whispered again, “Dude, they have a velvet pug picture on the fucking wall.”