Allegedly, the videographer had a problem with the sound — I’m sure the lawsuit would still be alive, if they were.
CUT to the elevator, mirrored, marbled, its grand entrance, expected, that of the inlaws — or already the guests of honor finished with their quiettime snuggling sequester, the tradition of their intimate room, its connubial consummation…they’re lost or only unfocused, dim and rangy in this hall as if it’s unwalled, gorged on adornment, to dizzy, to right and steady now — lavish like ten, twelvegrand a night lavish, posh even far past the sofas, the divans and skirted chairs, the glossy white lacquer of another, different piano in the upper righthand corner, then a zoom past morbid flowers, the lilies bluepurple, occidentally called stargazers, Lilium orientalis, tightlipped white roses, they seem frosted sprigs of grass set in vases of glass so delicate, so fragile and thin, that to pour water in them would shatter all, it might; a mensch and his queenly wife head themselves like she’s his daughter, too, a princess if only for the day, the night, the happy arrival of the bride and her new husband, groomed again after that moment or so left alone in which to remember each other, today’s purpose, that and to break their fasts on one another, with snapped fingers and arrowed tongues…the bride and her father, or the parents of the bride or parents of the groom, they’re rethinking in how apart they are, alone, how it’s impossible to know them in their making their rounds, their public faces, the outward, untoward smiles, them receiving blessings, kisses, hugs in their seven circumambulations they’re counting through the lobby then a right through a doorway and breathlessly on, into another hall; she whoever travestied in a fresh clump of chiffon, him schlumpy however resplendently remade in bleached teeth and loosened bowtie, they enter the mix, become the swirl, apparently already intoxicated, as drunk as the camera, handheld then even with tripod, jerky.
Inside, the tables are stacked with numbered placards, each area of them the family and friends, the coworking congregant strangers completely separated by a host of diaphanous screens decked in blue & white, the color scheme of the evening: Royal and Virgin to match the drapery, the tablecloths, the swaddled chairs backed with flighty silver bows, napkins ringed with gilding, the florid centerpieces, the bride’s dress, shoes, and purse — what does a bride need a purse for? especially when the line for handing over the enveloped and carded checks terminates with a bag held by this immense, unsmiling Palesteinian securityguard, onloan from the local skyscraper of the groom’s employment, his father’s, hers. Then, this not quite matchcut, back to glimpse Hanna across from that wife, or that daughterwoman, secondwife or ex, secretarylover among maybe fifty, sixty others circledancing, a paralegal hora; the groom up in a chair its legs unsteady in the unsober hands of best menschs; the bride holding a napkin its other corner held by him…Hanna holding hands with all these women circling women circling woman, of diverse ages and affected lives, the ravages of an aging time, its effects evident in the very faces of these dervishly circling feminine clocks, their hands clammed, their chests panting a mad heart’s tick, a pill’s tickle, wild now that they’ve managed to just themselves squeeze in, ringing off the inner enclosure of celebrants with their arrivals, fillingout the edge of its sacred courtyard, from the predatory perimeter pace of the minority waiters just beyond: they’re like dangerous foreign beasts, they can’t help it, like wellfed, sweetbreathed lions; how they’re all paws proferring their offerings of appetizer, trays of wieners, kabobs speared through on toothpicks of every rainbow’s hue; wraps, fingersandwiches, God! I hope you didn’t miss the stirfry, the meat and mixedvegetable; carvingstations heap blood to the left, savory altars.
To the right, three suited kinder loiter around an endtable splashed with a pinch of glitter, strewn with straws gnawed twisty white and soiled linen napkins, a surface used only to hold drinks both empty and not quite, interred glassware, alcohol displaced, discarded on the way to a drink ever fresher, a thirst new and on the rocks; sipping the remnants, they forsake the cold buffet for the hot microphone and into it mouth greetings foul to their hosts, private profanity, injokes; their younger brothers wave, make scrunched faces, make the twofinger alien ears devil horns antennæ sign, a resourceful panoply of other obscene gestures directed at the embarrassed bashfulness of their older sisters, half, a Shanda not their names but their very selves or at least their bodies, that they dance a dawdling shame with a number of older, balding menschs whose wives have already seated themselves at their assigned seats at their assigned tables and pout, moan, fight amongst themselves for possession of the plastic party favors, the Taiwanese novelty giveaways, grabbags’ swag, oversized sunglasses, glowing wizard wands. Favorite single uncles glide halfdistracted, smooth receding hair, combover, brusharound, pick at wedgies, loosen the knots of their neckties so as to give enough slack to hang themselves from the fans and fixtures in the event of extreme lonlieness or their paid escorts’ extravagant duress; other of their dates, these lesbian aunts, adjust their tight, waistteething undergarments with none watching save the assembled…a gape of mouths, set to drink, to eat and talk, with further drink to wash words down, without meaning save a warming gurgle, a bitchy burp; a fit of sneezes, croupy coughs, Gesundheit’s mouthed and thanked. A mensch obviously with the hiccoughs, his wife arrives at his side to scare him with a glass of seltzer; for her, an extra glass of ice to soothe her swelling, weepworn eyes, everything’s so wonderful, it’s just my luck, I dressed for a disaster. Other drinks more like melt are worryingly brought into balance, carried through the shot from the bar tended to upper left like the last standing wall of a godless Temple; interrupting conversations, occasional groupings of untuxed bowtie. Menschs in singlebreasts, doublebreasts, in threepieces, vested, invested to the fullest extent, as nothing’s ever optionaclass="underline" the invitation in one pocket, their placard placesetting in another. Who do you have to handle the divorce? You might keep me in mind.
A mensch arriving directly from work, a doctor oncall, or that lawyer returned from emergency court, an ambulance fetch turned vehicular homicide, a businesscard dropped on a woman’s toe resulting in severe hematoma; excusing himself to the bathroom to change into his dressier suit: one arm in his shirt, one out, one leg in his pants, one out, he’s halved and hurried to let his wife know he’s here, she hadn’t noticed. Another mensch standing in the last stall, then sitting almost naked: as he ate and drank he’d spilled and food fell from him and his fork and he stained his clothing, article by item; each time he’s so klutzed with drecky luck removing himself to the bathroom and there removing under the sink and then in the stall whatever clothing stained, first his bowtie then his cummerbund, upon which he’d spilled wine, then his shirt, which he’d taken off when he’d spilled on it gravy, then off with his pants when he’d dropped his knife on them to cut between the legs, and so there he sits much to the humiliation of his wife now hurrying herself on home for another pair, a spare, without even a full meal in him or a drunk in the cooling bathroom, barechested, wearing only his underwear, womanly soft and fat.
As for the women, their dress is formal and is called formal not for its style but for the way you have to wear it, seriously, straight of face, as a sarcastic smile or an ironic eye makes it seem all a laugh or flinch: two women in the same dress in different colors, two women in the same dress in the same color, two of them in different dresses in the same color, then many of them in many different dresses in many different colors, laughing blush into the ear of a mensch himself struggling to hear, and to make himself heard over the din with the cocktail hour soon becoming two and the string quartet only just finishing and then overtime, they’re union…halfheard gossip, metropolitan pretense, obnoxious, mingling with Siburbia’s frustrations, quaint to most, the grip and gripe of the flighty, fleeing Developments; the dinging of silverware on glass, stemware raised then drained; a dropped tray of plates the caterers had been made to rent from the synagogue because who can trust their kashrut, what a scam; as the quartet becomes a trio, a duo, then a cellist solo; in the lobby, the pianist takes over, tinkles away with pathos enough to the cloakroom, the bathroom wait, then gives out the Gershwin like it’s money: “It Ain’t Necessarily So” not necessarily slow, though loud enough to mask the last glass and porcelain swept smash sounding at the threshold, attracting the irked attentions of the father of the bride, finally, it has to be him with his fury and forehead, then a hundred bridesmaids, a nosegay of them the bouquet caught redhanded, redfaced, the event planner and the synagogue’s socialhall manager himself to stand around and shriek tongues as if cancelled checks at the help, enjoying themselves as much as the guests, maybe even more.