Get on your bicycle!

As we turned the corner and drove along the pitch-black street, I saw some Amish boys riding their bicycles along the shoulder of the road. I rolled down the window, leaned out, and yelled at the top of my lungs, “GET ON YOUR BICYCLE!” But weren’t they already on their bicycles you ask? Yes, yes they were. And weren’t they minding their own business, straining to see their way along the completely unlit road, untouched by street lights and commercial light pollution? Yes. Then why would I want to heckle unsuspecting, young kids—Amish kids at that—who were already on their bikes? The only explanation I have is a psychological term known as ‘displacement.’ According to Wikipedia, displacement is “an unconscious defense mechanism whereby the mind redirects effects from an object felt to be dangerous or unacceptable to an object felt to be safe or acceptable.” Since there’s nothing safer than Amish boys, what, pray tell, was the “object felt to be dangerous or unacceptable” that caused me to lash out at straw hat and bloomer wearing boys? Well, let’s start from the beginning.

A friend of mine put into words his feelings about Pennsylvania and the diddy is sung to the tune of Rice-A-Roni. It goes: “Pen-syl-van-ia, the shit hole of the world.” Knowing this phrase and feeling similarly about the Keystone State, I couldn’t help but sing it to myself as my husband, best friend, and I packed up our car for the five hour drive to Mary’s wedding. None of us were quite sure how to feel about this trip. We hadn’t seen Mary and her fiancé, Jim, in a year, since they decided, on a detour through State College, that they were meant to live in a teeny, tiny town near Penn State, and up and moved there within two weeks of stumbling upon the town. My best friend and current road tripper, Cece, and I were disappointed and confused, frankly, to hear about Mary and Jim’s plan to go west, since they hadn’t found jobs or an apartment before embarking on their move. They did have, however, a nauseating amount of effervescent “we’re wild and we know it” excitement. And they did have love, or, what appeared to be love, at least. What could go wrong? Oh, I don’t know—just about everything.

After several broken plans and last minute cancellations to get together over the past year, Cece and I had come to terms with Mary’s decisions. We had many talks about her seemingly (seemingly to us fiercely independent women at least) deranged devotion to Jim and realized that her disappearance off the face of the earth was nothing radically new and that actually she had been extremely co-dependent on all of her boyfriends. If a fair-weather friend is a friend who is only available to play during good times, then Mary is a bad-weather friend, since she is only available to play (and cry, and drink to excess, and dog you to go out until you cave in and say you’ll pick her up in an hour) when she is single and therefore depressed. We were sad about this loss to our trio, a trio since high school, since long-time friends are hard to come by. I say “long-time friend” because what bonds us at this point our lives is that we’ve just known each other long enough to know each other “way back when”—when we were wild high school girls, getting into trouble, and facing a crossroads as college loomed ahead. So, long-time friends are important in my book. They know who you were and who you now are. They know your old boyfriends and your darkest secrets. And, you hope, long-time friends will do their part to stay an even longer-time friend as the years go by.

While in the car, on endless empty, straight roads through the shit hold of the world, my husband, Curtis, Cece, and I spent a good amount of time figuring out what exactly we were driving into. We spent a good part of our five-hour trip trying to anticipate the answers to these pressing questions: Would their backyard wedding party have alcohol? Would we need to speedily shotgun the Bud Lights in the cooler in the trunk if the party was dry? Would we be able to find a taxi that could take us the thirty miles from the Super 8 to Mary and Jim’s newly purchased house if we did drink all the beers in the trunk? Would Mary actually have food and would she have actually managed to hire and organize catering? Was a baby the real reason for their recent mass text message informing her family and friends about their hasty nuptials? Really, could there be enough alcohol to make up for the fact that we were driving all this way, to go to their backyard, and celebrate someone who, at this point, we barely knew, someone who had all but discarded us this year? These were questions we hoped to answer.

By the time we finally arrived at the not-so-super Super 8, we had all of ten minutes to throw our clothes on, slap on some make-up, and cram back into the car in order to get to Mary and Jim’s house by the time the ceremony started at four o’clock. While Cece and I were in this messy process of speed-changing, Cece paused and stared at me in the very flattering light in our mildewed motel room, and said something only your best friend can say unabashedly and only you can understand and not think them superficial for but actually smile and unabashedly say thank-you for. She said, “You know, you really are my most beautiful friend. Really. You’re so pretty.” And even though I always love when we start complimenting each other on how attractive, thin, and pore-less the other person is, this time it had the same effect on me that one glass of wine has on me at this point—it just wasn’t strong enough. I turned to her and replied, “You know, Cece, that comment may have lost some of it’s meaning.” Our trio was down to a duo, any more losses and I was going through life as a soloist—save my adoring and very patient husband, who at this point was changed and drinking his first Bud Light in the parking lot. Dresses on, make-up somewhat shellacked, we thought we were as ready as we would ever be for this mysterious wedding. Backyard wedding. Backyard wedding picnic party. Whatever the hell she was calling it.

The GPS was reducing our estimated time of arrival and we were relieved to now be arriving at 4:01 instead of 4:09. This obviously wasn’t going to be a long ceremony and we weren’t going to come all this way and miss the ten-minute “I dos.” Cece and I were each gulping down a beer, hunching over every time we took a sip because we are, and will always be, completely afraid of breaking laws. Curtis, however, is not made that way, and he was encouraging us to not only drink up but drink more. And he made a good point, “You haven’t seen her in a year. You know their parents were informed about this spontaneous wedding the same time you were and were just as involved and informed. Mary is probably going to pull off a beautiful backyard celebration, but in case it goes horribly wrong, I’d suggest having one more.” Truthfully, my Bud Light was the most delicious thing I’d ever imbibed. It might as well have been nectar. Whenever we can, Cece and I kick-start our nights out with a glass of Prosecco with pomegranate juice, but this beer was, miraculously, doing the trick. I was nervous to see Mary and I just wanted her to be happy—contrary to how this whole lead-up sounds. I wanted her to be happy, to be truly happy with Jim and with her decisions, however rash, and I wanted her to have everything she could ever want. I also wanted her to have left gift bags at the motel, have maybe considered having a shuttle bus drive the guests, all of whom were from out of town (since, again, they had no reason to move to Pennsylvania, including moving near family, friends, or whatnot), and possibly thank everyone for coming all this way when she had been holed up with Jim and hidden from the world for the past year. On that note, I chugged the rest of my beer. As far as I was concerned, it was better than Dom Perignon.

By the time Jane, our British GPS voice, informed us we were only mere meters from their street, the three of us were making peace with Mary, less anxious about seeing her, and more accepting of her choices. Yes, we were buzzed. And as we neared their quaint, unpaved, country road, I admitted, “Maybe we’re all underestimating her and this is going to be gorgeous and then we’re all going to feel like assholes.” But then we turned onto her street, Cemetery Road, and I muttered a little, “Oy,” under my breath.

I will say that I was taken by the amount of cylindrical bales of hay dotting their six acre property. It was quite impressive to see how much open land surrounded their new home. For a moment, a pang of jealousy punctuated my heartbeat. However, that feeling was quickly replaced by confusion when I spotted Jim, the husband-to-be, running around the yard without a shirt, lunging up the lawn from the tent to the house. Apparently, we had not missed anything. The three of us were, at this point, standing, dumbstruck, in front of our car. No one moved. We just stared, taking it all in. A white tent on their front lawn housed four round white tables and a long white buffet table. Up the slanted lawn by the house, a rotund DJ was fumbling while he unloaded his bulky equipment from his truck, which seemed to have previously functioned as an ice cream truck. There were about fifteen or so people drifting among the tent, drink station on the buffet table, and the driveway. We all realized at the same time we had literally been standing in the driveway staring at everyone and everything around us and we needed to get a move on. I also realized we had not yet wrapped her gifts. Since Mary decided to forgo all things “wedding” she did not have a bridal shower. Usually I find myself wanting to poke my own eye out with the bridal bingo boards at showers, so I wasn’t crestfallen, to say the least, when Mary decided not to partake in the ritual. Instead, Cece and I bought her margarita glasses and a serving dish off her registry and at this point in the evening were trying to shove the cumbersome boxes into a silver gift bag. “Oh fuck! This looks like a crinkled, hot mess!” I said, realizing that these two boxes were never going to fit into the one bag and that we were going to have to end up leaving one of the boxes, the margarita glasses, unwrapped, in the Macy’s bag they came in. “Well, it won’t be the tackiest thing at the wedding,” Curtis interjected. “True,” was Cece’s response. “The tackiest thing was her mass text message invite. This is not nearly as shoddy. We’re fine.”

Walking from the car to the tent, we spotted Mary’s amazing step-dad, Greg. His face lit up when he saw Cece and me awkwardly walking along the gravel driveway, both of us in heels that were not well suited to the current terrain. Curtis had made a beeline to the drink station and had already cracked open a Yuengling beer. “Girls! Thank you for coming all this way! That’s so amazing of you!” We hugged Greg, who was obviously aware that coming all this way for Mary was no small deed. “Can you believe they live here?” All I wanted to say was, “No, I fucking can’t, Greg. What about this isolated set-up, with Amish families as neighbors, cut off from all your family and friends is appealing about this?” But instead I just nodded and said, “Of course we’re here!”

Greg took the gifts from us and walked us down to the tent to have some cocktails, at which point he launched into Mary’s recent decisions. “You know, my family all lives in upstate New York and we always had to drag Mary up here,” Greg said. “She would always say, ‘I hate the country. I’m not a country person.’ And now they live here. So…” Cece and I exchanged a quick oh-we’re-having-this-conversation-are-we look. “And they didn’t tell us anything about this wedding. We just heard the news about the house and the wedding and it was so much all at once. So…” I took another swig of punch. “And I really wanted to bring a tray of sushi up here, because you know that was our thing. Mary and I would go to sushi once a week and just talk. It was our time. But I thought I should check first before bringing it because, you know, she doesn’t eat it anymore.”

“I’m sorry, what?” was all I could say in between gulps of punch that was certainly taking the edge off of this buggy, muggy experience. “Why wouldn’t she eat sushi? It’s her favorite food.”

“Fish have mothers you know…” Greg said, looking at us and shrugging.

“I’m sorry, what? Mothers?” Cece said while we both cocked our heads to the side and squinted.

“She doesn’t eat meat anymore.”

“What? No meat? Since when?” I asked.

“No meat, no milk, no cheese. She’s a vegan. So is Jim. It’s one more new thing about her that I just learned myself,” Greg said, shaking his head with raised eyebrows.

“She’s a vegan? The girl who has said that she is sick of people who won’t eat a burger?” I asked, realizing that may have been pushing it.

“Yup,” Greg said, “no more meat, living in the country, getting married. So…”

All of a sudden, Mary’s mom, Holly, came down the hill to the tent and gave us huge hugs. “Girls! Thank you so much for coming! It’s so nice of you!” I was starting to feel like maybe if Cece and I had said we were unable to attend it wouldn’t have been such a rude thing. It was starting to feel like maybe it was more outrageous that we had shown up. Great.

Holly ushered Greg up to the house and with that the preacher got everyone’s attention and had the guests line up and form an aisle. The preacher, or should I say, crazy man, was standing at the head of the aisle, smiling and laughing to himself—and I hoped he was rehearsing his sermon, otherwise he was starting to scare me. A country song started booming from the massive DJ speakers and Jim, clothed, took his place next to the crazy man and we all turned our attention to Mary walking down from the house, flanked by Holly and Greg, led by Michelle, her seven year old sister who was strewing petals along the lawn. This scene was out of a romance movie: Mary’s strapless dress draping off her slender physique, her veil gently blowing in the wind, and her golden curls framing her happy face. “I’m an asshole,” I thought to myself. “All that bad talk, and look how lovely this is. I’m an asshole.”

By the time Mary reached the preacher, she and Jim held hands and the song came to an end. “We are gathered here to celebrate the love that this young couple has found in each other…” And so the ceremony went. It all sounded lovely and fine until the crazy man began to earn his title. “You two had to come to Penn State to meet and fall in love and you’re so lucky for that.”

“Quinnipiac,” Jim corrected him, since they had actually met two years ago while in college. In good spirits, everyone chuckled and chalked up crazy man’s misspeaking to an honest mistake.

“Quinni-what? I have no idea what you just said,” crazy man continued. “You two had to come all the way to State College, Pennsylvania to meet. And everyone here is so happy you did.” Ok, so crazy man had his own story to tell about Mary and Jim and the truth wasn’t playing a huge part in it.

After a few more tangents and odd remarks, crazy man said that the two could kiss if they wanted and that they were now man and wife. He then looked at Jim and seemed to be searching for his next words, and then spouted, “I now pronounce you, Mr. and Mrs..” pause, pause, pause, “Jim Murphy!”

“Miller!” the audience shouted back. But before anyone had a chance to consider whether or not the two love birds were actually married—since the person marrying them had rewritten their history and confused their last name—Jim scooped Mary up in his arms and ran. He ran down the aisle and got all of ten feet before it happened, the beginning of the end. He literally dove with Mary into the ground and seemed to skid along the sloped lawn, dragging Mary with him. Everyone gasped, no one moved, and yet I’m pretty sure everyone was wondering the same thing. “Why in hell would he run with her along the most divotted and uneven yard I’ve ever walked on?” Then, the troops rushed in. Everyone ran over to see if the hot mess of a couple was alright. Mary was seething and gathered herself, pulled up her dress (since it had been pulled down in the fall) and began storming up the hill toward the house. Jim and her mom followed behind, and then everyone else headed to get a drink.

It was about a half an hour since the crash of ’09 when Cece and I decided to get Mary, and drag her out to her own wedding if we needed to. Yes, the fall was humiliating, but so was the fact I was wasting one of my last summer afternoons in Amish country at a wedding without the bride and groom. Cece and I stumbled up the lawn and kept saying to each other, “He dropped her! He actually dropped her!” and would start laughing all over again. Trying to gain composure and feeling like Mary needed to come outside and face the music and the masses, we knocked on her bedroom door and I, ever so eloquent, said, “Mary, we’re coming in and I don’t care if you punch me in the face, we’re taking you to your wedding!” And with that I flung open the door and saw the two newlyweds changed and sitting on the bed.

“Jim popped his shoulder out. I’m taking him to the hospital. But don’t tell anyone!”

“Oh I see,” I suddenly realized. “This is going to be a repeat of every other time Mary has thrown a fit and refused to do what is being asked of her at which point I, and her other friends, swoop in and take over. This is her sister’s fifth birthday party all over again when Mary was grumpy and refused to help out with the twenty manic five-year olds and I, the idiot that I am, jumped in instead and helped Holly hold down the fort. Just fucking great.”

Cece and I, totally unsure what to do with this crap load of information, left the house only to be swarmed by their family and friends. “Oh, they’ll be out soon. Everything’s fine.” I couldn’t tell if I was able to lie through my teeth, but I had the feeling that whatever I was saying was not being believed. And to add a great amount of credibility to my narrative of what was happening inside the house, we all turned and looked up at the house when we heard the sound of a car engine turning on, and Greg backing their Jeep up to the door.

“What’s going on? Where are Mary and Jim?” the guests continued to say out loud. When all of a sudden, everyone realized that Mary was driving away, with Jim in tow, and that they had just left their own wedding.

“Where the fuck are they going?” Mary’s friend asked, a friend who had flown in from San Diego that day and was flying out on a red-eye the next morning.

“Umm,” Cece and I said, “not sure. Probably to the hospital?” Fuck me.

The festivities continued with Juila and me dancing to Miley Cyrus songs with Michelle, downing cups of punch, and covering our ears every time Jim’s brother started singing karaoke to the classics of Bon Jovi and White Snake. Ah yes, it was actually getting worse. Mary’s mother was filming the event with her camcorder and decided to have me, Cece, and Michelle share our feelings toward being at this wedding by yelling in sync into the video camera, “This is the best wedding EVER!” I instantly felt sick. And it wasn’t the punch. It was the fact I was lying through my teeth and that I wanted to kick Mary in the shins for being such a selfish person.

Five hours later, a few more off-key ballads, awkward dance numbers, and yes, Budweiser commercials (thank you, Mr. DJ), Mary and Jim pulled up the driveway and we all gathered near the car for their homecoming. Everyone, except me, Cece, and Curtis, that is. Jim, arm in sling, Mary, huge smile on her tear-stained face, the newlyweds were finally attending their own wedding, and as they rolled out of the car, everyone applauded. Whoop-tee-doo. I may have been drinking the alcoholic punch, but everyone seemed to be drinking the euphemistic “punch.” Like the Jonestown punch. Did no one else find it absurd that Mary ditched everyone and disappeared for five hours without saying goodbye?

The happy couple changed back into their wedding wear and got to have their first dance while everyone circled around them, making this scene somewhat resemble an actual wedding. Then, out of nowhere, I literally burst into tears. I was sobbing, my chest heaving! I was just as confused by this overflow of emotion as Cece and Curtis, who both shot me a “What the fuck are you doing?” look. They glared at me. Curtis hugged me, not knowing what else to do to his wreck of a wife (who was also starting to scare him) and I said, in between dramatic sobs, “I… just… got … sad!... They… missed… their… own… wedding!... It’s…so…sad!” Cece just shook her head at me, gulped down the rest of her wine, and said, “I want to go. Now.” Gotcha. We’re out of here.

Once we were back in the car, finally about to leave, I tried my best to explain—or, justify—my outpouring of tears. I tried to explain that what we just experienced was pathetic and worthy of tears. Curtis said I was drunk. Cece said I was crazy. Truthfully, they were both right. While explaining to them how I felt bad that Mary will be watching her wedding video the next day, a video in which she and Jim will be noticeably absent, out of the corner of my eye I saw two young boys riding their bikes along the side of the road. And, well, you know how that ends…

Upon reflection of these whole bizarre wedding festivities, or lack thereof, I still find myself spontaneously shaking my head and squinting my eyes, unsure what exactly I had been a party to. But I do have a few final thoughts, a la Jerry Springer. And these are them: It is never really where you are that makes the difference, but it’s the company you keep. It’s the people you’re with. It wasn’t actually Pennsylvania that was so horrid, as much as it was Mary and Jim’s utter lack of hospitality and generosity. The tent was picturesque, the sunset was all shades pink and peach, and the drinks were delish. I had Curtis on one side and Cece on the other. It wasn’t Pennsylvania itself that was the problem, or the Amish boys on their bikes, for that matter. It was the realization that my friendship with Mary had died, right there on Cemetery Road. I had displaced that gutting feeling of losing a long-time friend onto innocent bystanders: the Mennonites, the poor waitress at the diner we went to later that night, and the state of Pennsylvania. In a situation like that, all you can do is wish the couple well, hope your hangover is not too severe the next day, and keep your car windows locked, lest you have the urge to heckle safe and acceptable objects.