NOSTRADAMUS EAT YOUR HEART OUT (Part Two)

Roxie had forgotten to pick up the wedding cake. She was waiting at the courthouse for the wedding license, so she called me and said, “The bakery closes at two o’clock. Can you go pick it up?” “Sure,” I said, wondering why she had picked me instead of one of her cowboy cousins. “I’ll grab a cab and get it.”

Thirty minutes later, the cab arrived. It had no back seat, so the driver helped me put the cake onto the floor. I sat straddling the three-tiered confection all the way back to the hotel. “How can you not have a backseat?” I complained. “I’m getting it fixed,” the driver replied. “Two guys coming home from a costume party last night tore it up. One was the head of a horse and the other was the rear, and somehow the horse’s ass got his tail caught in the seat, pulled the seat out when he left my cab, and a car hit it; so I have to get the seat fixed. Don’t get any cake on the floor!”

We arrived at the hotel just in time, because it was starting to snow. The driver and I put the cake on a luggage rack, and I wheeled it to the front desk. After explaining the situation to the desk clerk, he assured me that he would have someone deliver it to the kitchen.

When I got back to the room, W.S. was already dressed for the wedding and, if we wanted to get to the chapel on time, I only had fifteen minutes to get dressed. This is not much time for a person, who spent the last twenty minutes sitting on the dirty floor of a taxicab while hugging a wedding cake, but I managed to pull myself together, and we ran to our rented car. By now, the gentle snowfall had turned into a full-fledged blizzard.

As we pulled into the chapel parking lot, W.S. said, “It’s pretty dark out here. Why don’t they have any lights on?” Slipping and sliding our way toward the chapel, I said, “They don’t seem to have any lights on in the chapel either. Maybe they think it’s romantic.” “It’s Irving’s fourth wedding. Forget romantic, he should turn on some lights, “ said W.S.

As we entered the chapel, we saw that other than some candles burning at the end of each pew and a couple of candles at the front of the chapel, the place was completely dark.  “What’s going on?” I asked, feeling my way toward what I hoped were two empty seats. “The electricity went off about thirty minutes ago,” hissed a voice in the dark. ”They’d better get married before we all freeze to death.”

I couldn’t really see the bride or groom or hear the minister, because his microphone had died with the electricity. I know a couple got married that day, because I heard someone yell,” Congratulations! Let’s get out of here.” At that, the chapel doors were thrown open and everyone rushed out to the dark parking lot, which by now was covered with little hills of snow, and not a car in sight.

“Where’s my car?” asked a muscular fellow. “My son and I can dig it out if we can find it.” Turning to W.S. he said, “Do you know which one’s my car? I think I parked near you.” W.S. pointed to one of the little hills and said, “I think that’s your car, right there.” The big guy and his son ran back into the chapel, came out with a shovel and began to dig. They took turns shoveling and taking large gulps out of a flask that the son had pulled out of his back pocket.

“Are you sure that’s their car?” I asked W.S. “I’m sure it’s someone’s car,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, the younger fellow said, “Dad, I don’t think this is our car.” They stood back, emptied the flask, and examined their excavation. Sure enough, it wasn’t their car. It was ours. They seemed to take it quite well, because the muscular guy started digging out another car, while the younger guy went into the chapel to see if he could filch some sacramental wine.

As we drove away, I said to W.S. “How did you do that?” “I parked under the North Star,” he replied---and next to a lamp post.” The only plowed road was the one that led to the hotel, and everyone ended up there. The bridal couple couldn’t get to the airport for their honeymoon, so they slept in the lobby.

The marriage lasted three months.

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2003