3:10 to Union

On the night before his wedding, Gerald was moved to speak to the bridal party and guests with uncharacteristic candor:

Beatrice, darling, it’s still hard to imagine we lived 90 plus years in the same city without ever crossing paths, and then, as if by some miracle, we met at Frank’s Liquor Emporium two Christmases ago. “I was here first!” I remember hearing you roar as you grabbed the last box of wine from my hand. Chablis, wasn’t it? I would have given chase, but your elbow to my groin left me immobile for several hours, in fact. I believe you when you say it was a simple misunderstanding. When the police finally did track you down, I was thrilled. (Thank God you didn’t pay for the Jim Beam mini in your pocket, or Frank might never have intervened on my behalf). 

At last, we could introduce ourselves properly, the protective glass between us making no difference whatsoever–you in your khaki jumpsuit and me in my golf apparel. First dates are often uncomfortable, especially when they’re not planned. But you, dearest Bea, knew exactly what to say. “The fuck do you want?!” got us right into the thick of it. But what did I want? I’m not sure I knew at the time. I suppose I just had to find the woman who showed me I could still feel things so deeply. Either way, I’m glad you tunneled out a few months later, and we could begin our life on the run together. Cliché as it may sound, I always dreamed of a destination wedding. 

It was easy in the beginning; all we had to do was “stay off the grid,” and since neither of us were ever actually on the grid or knew what that meant…well, check that off the list. I know my frequent visits to the bathroom were frustrating to you. How much more ground could we have covered in those early days if I hadn't had to stop every hour? The empty milk carton turned out to be a good idea. In fairness, my angel, I wasn’t the only one with issues in that general department. I don’t know if it was all the fast food we were forced to eat, but you left a lot of clogged toilets in our wake. Should we ever be caught, I hope the FBI gets us before that Super 8 night manager in Santa Fe does. For him, it’s personal.

What we do in private is our business, and I wouldn’t have it any other way, complaints about noise be damned; so the real test of our love came over differences in public etiquette. On occasion, I did agree with the younger generation who found your panache to be–how did they describe it so often, oh yes–problematic. You must see by now that, “How’s it hangin’, Reverend?” is an outdated expression, especially at a family restaurant. And the usher was only doing his job when he asked you to finish your cigarillo outside–even if the people on screen were smoking and your stogie would’ve made the movie ‘more real’ for the other theatergoers. Anyway, weren’t we supposed to be keeping a low profile? At least consider putting a muffler on your hog, or whoever’s bike that is we’re using. I never did get the full story there. 

I only mention any of this because, ultimately, we passed this test of love–the only test you've ever passed as you like to say, forever jabbing me in the ribs for added effect. Lord knows I have my own faults. Admittedly, Sanka is very hard to find, even in those small Midwestern towns where the clock ticks slower, so I should’ve been more flexible about that, but as a Virgo, I’m destined to be fussy about such things. Perhaps I shouldn’t base all of my life decisions on a daily horoscope. Some of their forecasts are hopelessly vague: “You are where you’re supposed to be, but don’t be afraid to try new things” doesn’t chart the clearest path. And, yes, it wouldn’t kill me to watch Smackdown LIVE with you more often. Sarah Logan was indeed quite savvy to adopt the name Valhalla, good point! I’m still not entirely sure what “top-rope melee” means, but the way you light up while explaining it is precious to me.

The secret to an enduring relationship is ‘let’s agree to disagree.’ You keep right on believing in leprechauns, what’s the harm? And I’ll go to my grave convinced that Prince Charles is a vampire. As Hamlet declares, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” so who are they to call us conspiracy theorists. It is not unscientific to claim that vibrators cure dropsy or that, by definition, time travel has already occurred. Think about it.

So, fatefully, we find ourselves here, about to become husband and wife at an undisclosed location. I speak for both of us when I say how grateful we are that many of you found your way to this spot–the cryptic directions and tripwire surrounding the property proving to be more of an adventure than a nuisance. Apologies again for the prenuptial interrogations and the need for blood samples; we had to make sure you were who you said you were. As is well known, lizards are wily creatures, masters of deception; at some level, they can be admired for it, but we caught you, didn’t we “Burt.” Bon voyage, mon ami.  

Allow me to end by proposing a toast to my wallflower of a bride, snoozing there at the cash bar so adorably. Bea, you swooped into my life like a wrecking ball, and I’ve never been the same. I am a changed man in so many ways–the way I walk, the octave of my voice, my will to live, and of course, the size of my heart. How much bigger, “dangerously enlarged” was the medical term, has my heart become since I met you. You are the oxygen in my tank–lifegiving and explosive in extreme temperatures. All I wish for is the chance to grow old with you. Raise your glasses to my sweet Beatrice…America’s Most Wanted, especially by me. Cheers.

The End