Two Tickets for the Next Flight to Vegas

“Two tickets for the next flight to Vegas.”

“Vegas?”

“Vegas.”

Tara’s eyes got large. She said, “You are actually serious?” I said nothing and gave her a look that said just how serious I was.

A few hours earlier, Tara and I had been at Penn Station in Newark about to head into New York City to see the Christmas holiday sites. She had given me a look. Then taken my hand. And led me into the men’s bathroom stall for an awkward “romantic” interlude punctuated by a homeless army veteran talking at himself while taking a sink shower. He was either unaware of what we were doing, or just couldn’t care less. As soon as we got back out to the waiting area she said, “I think we should take a break.”

“What?” I had said.

“You are starting work next year, and I still have two more years of school. After that, I am supposed to go to Grad School in PA. I mean, it’s not like you are ready to settle down. Where is this headed?”

“Okay, Missy. One, we are not ‘breaking up’ or taking a ‘break’ or whatever the hell you are talking about. Two, what is this? You doubt my commitment? And, three, I know that in your Cancer brain, every aspect of life needs to be planned out and settled, but life is a moving target—and sometimes you have to just accept that the outcome is beyond your control and roll with the punches. You don’t dictate the weather. And you can’t dictate how things turn out either. Life is life. All you can do is hold on tight to what you want. That’s it.”

“No. I think we should take a ‘break.’ It is too complicated.” Tara’s head tilted downward, and her big brown eyes fastened on the marble floor below as she avoided eye contact. A lot of good my big speech did, I thought. Then an idea came to me. It was one of those ideas. You know the ones. A big one. One so ridiculous, you know straight out it has to be right.

“Come with me. We’re going to Vegas.” Tara’s eyes lit up in wonder as I escorted her to my Honda Civic and proceeded to drive recklessly in the direction of the Newark Liberty International Airport Departure Gate like my life depended upon it. From the grin on her face, it was clear she didn’t think I was for real. That was a look she’d adopted from Beth.

Ever since the day we met, Beth’s annoying “marriage roulette” comment had hung over our relationship like the sword of Damocles.

Beth was Tara’s best friend. You know the one. The know-it-all that is hell-bent on finding new and inventive ways to thwart your plans at every turn. The living breathing cock-block. The fact-checker. The steamy moment interrupter. The roommate who timed her bestie SOS catastrophes to coincide with your date night. Your mortal enemy. That one.

Beth studied statistics in the business school. And they had armed her well. Her training in the dark arts had gifted her with remarkable abilities. Beth could buzz kill any situation by sprinkling a copious dose of doom and gloom all over it. Finding Tara and I embracing on the dance floor, that first night, she appeared. “Half of all marriages end in divorce,” she’d announced.

This had been followed by, “The average marriage is only eight years. Plus, people who meet in a bar are 24 percent more likely to get divorced. Turns out that women who are freaks in bed are twice as likely to divorce their husbands. So, you kids have fun.”

This last with a wink in Tara’s direction. Mind you, she said this when we hadn’t even kissed yet. It was as if she was on a one-woman mission to smother happiness wherever she found it. A true blue happiness serial killer. Disguised as a petite college sophomore.

Later, with the two of us necking on a dingy plaid couch, Beth threw in for good measure, “You know, 15% of married couples are separated, and 10% of married people are miserable—clinically miserable—and 12.5% don’t even share a bed. So, the real odds of success are 1 in 8. Those are the same odds of having twins or being born with two different colored eyes. Just think, how many twins do you know? How many people with unmatched eyes? That’s how rare a happily ever after really is. So, you kids have fun.”

No wink. The deployment of her dark charms was getting more menacing. Malicious even.

Two thoughts had entered my mind. First, what did this girl’s parents do to her? And, second, I was not going to be dissuaded by Beth and her “marriage roulette” bullshit.

I snapped back to reality and noted an inquisitive look from Tara as we reached the ticket counter. I’d seen this look before. From Tara and other women. It was the “check” look. Like, she was checking that my brain was activated and I was not possessed or on auto-pilot. I nodded to indicate that I was, in point of fact, in possession of my faculties, and also in my right mind. But Tara was not satisfied with my “check nod.”

“Are you seriously going to take me to Las Vegas to try to make an honest woman out of me?” Tara said. “Are you going to even ask me if I want to go?”

I gave her another look, which communicated non-verbally that she knew the answer to both questions. I had learned that it was best to communicate life-altering information telepathically or with facial cues only. Words were the tools of dark wizards, like Beth. Grunts and nods were our stock in trade. They repelled all evil and malevolence.

“How ‘bout those tickets?” I said to the lady behind the counter.

The woman behind the United Airlines ticket counter was named Merci. She wore a starched white button-down and a blue blazer with a United “wings” name badge on the left breast pocket. Merci’s big brown eyes addressed me deadpan and said, “We don’t have any flights to Vegas leaving tonight, Sir. I’d be happy to put you on standby.”

Standby was like purgatory, but instead of an eternal reward for braving the gauntlet of unresolved fate, your best case was being relegated to a cramped flight in a middle seat between Jabba the Hut and an unaccompanied minor with severe ADHD and a propensity for sneezing without covering his mouth. The consolation prize was sitting in a cramped seat at a crowded departure gate, watching line after line of travelers leave for your destination without you and facing the prospect of spending more money for a nearby motel room, tethering you to this soulless liminal space, by the dim hope that something may open up.

“Merci,” I said. “Sweetheart. I need you to track with me here for a moment. We have to get to Vegas. And we have to get there tonight. I have every intention of making this young lady my wife. So, if you think about it, you have the unique opportunity, at this moment, to be the hero in this story, who finds a way to get two young lovers to their destination so they can tie the knot. If you can pull this off Merci, your name will be the centerpiece of every story at every family gathering for decades and decades to come. Can you help me with this Merci?”

Merci’s round eyes tilted down, and her eyelids creased. She tentatively tapped a key or two. Then she leaned forward and went in full throttle.

After rapidly clicking away on the keys for what seemed like an eternity, she looked up and said, “There’s one flight where two seats just opened up, but it’s about to depart. Two seats in row 23, on flight 1557 into Harry Reid Int’l, arriving at 10:32 pm. You’d have to hurry, and I can’t get them to wait for you. Boarding already started. It’s Gate 132. Boarding finishes in fifteen minutes.”

“We’ll take them,” I said.

I grabbed the tickets with a running start, gathered Tara, and we two sprinted from the ticket counter like relay runners in the Olympics. We trundled Tara’s rolling bag behind us, with sufficient supplies for a month-long student exchange trip, which had been providently stored in my trunk for our one-night stay in New York City. The luggage issued a droning siren call that warned the crowds ahead of us to part.

“Get your license ready,” I said, pulling mine from my wallet.

* * *

A year earlier, I’d met Tara at a house party off campus. It was one of those parties. You’ve been there. Extremely crowded. God knows what pasted to the floor like a layer of Velcro. A game of beer pong is being played in the dining room. Onlookers are solemn and silent between points like spectators at Wimbledon. Then they clap and shout at the end of each point.

Overplayed dance anthems like “I’m Blue” and “I Gotta Feeling” are playing loudly in the background. An overzealous number of kegs of Natty Light are set beneath the bar, and enough Jungle Juice on the bar in 3 Gallon Orange Gatorade Coolers to sideline a D1 football team. Red solo cups are exchanged for money at the door. Like I said. It was one of those parties.

I had just landed a job in finance. I had little to no idea what I’d be doing for Wells Fargo. In some way, shape, or form I’d be using my finance degree and “selling” a fresh new generation on the idea that overpaying for something you cannot afford is the answer to every problem.

But it was Menippean. An ironic rite of passage, whereby another hopelessly indebted schmuck would be going to work for the ultimate seller of indentured servitude. I was graduating into an absurd double bind, which made the upcoming graduation festivities seem like a sadistic ritual feast preceding the sacrifice of the innocents.

Yet, despite impossible student loan debt, crushing housing prices, stagnant wages, and unprecedented generational and socio-economic inequity—I had a job. And that meant, there was a chance. And like any God-fearing young man, I had every confidence that I was uniquely favored and would surmount all obstacles.

I was, quite literally, and against all available evidence, dripping with rizz. Or tacky CK One cologne. Or maybe both. This might explain my ear-to-ear grin as I two-stepped on the dance floor to “Hot in Herre” by Nellie with a red solo cup in hand.

* * *

We sat at the desk space in the seating area by Gate 132 furiously filling out the online pre-application for a marriage license from the Clark County Marriage License Bureau. This had to be submitted before boarding, when the signal would be lost, only to be resumed, potentially, if United Airlines In-Flight Wi-Fi actually worked. Despite being a quasi-degenerate gambler myself, even I wasn’t game to play those odds.

“When we get off at Harry Reid at 10:30 pm, we’ve got to high tail it to the License Bureau, and pick up our license, and then make it to the Little White Chapel in just about an hour flat to make our 11:30 pm call time. We’re the last wedding on the schedule.”

“Where is the chapel?”

“It’s off Las Vegas Boulevard, just south of the License Bureau, so it’ll be a quick loop.”

“You’ve really thought of everything, haven’t you?” she said, smiling and laughing, almost against her will.

I took her hand and gave it a little squeeze, and we boarded the plane. Her hand felt cold and clammy, and her olive complexion was a touch pale.

* * *

“Where are you headed?” the taxi driver asked.

“1301 S Las Vegas Blvd,” I said.

“Do you have the marriage license?” Tara asked.

I held it up and flapped it a bit. “You think I’d forget?”

“Don’t fold it or wrinkle it, or it’s void. You heard what the lady at the counter said.”

I gave her a peck kiss and said, “So you really do want to marry me. Like bad. Bad bad.”

“Don’t press your luck, mister,” she said, blushing.

Our taxi driver—Vincenzo—was shaking his head like he had seen this movie before. I said to myself, “Look pal-o, you may think you know how this story ends, but you don’t know shit, okay.”

Tara hugged my left arm and rested her head on my shoulder, her hair tickling my neck. I thought about how often I would have this exact feeling after this day, the feeling of her close by and at my side. Sharing a space.

“Babe,” I said. “It’s 11:20. We’re going to need to hurry when we get in there. We’re just going to make it.”

She unhooked my arm, put her hand firmly on my shoulder, and gave me an alarmed glance. “Babe. I need a wedding dress. I can’t get married without a wedding dress.”

With an unexpected look of compassion, Vinny turned his head back to Tara and said, “What are you, kid, a small?” Tara nodded, with a tear on her cheek. “About a size 8?” She nodded again, more forcefully. “There’s this place called Rent-a-Dress and Tux. They’ve got a Destination Dress, it’ll set you back about $200. I’ll call Sal and Vicky. It’s just past Charleston. Quick in and out. But you better call Charlotte. She doesn’t like when people are late for the last ceremony.”

“Thank you, so much, that’s so sweet of you.” While Tara was gushing and Vinny was talking loudly on speaker on his cell, I was covering the phone and trying to explain to Charlotte, who said “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Listen. I’m closing the door at 11:45 pm. Any later than that, you can come back in the morning.” And that was that.

We got to the oval window door of the “Rent-a-Dress and Tux,” a small shop with a black and white striped awning, and I pulled on the doorknob. But it was locked. Tara looked up at me and said, “I knew it. Babe, I can’t get married in a faux leather black ‘fuck-me’ dress. You get that, right?”

I stared back at Vincenzo with contempt, thinking, “You mutha-fucka.” But I kept my composure and put my arm around Tara. She wasn’t having it. Just then a short plump woman came out of a side door, with a garment in a garment bag with a suede hanger. “Are you Tara?” she said. Tara nodded, shaking off the murderous rage that had dominated her demeanor a moment earlier.

“You got the money,” Vicky said, in my direction. “Cash?”

“Here you go,” I said handing her $300.

“Good,” back at Tara. “We’re closed, so I can’t let you in dear, but try this on—it’s gonna fit perfectly.”

“How am I …”

Vicky had thought of everything. She pulled out a pink bed sheet. Handed me one end, snapped the other taught, and handed Tara a handheld mirror. “Go on dear, it’s not ideal, but we’ll have you looking like a million bucks in two minutes flat.”

Vicky wasn’t lying. From where I was standing—perfect.

Words won’t do it justice. But I’ll take a shot. It was like: When the spinning wheels of creation stopped, and the mighty hand opened the infinite blinds, of the room where I was molded out of clay, she was there, naked, draped in sun, molded out of me.

* * *

Charlotte was a short, powerful blonde woman in her seventies with a bob and a font of boundless enthusiasm.

She looked at us, then down at her watch. She grinned and said, “You almost didn’t make it. You’ll have to come back and tell me the story sometime. And you both look great.”

She led us into a chapel, filled with actual pews, with red cushioning. She stood behind a lectern at the front of the room, and we held hands while she administered the vows. The floor was marble. The acoustics were good. The brief organ music shook us both back to reality and made us both a little jittery.

I felt like I was on drugs or something. Almost paralyzed. Jolts of electricity in the air, under my skin. I was mesmerized. And the words just came out. “I do.” “I do.” And then Charlotte applauded. A Last-Minute Elvis appeared with a complimentary bouquet of red roses and began singing “I Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

After we said the thing and Charlotte pronounced us man and wife, she gave us about thirty seconds and ushered us out into the parking lot where a photographer was lying in wait by the Pink Cadillac.

We looked at each other, under the neon lights, and Tara said to me very sweetly, “What now?”

“We spend the rest of our lives proving that witch Beth wrong.” She giggled. “Babe, standing before you is a man with a purpose. Every morning, I am going to wake up and make you so happy that you, quite literally, can’t even stand it. And we are going to obnoxiously gloat. On Instagram, Tik Tok. Shit, I may take out a billboard. She will eat her words. But even then, we won’t stop.” She giggled again.

“And then what?

“And then we beat the odds,” I said.

We hugged each other. And she buried her head in my chest. Elvis joined in on the action.

“Nice try Elvis,” I thought. “Wise men say, only fools rush in… we’ll see about that, bucko.”