Cherry Bomb

On that day, the sunshine slicing through the open-walled tent, polished cutlery in gleaming formation, glassware throwing fractal prisms on the Colgate tablecloths, the best man advanced into position at the height of the reception set. The wedding planner, with the coordination of a master strategist and all the tact of a hostage negotiator, cued the DJ to drop the ambient music, and deliver to the entrenched head table a live mic. The best man, battle-hardened after a fraternity’s worth of matrimonial campaigns, raised the acceptably pre-owned equipment, and prepared to speak.

Flying in silence, a single pastry arced above the deserted dance floor, hurtling at speed toward its intended target, and whacked into the best man’s shocked maw. Cherry syrup dripped onto the white silk cummerbund, falling phyllo dough lodged in the askew boutonniere, and from somewhere, an alien and unknown voice cried:

“Foooooood Fiiiiiight!”

The bride dove for cover, her new husband rising in a warrior’s stance, only to be torpedoed by a sweet potato right between the eyes. The maid of honor wrenched up the tablecloth as a makeshift blockade, the upward motion initiating an avalanche of salad forks and champagne. Feedback screamed through the speakers as the best man dropped the microphone, pelted on all sides by shrimp shells, gravy, and fruit cocktail, forcing him into a blind retreat.

A riotous melee erupted. A table of college-age cousins started off with a vicious assault of bread rolls and cubed Havarti, then bitterly disbanded as friendly fire turned to civil war. Great aunts and uncles flung puree projectiles at anyone ineligible for a senior bus pass, one salmon filet sailing through the air with a pair of dentures still attached. The mother of the bride sat down in sobbing surrender, while the mother of the groom emptied a tureen of Ranch dressing over the weeping woman’s elegantly coifed head.

Adapting quickly, the photographer and the videographer flanked in a tight pincer up opposite sidelines, lenses bearing witness to the perishable fray. A bridesmaid broke cover to sprint across the dance floor, a kitten heel coming down hard on a grape-based landmine that sent her sliding face-first into the gift table, burying herself under tastefully wrapped debris. A pair of enterprising groomsmen had a defensible position by the buffet line, hurling serving-spoon trebuchet globs of mashed potato, backed by the radicalized kitchen staff. A company of the bride’s co-workers had lain siege to the wet bar, turning the lemon and lime wedges against the very caterer who’d cut them, and the groom’s sister, after weeks of dieting to get into her dress, applied herself to depleting the edible armaments.

In an act of honor and sacrifice, the wedding planner planted herself in front of the five-tiered cake, protecting the sugary masterpiece from stray artillery, and from the greedy hands of combatants in search of buttercream-frosted ammunition. Her taffeta pantsuit was streaked and stained with unidentifiable unguents, peas and carrots nesting in her architectural updo. A gravy-slathered chicken breast slapped her in the face, the propulsion forcing her to over-balance, stumble, and fall backward, arms flailing, into the vanilla monument, splattering in a dazzling array of cascading crumbs. The topper, a tiny replica of the happy couple, was catapulted away from the confectionary massacre, and then possessively chomped by the canine ring bearer, who quickly skittered beneath a table runner, wagging his nub.

 The bride, her white dress now a rainbow, advanced across the war zone, deflecting flying fish as she crunched over canapes. Positioned in a place of pride at the center of the dessert table was a massive ice sculpture, the glassy curves of two dolphins coming together in the shape of a heart over waves emblazoned with the soon-to-be-joined family names, and the wedding date that would live in infamy. Bracing herself against the base, the bride heaved against the slick surface, the top-heavy structure of mass destruction rocking, wobbling, then smashing down across the war-torn floor. Shattering into a thousand crystal shards, the deafening crash shocked the room into a hushed ceasefire, hands frozen around the decorative butter yet to melt un-chucked.

Spilled champagne dripped from every surface. Yards of satin and organza were beyond the help of any dry cleaner. Plates had broken, glasses had cracked, trampled roses carpeted the stained and sticky floor. Hours’ worth of make-overs and manicures had been erased in one frenzied, high-calorie blitzkrieg. The inoperable microphone was contaminating the bartender’s ice chest, and an employee inches from resignation was heard to mutter, “We don’t even have cherry pastries!”

Hiking up the rivers of tulle around her feet, the bride stepped out over the littered remains of significantly over-priced catering. She cast a defiant look around the room, then held out a hand to her oil-slick husband. The groom clambered down from his strategic position on top of the head table, flicking a shrimp tail from his bow tie, and held on to his wife. The indominable DJ quickly cued up the music for their first dance, adjusting the levels when the speakers shrieked, and the bride and groom, heavily saturated, slipped and slid over the painted dance floor.

A breeze wafted through the open-air tent, carrying away some of the sweat and seafood for the more pleasing smell of fresh-cut grass. Guests began sheepishly righting chairs, wiping their hands on the rented linen, and helping the wedding planner find her Xanax.

Tanya shook her head. “I don’t know what to tell you, dude.”

John, her best friend, had been invited by the groom. “Never mind, she’s tougher than I thought. I’m actually having a marvelous time.” He fished a stray chunk of honeydew out of his martini. “You really go hard when I’m being petty.”

“That white silk asshole hooked up with you at his bachelor party,” Tanya said, imagining if she kept repeating it, she’d eventually believe it. “Just to keep you from getting over him. You get to be petty.”

The newlyweds seemed to be smiling again, while the bravest of the kitchen staff started sweeping up scattered food and shattered ice. The best man was still furious, having a heated discussion with the videographer about the sensitive handling of footage that was potentially incriminating, but objectively hilarious. The bride’s divorced aunt and the groom’s divorced uncle quickly excused themselves to help each other out of their psychedelic glad rags.

Tanya watched John wash down his heartache, and smile for the first time in weeks. “I'm over him, anyway. This is why you never invite an ex to your wedding.”

Tanya nodded, wiping cherry pastry from her palm. “Or at least, don’t piss off their plus one.”