Plus-One, Minus-One

It’s not often that I get to be someone’s plus-one at a wedding, or am invited to weddings at all, for that matter. I’ve crashed a few of them, but I always feel a bit guilty about it afterward. This was nice. I’d spent extra time on my appearance, glad for the excuse to spiff myself up, even though no one paid me the slightest attention when I arrived. That’s okay. I don’t like being made a spectacle of, and much prefer being low-key. You may not believe that, given some of my more ostentatious performances, but in my defense I have very little say in how these gigs play out—the audience dictates the tone, I just show up and do my job. 

But like I said, it’s not often I attend weddings. And even less often that I get to do it without stealing the show, so to speak. It was a lovely venue, one of those enormous mountain lodges with a huge wall of windows. Outside, the twilit views were draped in a blanket of sparkling snow. Maybe it’s just my nature, but I’ve always liked winter weddings. They’d pulled out all the stops for this one. A million fairy lights dangled from the vaulted ceiling high above, lending an enchanted ambience to the fête below. The tablecloths, crisp as the fresh snow outside, were puddled with gold brocade and pine boughs. The place settings were elegantly minimalist; gold-rimmed china, delicate crystal glass drinkware, and gold-plated cutlery with evergreen satin napkins. There were carolers in Victorian costumes, and servers in white cotton gloves and black tailcoats, and I was enjoying it all thoroughly. 

I will say that the bride’s gown was a bit too frothy for my taste, and their self-written vows tried a little too hard. But really, who am I to criticize? 

The guests were all in very good spirits, some of them imbibing those good spirits a little more deeply than others, if you catch my meaning. A few had even started imbibing before they got there. My companion, Jeffrey Steuben wasn’t one of them. Doctors had ordered him off of alcohol after his first heart attack several years ago, and he hadn’t touched a drop since. Jeff and I had bumped into each other on a number of occasions, but this was our first time officially together. The last time we’d met had been his friend’s birthday party where I caused quite a scene, I’m sorry to say. Jeff didn’t hold it against me. He’s a philosophical sort. 

Jeff was the obscure great-uncle of the mother-of-the-bride and had only been invited out of a dulled sense of familial obligation, without any expectation of him actually coming. He’d defied expectations and accepted the invitation out of a desire to eat a free fancy dinner at least once in his life. Go Jeff! After the ceremony, we sat happily forgotten at our table in the far corner, munching prosciutto wrapped figs and a selection of fine cheeses while we people watched. It was quite an affluent crowd, his grand-niece had apparently done very well for herself.

Out of respect for Jeff and the doctors, I wasn’t drinking either. Though honestly, liquor has no real appeal for me anyway. I am quite fond of hot chocolate, should anyone be wondering. There was an excellent hot chocolate bar provided, with gourmet marshmallows and various creams, and I confess that I overindulged just a tad, but can you really blame me? 

Appetizers were followed by a green salad, drizzled in pomegranate vinaigrette. Then a choice of filet mignon with herby roasted potatoes for the meat eaters, or mushroom ravioli and winter squash for the more vegetable inclined. Jeff, by clever application of age and conspicuously malfunctioning hearing aids, managed to finagle himself a serving of both. I may or may not have snuck a bite or two off his plate when he wasn’t looking. 

Dabbing his napkin with a satisfied hum, my date settled contentedly in his chair while the bride and groom cut the cake. It was an unbelievably beautiful cake, nearly as tall as the bride and decorated to perfection. There were oohs and aahs as the custom topper was removed and the commemorative knife sliced the gilded buttercream, revealing the first peek of decadent Black Forest. Phone cameras flashed as the couple posed with bites playfully aimed at each other’s mouths. A chorus of laughs and cheers when she smeared his. The tailcoat-ed staff lurked in the shadows, waiting for everyone to get that perfect snapshot before they could start portioning out the frosted masterpiece. 

Jeff dozed a little, waiting for his share of cherry-chocolate heaven to be delivered. I hoped it tasted half as good as it looked. Wedding cakes, in my limited experience, had the potential to be kind of dry. 

The server put Jeff’s desert plate down with a gentle plink, startling him out of his nap and putting the lie to his earlier hearing aid troubles. The cake was delightfully moist, clearly the baker knew some sort of secret trick. We tried to pace ourselves, wanting to savor every bite, but all too soon were scraping at crumbs. Pushing himself stiffly as upright as his crooked old body would go, Jeff set off at a determined shuffle to see if he could senile himself another slice. I chuckled at his antics and applauded when he returned triumphantly, cake in hand.

The carolers retired and the DJ started up. Stuffed and smiling, Jeff took his hearing aids out and relaxed into a real snooze. About ten minutes later I tapped him on the shoulder and that was that. No fuss, no bother. Just another soul out and off to whatever comes after. I helped myself to another cup of hot chocolate and sat with his body while the festivities continued, uninterrupted by Jeff’s passing. As I mentioned before, it’s the audience that dictates the tone—this one was too preoccupied to notice a crinkly old man slumped lifelessly in a dark corner. One of the serving staff would find the body while they were cleaning up in the wee hours; a pragmatic young fellow, not prone to panic. 

I shouldn’t linger. The job is at all times demanding, and there were far too many other souls to send on their way for me to be allowing a little speck of my consciousness to lollygag at a ritzy wedding reception. But I didn’t want to leave Jeff’s remains there unattended, it felt too callous, even for me. And that hot chocolate really was to die for...