The Groom In The Night

Miro never understood what it meant by the Land of Opportunity until he wore a tuxedo. Delivering dough to Dunkies franchises in the metro Boston area at 4am in a rusty converted mail truck was not what he bargained for. A civil engineer educated at the University of Zagreb, Miro Stanovic didn't have the political or family connections to land a cushy job with the government or one of the former Yugoslavian utility companies, so he (like most of his generation) made his way from Slovenia and eventually Germany, working 13 hour days, sharing a two bedroom in Hanover with 5 guys doing shit jobs, and saving every penny he had for the one way ticket to New York and then onto Boston. Jedan način, his friends would say, the big one way. 

He stood in front of a cheap full length mirror with a wooden laminate plastic frame that he bought for five dollars at a flea market in Somerville, swooping his hair back and quoting from American movies. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” he'd say doing his best Godfather impression, pulling on the lapels and winking at the mirror. "Every dog has its day!" he said, twisting his mouth like Tony Montana in Scarface. 

Friday nights and Saturday were the easiest to get pulled into big weddings and black tie events, especially when the weather was good and the venues were outside. It was ridiculous to him how easy it was to get on the golf course extravaganzas and the beach parties. He hardly had to try. He could literally knock on the door or even come in from a side yard and say he was just taking a piss. He was, literally, dressed for the party. Who's going to imagine a guy off the street is wearing a tuxedo!  

But it was winter, and he had to go through a door. The easier ones were the grand hotels with multiple entrances, and it was wisest to enter in the middle or end. So, a 9pm departure from home was ideal. Before he set out, he rehearsed over and over what he did and his fake name, Frank Volari. "Like the car?" they'd always say, a nice conversation starter. "Yes, of course, they named it after me," he'd laugh and then it was off to the races.   

Miro’s English was passable, but he knew that he couldn’t stumble with his storyline. He stood in front of the mirror and said it one hundred times for good luck. “Yes, I love America so much. I come here as, how you say, constructor? Carpet? (they loved that purposeful goof), carpenter. yes carpenter. Now I have business in three states making importing furniture. Not like IKEA. Good stuff." They ate it up. He even made cards depending on his fake jobs. Contractor. Television producer. Former professional hockey player. And he did enough research to find people in Google images that sort of looked like him in case they tried to verify during the party. He needed to avoid any run-ins with police thanks to his fragile green card status. On cue like in the movies, he’d raise his glass and propose the same toast every time no matter where he was to emphasize the irony of the moment to his new friends, “To America, the Land of Opportunity.” 

He had never intended to dress like a groom in the night. It just became addictive. The attention at parties, the incredible access afforded him as a white man in a tuxedo, the power he felt in Boston ballrooms that he never tasted in his home city of Zagreb. The idea came on a dare when he tried a half price tux off the rack from a Building 19 (a cheap warehouse retail store). "Hey, try one of those on, his friend Pero (a Bosnian friend who had also secured the big one way) said. "You'll look like Scarface, bitch!" When Miro emerged, he noticed that people actually looked at him, not with disdain but a who's that guy expression. He was no longer the invisible immigrant. He felt strong. Powerful. American. Miro rubbed his chin like a model in a shaving commercial and smiled. Pero clapped, bending over with laughter. "Tony Montoya," he yelled, pumping his fist in the air.   

The target was the Westin Copley Plaza that was also walking distance from the Four Seasons and the downtown Hilton. There were at least three conferences and two weddings going on. Multiple events in multiple venues. It was groom in the night gold.

The taxi dropped him off two blocks from ground central, and he walked at a swift pace with purpose to warm up for his entrance. He had invested in a black long coat that complemented his outfit, and a new cell phone just for the occasion that he'd need to make a fake call for cover. It had saved him more than once and gave him a cloak of protection that was superhero like. He literally walked past security at least five times whilst on the cell, nodding as he walked right by them. The scene was perfect when he rounded the corner. A mix of people coming in and out, just enough cover and no organized entrances or people checking. He was exactly 90 minutes late which was the optimal time just around the time the sit down dinner was finished and the mingling started. Pulling out the cell, he made his way towards the Opthamologist 2022; Our Vision for the Future sign, hoping that the organizers intended the pun, and set his sights on the bar, not looking either left or right should anyone question him. 

It was easy, too easy. He almost felt like making his way to the wedding on the next floor that may have even had the buffet still open. But he decided not to risk it. He made his way quickly to a large table that was only half occupied after securing a generously poured gin and tonic, and made introductions. "Hello everyone," he said, improvising on the spot (he didn't have an ophthalmologist story). "I was just at a wedding that broke up on the fifth floor but this looked like a lot more fun. Okay if I join you?" 

No one seemed really invested in whether or not he was uninvited so he instantly gained in confidence. They were eager to hear from someone not talking about the latest laser surgery tech. "No shit," a man named Dr. Rust from Syracuse said. "Who got married?" Miro smiled, not hiding his accent. "My reech cousin from Easthampton. I flew all the way from Slovenia for this!" A medical assistant from Houston sitting across from him smiled. "Where's Slovenia? Is that in Russia?" Miro heard things like this a lot and reminded himself that most Americans could not name the capital of Mexico, let alone point to a nation across the ocean, so he spoke to her in his flirty Tony Montana accent, "It's wherever you want it to be." The guests at the table loved it and burst out laughing. "Where did you say you were again? A wedding?"

Unwilling to continue the round of questioning on his whereabouts, Miro raised his gin and tonic and proposed a toast to his table just as the keynote speaker was about to begin handing out awards for the best contacts of 2020. "Here's to America," he proclaimed. "The land of opportunity!"