Sooooo. June 1, 1975. I’m
dressed in white. White jacket, pants, shirt, shoes. So’s the girl who is
supposed to be standing next me. Or so they tell me.
We’re at the Huntington Town
House (Long Islanders know it, since most of us had our proms there.). There’s
still time to back out of the deal.
We’re at the Townhouse
instead of church because I just got back from getting divorced in Santo
Domingo. It was close, but that’s what happens when you forget minor things
like a previous marriage.
Linda — LA, the girl in
white — was kidnapped by two of her guy friends who offered to buy her a plane ticket
anywhere, as long as it was away from me. I don’t know this, but she’s on her
way to JFK.
She’s late for the wedding
Hmmmm.
I’m standing there getting a
little insertion antsy (a few of you know what that means)— and she’s still
late and I’m getting knee-pumping nervous. I look at my buddy/best man, Danny.
“She ain’t coming,” he says, and does that laugh that Danny always did. My
other buddy, Jack, chimes in with the same sentiment. Jack’s a big guy so his
snort sounds even worse than Danny’s.
Thanks, guys.
But she reallllly is late.
My future brother-in-law — all
of 16 — hit’s me up for a $50.
There’s a good crowd. My
family — mom, Kevin and The Chief —a whole crew from Aer Lingus and a bunch of
her people with Italian surnames that all start with Joe, Rose or Angela. And
that’s the McCarthy side of my — hopefully — future family.
Finally she shows … looking
absolutely fucking radiant — and cool as always.
It’s pretty cool when it
still feels the same 42 years later.
Okay … let’s not kid
ourselves. But you know what I mean!
Happy 42 to me and LA …
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