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
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.
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 …