Bride

I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.  Mounted there is a full-length mirror, one of the many thoughtful perks of this honeymoon suite.  Hopefully that weighty piece of glass above me is securely fastened.

The reflection shows a pair of bodies, lower legs entwined together, torsos angling slightly apart, and diverging heads resting on separate pillows, with just a sheer sheet covering various elements of this naked duo.

In my sleepy stupor, I wave a petite hand; my accommodating reflection mimics this motion.  Somehow this basic property of optics surprises me.  I’m clearly going delusional, now pushing 20 hours straight awake and active.

Like the rest of the embellishments in this fancy unit, the linens are rich and refined, stain silk, or maybe Egyptian cotton, both offerings well beyond my menial home furnishings budget.  The aromatics incorporated into the laundry, and the atmosphere itself, are hard to place, but notes of citrus and cedar pervade the space.  No expense has been spared on this important evening. 

The bed itself conforms to my shapely body like a marshmallow cloud, customized comfort enabled by discrete firmness adjustment via remote control.  Temperature management is also an option, but I’m wary of fiddling with my body’s natural thermal regulation.

With all these enticing elements, I should have fallen asleep long ago.  However, I can’t stop my brain from racing, as I turn over the monumental event that occurred today.  I’m now married. 

The formal white church ceremony, firehouse reception hall banquet, and open-air patio dance floor, were all characteristic of my middle-class, Irish-Catholic, upbringing.  With an open bar, of course.  Our mediocre budget was spent on the essentials.

All these Long Island, NY facilities are operated by family and friends, helping keep cost down, and making this late summer soiree, held in the heart of wedding season, possible.

I’ve been to nearly a dozen similar settings over my two decades of functional memory, at similar facilities, with similar amenities, but today was different.  This iteration was my own, culminating half a year of planning and perpetration.

Pretty much everything went perfectly, aside from a missing floral bouquet here, or a wrongly timed appetizer tray there, minor issues which happen in any curated gathering.  Trivial details I’ll forget about within weeks.

There’s just one more item left to check off the to-do list.  Consummating the marriage.  However, my groom passed out almost as soon as we reach out our penthouse perch.  Somewhat understandable, as it’s been a long day, with not much food, lots of booze, and continual social stimulation.  Still, this was supposed to the climax of the celebration, in more ways than one.

Granted, we’ve had sex several times before this recent legal and societally binding contract.  I’m quite religious, but not that old fashioned.  However, my beau and I have never lived together, on account of his strict Orthodox Jew parents, and haven’t spent the night together more than a handful of times, on discrete vacation sorties.  

My churring mind isn’t helping my insomnia, with the digital clock on my phone, sitting way too close on the bedside table, now displaying 2 AM.  However, there’s another more pressing encumbrance hindering my ability to doze off.

The incessant snoring emanating from the body lying next to me.  I didn’t know it’s possible for the human respiratory system to emit this much noise without awaking the host.  The noise echoes through this vaulted chamber, bouncing off the angled walls, seemingly amplifying as opposed to dissipating. 

It’s not just the volume that’s a concern, but also the pitch.  First, an elongated deep baritone note on what I perceived to be the breath intake, followed by a short and piercingly shrill exhale whistle.  It’s all I can do to not wrap the plush pillow around my own head, or use it to smother the face of my adjacent counterpart. 

Maybe I can use some cotton swabs from the generously-provided toiletry kit in the lavatory to fashion makeshift ear plugs.  This situation is truly dire.

Suddenly, still gazing up, and metaphorically reflecting on the predicament, tears well up in my eyes.  I think I’ve made a terrible mistake entering into this religious union, committing the rest of my life to this snorting bloke.  I know some older married folks sleep in separate beds, but that approach shouldn’t be required on my wedding night.

I guess I can cry myself to sleep in the bathroom, with plenty of tissue paper, and the neatly-fitting, sound-proof, door securely closed.

Uncle

I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.  Right on cue, my stomach gurgles, the ongoing chemical reactions causing this large mass of flesh to jiggle visibly.  It’s clear something I ate earlier is not sitting well.

Granted, I wasn’t exactly a model of moderation during this evening’s proceedings.  A greedy glutton, who’s now incurring the painful punishment.  The imposing item of instigation is impossible to identify, considering the quantity and diversity of food consumed.

With my current age and aesthetics, both waning, I’m by no means discriminant about what goes into my body.

Assorted appetizers, consisting of indulgent fried gooey goodness.  Countless cakes, ranging from carrot to crab to chocolate.  Marinated beef, in raw, stewed, and grilled formats.  Potatoes and pasta, coated with green and red sauce, topped by cheddar and parmesan cheese.

Since I no longer drink, a medical mandate as opposed to personal preference, I need to take advantage of the available sustenance.  The end of night ice cream sundae bar, as opposed to the happy hour open bar, is likely what pushed me into this complex yet comatose status.

This was a middling wedding by New York City standards, based on the numerous such events I’ve attended over my 6 decades of increasingly unhealthy life.  My own Italian roots, and my former spouse’s Jewish heritage, have resulted in frequenting many matrimonial unions over the years.

Even after our divorce, I’ve continued to get invites for these life-altering gatherings.  As the jovial uncle, I’m a family friend to many.  And never turn down a free meal.

I roll onto my side, hoping to quell the bloating, and facilitate the digestive process, by inciting the natural bodily chemicals to break down the ingested foreign material.  I’ve instinctively shifted to my right, away from the center of the bed, with my flabby frame almost falling off the edge.  This movement is intentional, reinforced by years of neglect by my wife.  We may as well have slept in different rooms during the later years of our relationship.

I now inhabit a small condo apartment, conceding our formerly shared house to the old ball and chain.  Hebrew women are meticulous about all elements of life, from homemaking to career pursuits.  Plus, my past partner had a strong legal stable, all family members, who I couldn’t compete with.  Better to waddle away, with a limp dick between my legs, than put up a stiff fight in court.  

Sure, this place is small.  But, unlike some folks who traveled in from out of town, I get to sleep in the comfort of my own abode.  Which doesn’t mean much considering my current intestinal issues.

Good thing the bathroom is just down the hallway.  I better hurry, as something is definitely about to erupt from my colon.  The way this night is going, I’m likely to spend more of time on the shitter than the mattress.

At least my elderly pug, the only woman who still puts up with me, can keep the mattress warm.  This gal is much more accepting, appreciative, and accommodating than my ex.  Granted, that’s not saying much. 

Hefting my thick legs and girthy midriff down onto the floor, I pause before rising to take stock of the situation.  How is it possible to be both bloated and hungry simultaneously?

Maybe I should swing by the fridge for a snack on the way to the commode.  Why not?  I no longer have a judgmental compatriot to admonish my eating habits.  In fact, my canine companion enjoys it when I bring sandwich meats into the bedroom, or any room for that manner.  Plus, it’s a long time until the breakfast brunch, generously hosted by the newlyweds.  Good on them.

Grandma

I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.  Between my aged eyes, and the burgeoning darkness, I can’t make out the texture of the surface above.  Based on the tacky, flaking wallpaper stuck up throughout this small space, I assume the plaster texture above is littered with water stains.  Not the classiest place I’ve ever stayed in.

I used to be the matriarch of this family, in a position of privilege and power.  Now, I’m relegated to middling bed and breakfast accommodations, with no one in my bloodline willing to host me.  A fickle demeanor, and early bedtime routine, are clearly not traits the next generation enjoys. Apparently, my offspring don’t grasp I control all the family wealth, after the recent passing for my husband of 50 years.

We worked for every penny, leveraging the work ethic of our Irish immigrant parents.  Granted, our fortune, made through investments in Staten Island real estate, is substantially diminished, based on him racking up endless health care bills over the past decade.  The culmination was a 3-month stint of full-time hospice care which for my life partner, which cost more per night any vacation we ever took together. 

My stack’s diminished, but I’m not out of the perpetual poker game that’s life yet.

These abrasive polyester sheets are a far cry from the airy linens at my senior complex condo back in Florida.  Plus, they don’t even have air conditioning in this old house.  While the temperatures are higher down on the Gulf Coast, I feel like the Northeast humidity is more oppressive in the summer months.  Which is why we made the move south in retirement, tax benefits aside.

People always pick on old folks for smelling like moth balls.  But those preservatives are typically reserved for closet storage of fragile garments.  This entire rented room is infused with that pungent chemical odor.  The proprietors, who are even older than me, must stock this conservation compound in multiple forms, including an aerosol spray.

My ears aren’t good, but I can still hear a television blaring through the thin walls which divide my small chamber from the adjacent apartment.  Considering the vibrating bass undertones and inaudible bits of dialogue, I’d rather be staying next to the elevated subway line.  At least those impositions are intermittent.

TV’s were yet to be invented when I was born, but I do remember this technology being a key part of my upbringing.   Back then, viewing options were limited, with the same shows, occurring at the same time, viewed by American society as a whole. 

That’s probably why folks got to bed at a reasonable hour.  Now, computer streaming, which I can never get to work on the tablet my niece set up, allows ubiquitous access to all manner of vile and violent content.  How about reading a paperback fiction novel?

My aged back hurts even more than usual, likely on account of being on my feet all day.  Granny, Mamó, Nonna, Goldie, and lord knows what other names, is still very popular in social settings, especially with the children.  Though no longer able to rock the babies, or dance with the kids, like I used to, I still have a wealth of stories and toys to distribute liberally.

What I need right now is a nice cup of chamomile tea to soothe my raspy throat, aching joints, and unsettled innards.  Unfortunate, that natural remedy won’t be available until the morning.

There is one element of technological advancement over the years I sincerely appreciate.  The marvels of modern medicine.  While they weren’t able to save my late spouse, drugs did ease his pain in passing.  And have moderated my mentality since.

Reaching over to the bedside table, even my frail hands in the dim light are able to locate and latch onto the pill bottle.  This motion has become instinctive.

The chemical concoction housed within the plastic package has gotten me to sleep on may a difficult night over the past few years.  Today was a day of both celebration and sorrow, both opening and closing doors.  My emotionally conflicted mind simply needs to shut down.

Placing 3 tablets on the tip of my tongue, then washing them down with a deep pull of water from the glass adjacent, I know I’m now going to pass out.  The real question is the duration, which could be anywhere from half an hour to permanent.

Brother

I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.  Considering my current inebriation, it’s hard to tell if I could get up, even if I wanted to.  No worries, I’m perfectly content in this sloth-like state.

There’s a dense haze in the air, an intoxicating blend of fruity flavored tobacco smoke from the hookah, and pungent dank smoke from the bong.  The later apparatus has contributed substantially to my current diminished faculties.

As I was begrudgingly part of the wedding party, an obligatorily role based on my younger sibling getting married, I’ve been nipping from a flask since us groomsmen put on our fancy ensembles around midday, in preparation for the endless parade of pictures and pageantry.

My short speech at the reception was serviceable, acting as both the best man and father figure, as a result of our dad’s untimely passing last winter.  The delivered dialogue turned out to be more emotional than I anticipated, while seeing my baby sister off, but she’s in good hands.

It’s hard to go wrong with a well-educated man from a lineage of doctors and lawyers who works finance on Wall Street.  Even if his religious and dietary learnings are a wide divergence from our own familial heritage. 

Fortunately, my recommendation to never get married, based on my own tumultuous life path, didn’t make it into the final monologue content.  A rare display of discretion from a usually brutally honest and erratically behaving Irishman lad.  Professionalism has its place.

Reception gladhanding and dancing obligations have finally been completed, allowing me to switch from the light beer, which kept me functional at dinner, to the hard stuff.  Whiskey and weed.

My groomsmen and I are back in the private house we procured for the weekend to use as a base of operations.  Walking distance from both the church and firehouse, where a few of these mates work, plus a row of dive bars, this location offers a perfect safe setting for debaucherous activity.

Over the course of the past few days, this rented residence has become increasingly disheveled, with no women to keep us honest, or personal items to keep protected.  The kitchen, the only space I can see into from my prostrate position on the floor, highlights the damage.

Takeout food containers, containing various pungent cuisines, are strewn across the countertop.  Red plastic cups, some still filled with stale beer, are positioned in a pair of abstract opposing triangles on the kitchen table.  Booze bottles, mostly expensive and empty, are perched on any remaining flat surface. 

I’m sure if the ancillary pipe incense wasn’t fired up, there would be a multitude of less pleasant smells wafting through this living space.

This operation, especially tonight, is reminiscent of my fraternity house days at SUNY New Paltz.  Those were truly simpler, funnier times, with no spouses, let alone children, to take care of.  Having just turned 45 years old, with two wives, and two kids, via two marriages, I should be classier.  Some changes take time.

Our crew has long since shed the obligatory spiffy but restrictive outfits, eschewing those monkey suits for casual clothes, or just basic undergarments.  Assessing my own shabby appearance, I can’t help but smirk, as I find myself clad simply in a green Flogging Molly t-shirt and grey boxer briefs.  Too bad this comfortable garb isn’t appropriate for general societal interaction.

I also notice a fresh cut on my left shin, burgeoning bruise in my ribcage, and burn blister swelling from my right pointer finger.  The spoils of war apparently.  These recently incurred injuries should hurt, but my full body numbing protocol makes me indifferent to these encumbrances.

Relaxed in body, it’s now time to relax the mind.  How about another toke of weed?  One of my pals will have to help me get up from this sprawled status on the carpeted floor.  Is it possible to take a hit in this prone position?  Probably not a good idea.

I’m going to regret these overzealous decisions in the morning, but for now I plan to keep ragging with the boys, after completing our important masculine roles for the day.  Sleep is overrated, and hangovers can be dealt with tomorrow.

Niece

I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.  Stradling me is a man, rocking his shoulders back and forth, mimicking the thrusts of his hips.  The classic missionary position for sexual activity, utilized effectively since the original homo sapiens grasped the importance of procreation, and likely much earlier.

This current animated experience could be a dream, if it wasn’t for the pungent smell of sweat and other bodily fluids, combined with the noisy creaking of the mattress springs on each rhythmic cycle.  Plus, the sensations I feel in my nether region, more stimulating and pleasurable than any creative hallucination of my meandering mind.

The guy atop me is pleasant enough to look at, olive skin and black beard, both suggestive of his Mediterranean ethnicity.  Having spent my entire life in Newark, NJ, the closest I’ve gotten to this region of the world is ordering a Greek salad at the local pizza parlor.  At least I can cross another country off my conquest list.  Which, if I’m honest, is the main allure of this current late-night soiree.

I just met this mount earlier today.  A lengthy courting processes has never been my style.  Aided by substantial champagne lubrication, any potential inhibitions have been completely washed away.  Weddings always offer up lots of opportunity for mingling, and more, if all goes right. Which it clearly has tonight.

My promiscuity is well-known within the family, but these folks all have enough issues of their own that reprimanding me would be disingenuous.  As the product of a broken home, having called many people parents over the years, I’ve grown up quickly and independently.  As such, I’m left to my own devices, and desires.

I’m not sure I’ll ever get married.  Going to bed, and waking up, with the same man every day just isn’t for me.  I enjoy the thrill of the chase, and winning the race.

Still, there’s something incredibly sensual about a proper wedding event.  All those classy outfits and classy guests, strong drinks and strong men, flowery bouquets and flowery language.  It’s impossible not to get turned on, on egged on, in such a target-rich environment.

The problem is that these matrimonial events are so fleeting in nature.  Large families gather for just the weekend, then disperse back to their places of origin.  Large quantities of food and drink are cooked, consumed, then cleaned up over a very short span of time.  Even my own hairdo, professionally styled this morning, is now completely disheveled before midnight.

The world at large, and my life in particular, is a seemingly perpetual state of flux.

Pinned down and prone, with little else to do, I continue examining my new partner.  My bright red lipstick is smeared across his mouth and cheek, from a steamy make-out session when we entered the privacy of this space.  It wasn’t long before we evolved, or devolved, into this interlocked nude posture.

My date’s facial expressions are becoming increasingly contorted with each passing second.  The end is near.  The man dominating me finishes, then flops over onto the adjacent twin bed in this small double occupancy format.

That was fun, but I would have much preferred to come as well.  I want to move across and inquire if my guy can muster up a second wind.  However, a closer visual examination, first at his heaving chest, then looking lower to his now-limp member, suggests the dude is spent.  Too bad.

I guess I’ll just go to the bathroom, to finish up, then clean up.  Am I obligated to stay over tonight now?  I’ve never been one for snuggling, and my own assigned hotel room is just down the hallway.  I should be able to sneak out quietly, and get some relaxing shut-eye without a big lug thrashing restlessly next to me.

Second Cousin

I lie on my back staring up at the ceiling.  I can feel a metal bar jabbing harshly into my spine.  This current orientation is the 5^th posture I’ve tried as a means of getting to sleep.  Clearly, none are working.

Clocking in a 6’-3”, having just reached my 16^th birthday, there’s many elements of my adolescent male physique I’m still getting attuned with.  If this event happened a year ago, my gangly frame would have easily been accommodated by this lumpy couch, even with toes fully extended.

Now, I’m all hunched up, neck scrunched against one itchy wool plaid armrest, with my heels jammed against the opposite barrier of packed-out foam.  Apparently, this is a pullout offering, but basic geometry, the class I’m currently battling through in high school, suggests no reprieve from a square area will be provided, even if oriented along the diagonal.

I was voluntold to participate in this wedding, fortunately as an usher showing people, many in wheelchairs, to their assigned seats in the formal chapel setting, then the subsequent casual reception venue.  Apparently, reading name cards is a skill that diminishes substantially with old age.

My task required me to get dressed up, not as formal as those goons in the wedding party, but I’m still happy to don more comfortable clothes.  One benefit of my rapid growth spurt is my increased sporting prowess, transition from a runt guard in middle school, to starting forward on the varsity basketball squad as a sophomore.

As such, I’m wearing long athletic shorts and a loose tank top, my preferred attire in any casual situation.  Now I just need these upper body muscles to grow, thereby providing a match for my lanky legs.

Just as I’m about to doze off, I feel something touch my bare ankle.  It’s so hot up here in the attic that I’m not using a blanket.  What’s that encumbrance?  A loose string of yarn.  A rogue piece of insulation.  A shed cat hair.  When the sensation starts moving, I start taking it seriously, bolting upright, and grasping at my tender foot.

It feels like something just bit me.  Who knows what inhabits this rarely-used upper portion of the rafters.  Spiders.  Mice.  Bats.  And I thought living in the Bronx was sketchy.  Hopefully all my vaccine shots are up to date.

After executing the obligatory vigorous itching to briefly satiate the inflamed skin, I settle back in on the sofa torture rack.  This time I make sure to completely cover my lower appendages with the threadbare sheet provided.  It’s quite toasty, but infestation protection precautions must be taken.

Maybe if I open the tiny triangular window in the eve, I can get some air flow going.  Hopefully a screen is affixed, as there already seems to be plenty of critters occupying this space.

For once, my awkwardly elongated frame turns out to be a benefit as opposed to a detriment.  Reaching my arm high over my head, I’m able to reach the top of the faceted pane.  Initially, she resists my urges, but eventually concedes, the pointy top portion swinging outward, with the wider flat bottom rotating inward on creaky central hinge pins.

This looks like an isosceles triangle, per my mediocre math class memory. 

The opening is small, so additional convective coaxing will be necessary.  Leveraging the headlamp my hilarious Long Island suburban hosts provided, a scan of the chamber offers up reprieve, via a dusty fan, and a quartet of boxes which, when stacked, will extend to reach to outdoor opening.

A few minutes of increasingly clumsy and groggy maneuvering gets everything into place.  Once this active cooling scheme is in place, I’ll be sleeping like a baby the remainder of the night.  Leaning tower complete, all that remains is to power the system.

The cord on the fan is short, less than my wingspan, but it may reach an outlet mounted to the exposed studs near the attic floor.  This entire unit is covered in cobwebs and rust, not a good sign from an electrical protocol standpoint, but I need to get some rest.

As soon as I insert the plug, there’s a brilliant flash in the enclosed space, allowing me to spot a couple of rats scurrying for cover in the alcoves of the attic.  Then everything goes silent and dark for a second.  Peace at last. 

Until the acrid smell of smoke, followed quickly by shriek of a smoke alarm, understandable mounted in the rafters of the house, very close to the incurred electrical short.  Apparently, I’m not destined to get any shut-eye before my important summer league basketball match-up in Harlem tomorrow.