I just watched the wedding episode of The Office, and started thinking about all the weddings I have to go to.
The End
In two years, maybe a promotion. Maybe. If he worked real hard. Irish couldn't keep his mind off of it. He was already twenty seven. Twenty fucking seven. What did he have to show for it? A girlfriend.
Irish was walking on a sidewalk. It was not the kind of sidewalk that saw steady traffic, the kind of functional, commuter sidewalk that did its job on the weekdays. It was a special sidewalk, made of red, octagonal bricks. There were no cracks in this sidewalk. Flowers lined it, and outside of these footlights, and there was not a single weed among them. Irish had an important to make--they wanted an answer by Monday--fucking Monday man--but he couldn't keep his mind on it because his thoughts kept drifting back to those octagonal bricks, and whether or not that pattern could be mapped onto a sphere. A torus, definitely. But a sphere...
His thoughts were interrupted when a black motorcycle crossed his vision. He was instantly jealous. He loved motorcycles but Cynthia, well, she'd kill him. She'd leave him and then kill him. The motorcycle parked in the fire lane. The rider got off the motorcycle with that long leg swing that told you their ass hurt from riding so long. He took his helmet off and dropped it on the ground. Who does that? Irish kept staring, unaware that he was staring. The man in front of him was tall, tan, muscular. He was wearing black slacks, a black shirt, and a black tie, and just the right amount of five 'o clock shadow to be an extreme gritty sex appeal master. The man glanced towards Irish. Irish saw piercing blue eyes, like he was looking at Raiden, and then the rider turned and sauntered up the steps. He walked slow, with a bit of a swagger. He looked to Irish like a cowboy out of a western.
One of the ushers ran down out of the church and tried to talk to the rider about his bike, but the rider glanced at the usher the way a veteran city dweller glances at bum. The rider took a program out of the ushers hands as he walked by. Irish followed like a little kid drooling over an astronaut. He glanced at the man's bike. The faring was all scratched and cracked and shit. The read tire was worn down to the cords, and the clutch lever on the left handlebar was bent. The windshield was missing a corner, and had a single velcro sticky left in the spot that once held an automatic payment device for toll roads.
The rider ignored the usher who asked about bride vs groom. Irish waited in the anteroom. Cynthia would kill him if he walked in without her. She late again. Fucking late again. How long does it take to put on a damn dress? Irish waited, growing more and more impatient, mortally afraid that the wedding party would show up, and it would be, you know, awkward. Finally he saw her hurrying across the street. She was doing that thing girls do when they try to walk fast in four inch heels. She probably spent two hours on that getup, and from where Irish was standing, she just looked silly. Sure, she was hot. Medium boobs, 145lbs. Tight. Man, those hex bricks probably would fit on a sphere. Wait, no they were octagons. Damn. If Cynthia ever left him, he would miss those 32 Cs.
Cynthia was talking even before she stepped inside the church. "I know, I know, I'm sorry, my sister..." Irish zoned out. "...hair curler, and then it..." Still boring. "...oh thanks," Cynthia smiled at the usher who handed her a program. Cynthia gave Irish a kiss and then took the usher's arm, letting him escort the couple to their seats. Irish scowled at him; stupid pimply fat kid touching his girlfriend.
Irish watched the the ceremony. Jason stood across from Caroline. And old man said words. People read shit. They kissed. People read more shit. Irish glanced at Caroline. She was totally padding. All the girls here, well, what about girls out there? What was he missing if he stayed here? Shouldn't he see whats out there? Damn, he couldn't decide. Here's the thing: could he do better? A question with no answer.
Irish turned around and looked for the badass guy with the motorcycle. He couldn't help it. Mr. Badass was leaving though, holding his side like he'd been shot.
When the damn wedding was finally over, Irish ran into Mr. Badass in the bathroom. Irish was trying to touch up his front hair--damn gel-that-isn't-gel was starting to fail on him. Mr. Badass came out of a stall with this shirt open, revealing a chiseled chest, and fresh bandage where his liver was supposed to be. The man tossed a piece of metal in one of the sinks and set a piece of bloody gauze down on the counter. His hands were covered in dried blood that he was vigorously trying to wash off.
"What happened to you?" Irish stared at the bandage. Also at his abs. Damn, what was his regimen? Like 60 squats every morning? 60 squats wasn't doing shit for Irish.
"I dropped my program. When I leaned forward, I forgot that was in my pocket."
The metal in the sink bothered Irish. It wasn't supposed to be there. This was a bathroom. He was worried someone was going to step in and catch them hanging out with this metal in the sink. He picked it up. "You keep scrap metal in your shirt?" It was maybe quarter meter long, and a few inches wide.
"Don't throw that out." The man fixed his scary blue eyes on Irish. "That's a backsword. What's left of it, anyway." The man took it back from Irish, wrapping it in a silk cloth.
"You keep a broken sword on you? What, like next to your wallet?"
"It's all thats..." the man drifted off. Then he smiled a tiny bit. "Every story needs a katana, don't you think?" The man dried his hands.
Irish felt like fanboy with his one chance to get an autograph from his favorite movie star. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Irish. Matt Irish."
The man shook his hand. "Beck--people call me Logan."
"Are you bride or groom?" Irish immediately regretted his pathetic attempt to sound cool in front of this stranger.
"I knew the groom a long time ago. See you around." The stranger walked out of the bathroom, sword fragment tucked into his pants, his shirt still open. There were people directly outside the door. Like directly. Who just walks out of a bathroom with their shirt off? In the middle of a wedding? Who does that?
Remember Your Name
"Logan!" Irish found Logan during the reception. Logan didn't seem to hear his own name; he didn't respond until Irish crossed into his field of vision. Then Logan looked up.
"Oh. Hi." He paused for a second. "Matt."
Irish sat down, placing his mug next to Logan's. "Do you actually like coffee, or did you just switch when they closed the bar."
Logan grunted with a half smile. He held up a small flask and raised an eyebrow.
"Sure!" Irish had no idea what was in the flask, but he really wanted to look cool. He had to fight back from choking--damn that shit was strong.
Logan turned his attention back to the dance floor, which he had been studying with disinterest.
"So how come you walk around with a katana."
"Its kind of a souvenir."
"From Japan?"
"Japan, no. I didn't go that far. I have been moving around for quite a while, but I never quite got that far."
"I wish I had done that. You know, moved around. Gotten the hell out of here. I wish I had done that years ago. But no, I had to get a job as soon as I graduated. You know, that whole...live life like you mean it thing."
"Don't be so hasty." Logan sounded like he was only halfway through a sentence, but then he took a sip of his coffee and looked at the people dancing. Some stupid ass 80's song was on. Everyone on the dance floor looked retarded.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not that great."
"What isn't?"
"Living life like...whatever they call it. Riding the ups and downs like your a leaf getting tossed in the current."
"That sounds awesome."
"It is awesome. In movies. In real life, its draining. You end up running out of money, out of all your resources."
"Yeah, but its so cool." Irish sat back in his chair, in dream mode. "I wish I had some fucking adventures, you know? All I've done is go to school and get tied down. Its like achilles, you know? That story about, he had like a choice, between being awesome and everyone would know his name and dying young, or being boring and growing old. Who wants to grow old?"
Logan shrugged.
"I mean, I don't know what I could have done, but some times I feel like achilles, but I made the wrong choice."
"I think you're mistaken. Achilles didn't make the right choice." Logan's hand moved to his side.
"This, coming from the guy who's 'moved around alot' and rides a motorcycle and carries a broken katana. Who does that?"
"Just hear me out. Do you know math?"
"I have a fucking masters in-"
Logan raised his hand. "Hold your horses there, partner. Just do that math. How much sex do you think you can have in your lifetime if you died on your 30th birthday. How much?"
"Well, 365 days, times 7 times a day..."
"No, keep in mind that you're single, and you spend most of your times having adventures. So like maybe once every few months."
"That's still a lot."
"Compare that to getting 'tied down.' For a few decades. Which one do you think is better?"
Irish chewed on his tongue. This wasn't--this wasn't right. This wasn't allowed. The math had to be wrong, because the conclusion was wrong.
"Take that girl there." Logan pointed at the bar with his glass. He happened to be pointing right at Cynthia.
Irish sighed inwardly. "She's alright."
"She's a ten."
"She's not that hot-"
"She's a ten. 32C, somewhere between 130 and 145-"
"Ok." Irish didn't like the way this guy talked about his girlfriend, especially not with that uncanny weight guess. What do you mean only a ten?
"If I could shack up with her every night--look at the way she keeps eye contact when she's talking to people. Its like she wants to look away because she shy, but she can't because she's too interested. You don't see that a lot. Who cares who remembers your name when you can hear her moaning it--"
"You know, I do like that about her," Irish interrupted him again. "The shy thing." If Cynthia ever left him, he would miss that smile.
"You know her?" said Logan. He almost sounded lonely.
Irish was about to answer but Caroline grabbed him and pulled him towards the dance floor. You know, the whole "if we're dancing, then all of our guests have to dance" thing that newlyweds do.
Logan finished his coffee quickly, grunting at the whiskey.
The Beginning
Logan had planned to be out of there before the old people started leaving, but he couldn't start his bike. He probably could have, maybe, if he had taken it easy with the starter and maybe cleaned off the spark plugs first, but as it was now the starter motor was shot. He needed to keep moving. The best thing to do was probably pull the plate and scrub the vin and leave it for scrap.
He didn't want to leave it. Not again, not with this one. He was driving every bike he got into the ground, and his mind, that was akin to a little boy that keeps buy puppies that die because the little boy can't take care of them properly and keeps redlining them. So he spent two hours fixing it.
Logan stuck a cigarette in his mouth. He brought his lighter up but didn't light it; no...some girls were coming out already, and if one of them walked over, well, smoking always gave a bad taste when you started kissing them. Logan's hand froze, with the lighter lit, the flame dancing back and forth, teasing the cigarette. He really wanted to smoke. He couldn't decide.
A car drove by. It was a beat up hatchback, the kind Logan wouldn't be caught dead in. But inside it was that kid Matt, and that hot girl. Logan could read from their body language that they were boyfriend and girlfriend. He snapped the lighter shut, watching the car drive away in the fading daylight, the unlit cig still dangling from his lips.
"Next time, I bet they'll be in the limo."
"Limo?" a girl asked from behind him. Logan leaned back to face her and made a funny joke. Then another, and another. The he asked where she was staying and if she'd ever ridden a motorcycle. When the girl got on and wrapped her arms around him, he knew it was going to be another night, another show, another few steps on the endless tower that he couldn't stop climbing. He sighed, thinking of the couple in the dirty old hatchback.
Forward
Irish tried to keep up with Cynthia, but she just talked too damn fast. She'd been in the middle of a story about someone pissing off the bride's mom back around 4th street. He'd actually been interested in that one. But now she was talking about someone's hair, and he had no idea how that was related. It all happened so fast. They stopped at a red light. Irish leaned over and kissed her. It was kind of awkward, because Cynthia said "no, wait, what are you doing?" and tried to back off, but he was persistent and they lip-locked until a car behind them layed on the horn. When they pulled up to the apartment for the afterparty, they were holding hands, and Cynthia noticed his thumb kept rubbing her ring finger.
Irish glanced at a stop sign on the way in. Yeah, octagonal patterns could totally fit over a sphere.
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