Living on Love

They arrive on a motorcycle, approach her father and ask permission to be married. Say they’re in love. Love? How quaint, he thinks.

He knows about love. He’s a divorce attorney. He contemplates their naiveté. It’s a miracle…finally! He questions the man’s sanity, but dismisses the thought when they promise never to move back home.

He asks if the man has a job and money. The answer is No. He’s not surprised. He asks how and where they’ll live. In love, on the road, they reply. He inquires about the source of money, and learns the nuances of food stamps and unemployment benefits. He consents quickly before the man changes his mind.

The bride’s mother arranges the details, spending all their savings, borrows more. The groom’s mother is shunned, thought to live in an inferior zip code. The fathers know they’re irrelevant. The bride’s father mentions the gown’s cost. He’s rebuked and told to sit down, shut up and shell out. God loves cheerful givers, he recalls. That afternoon he explores filing for Chapter 11.

The groom is nervous because her father’s a divorce attorney. He chooses a lawyer as his best man. He remembers the harsh treatment at the hands of his ex-wife’s lawyer. He hopes to avoid it this time. With both camps now armed, they call a conference, hash out details of the marriage vows. The lawyers get hung up in minutiae on, “I Do.”

The groom insists that no man can love, honor, comfort and cherish any woman until death. His experience with women is too vast. He prefers, “I Might” to “I Do.” He cites the bride’s mother as an example of what can go wrong. The bride’s father agrees. He prices Harleys later that day.

The father zeroes in on “this man for richer or poorer.” From what he could see, the groom couldn’t get any poorer. He suggests, “for richer not poorer.” They discuss a prenup.

The meeting grinds on. Decorum devolves into chaos. They call for martinis. Someone suggests a judge conduct the wedding. Another laughs, says a jury is needed. The minister intercedes, prays and offers his opinions. They reject them, adjourn and retreat to the bar. The minister shows up, slinking in from the alley. Preachers are sneaky about such things.

The wedding day arrives. With it come the inflow of flowers and the outflow of cash. The supporting actors ~ bridesmaids, groomsmen and guests ~ complete the scene. Hypocrisy smiles politely while denigrating attire and character. Guests speculate on the spectacle’s price tag.

The Harley waits outside, uncomfortable with white bows and pink roses that demean its masculinity. Its train is a colorful assortment of beer cans. It hopes the Angel Gang doesn’t see it.

The bride glides down the aisle. She grins at the groom. He grasps the altar for support. Lawyers wink. Her father wears the obligatory smile, his mind on barren bank accounts. He whispers, “Honey, it’s not too late to back out.” But he reconsiders and recites his five words, “Her mother and I do.” He wants to add, “With pleasure,” but dismisses the thought. He sits down again.

The minister charges the couple with ancient covenants. Their ears listen, their lips yearn to kiss. He pauses at the “I Do” finale. The church becomes silent. Guests are tense. No one breathes. Nothing moves.

After the tortuous silence, they acquiesce, “I Do.” But she adds, “If love fails, he gets the Harley, I move back in with daddy.” The bride’s father faints. On the way down he’s heard to say, “If that happens, I’m leaving on my Harley.”

Love triumphs again.


Bud Hearn
December 8, 2010