2005-09-07 - 10:44 a.m.

For the enitre entry: The Prayers and Tears of Arthur Digby Sellers,The Mother Of Love Emulates The Shapes Of Cynthia.

I'm settling down deep into this uncomfortable 80's style office chair, upholstered in an ugly maroon/tourqouise patterned fabric that deserves to be smushed up against my ass, lest I have to look at it. I'm getting as comfortable as possible for what should promise to be a long meandering entry.

My older brother got married this weekend. Techinically this would be wedding number two, but in the eyes of family and close friends, it was really the first, and only one, that counted.

Friday morning I woke up at 5:30am (only three hours after I'd hit the sack, thanks to a GDI party at Cody's featuring, among other things, a massive 25 person wet t-shirt contest).

I love the early morning excitement of travelling. There's something about it that yanks my mind back to days when I was 7 or 8, being woken by my parents before the sun had even thought about rising. Gathering my pillow and some books, piling into the ole '87 Chrysler Lebaron and trekking to either Atlanta for family vacation, or down to Disney World...

This time however, I'm 24, I'm alone, and the house lacks the smell of cinnamon rolls, the sound of early morning news reports, and the general clatter of suitcases being dragged across kitchen floors. As is usually the case when I travel, I'm instantly awake, going over my checklist, making sure everything from deoderant to socks are packed away neatly. Into the car it all goes, and the sun is barely cresting the horizon behind me as I travel westward towards Kansas City.

I love airports, but hate airplanes. And not for the usual reasons.

Airport love: Faces. Everyone wears their emotions on their sleeves at airports. The fatigued buisness men, the lonely leavers and the ecstatic coming homers. At work, at school, even at home, we do our best to disguise our true feelings lest we be outed by others... but at an airport, all care and attention usually devoted to keeping up a false facade is disregarded. Fear of flying, fear of leaving, fear of what we're travelling towards, all of this evident on everyone's face. From the nervous 5 year old, to the terrified 40 year old, it's all there in plain facial features for anyone to see. And I love that. It drives my empathy wild. It takes an Ipod and serious restraint not to talk to everyone in my gate.

Airplane hate: In the last 3 years or so, I've developed some sort of sinus problem that upon descent, causes me unbelievable and unnameable pain in my forehead, ears, and bridge of my nose. For some reason, as soon as the captain announces our descent and we begin tucking away our portable electronic devices, a piercing, stabbing pain begins in each of the aforementioned areas. Out of necessity, I turn towards the window and will the plane down faster. In seconds, tears are pouring down my face as I grit my teeth and nash my gum. The pain is unlike anything else I've ever experienced. It doesn't lessen until the plane is a few hundred feet off the ground. So for 15 minutes I feel like killing myself. My ear drums feel like they are at the point of erruption, the veins in my forehead seem to be trying to burst free and my nose threatens to come completely undone...

And then as suddenly as it began, its over. The plane skids to a stop, people smile gently at each other in a silent recognition that we could have all been each other's last friends.

The resort where the wedding was being held was beautiful. A gigantic, sprawling, plantation style hotel with all the ammenities of a 5 star: 18 hole golf course, big swimming pool, fancy-smancy restaurant, etc...

Day 1 is spent recouping from 8 hours of traveling (2 in the car to KC, 1 and a half to Dallas, 2 and a half to Atlanta, 2 in the car to the resort). My dad and I get 9 holes in before the sun goes down, spending time with each other and catching up. I'm introduced to the bridal party that evening over dinner and the maid of honor makes eyes at me the entire time.

The next day is the golf outing. I'm partenered with my little brother, one of my uncles, and his 30 year old son. The pairing is a good one, it's straight up golf with a little talk and some fun. Behind us, my older brother and his friends make up two foursomes who spend the round drinking, laughing, smashing golf balls at each other, and drawing phalluses in the sand traps. I shoot a mediocre round, not so involved in the golf as I am in watching my younger brother. He drives me around in the golf cart and I peel back the layers of this muscular, mature grown-up, trying to find the kid I used to bully, the kid I used to stay up till 3am playing video games with, the kid who is now a grown man making his way through college, an amazing athlete and straight A student...

I feel very old when he rounds a corner and nearly throws me from the golf cart.

We near the 17th, a par 3 of about 140 yards. Feeling the end of the round is near, I propose a closet to the hole challenge. There is no money involved, more a bragging right. My brother shoots first and hits the green, about 15 yards from the pin. As far as our golf skills go, he's hit a perfect shot, most likely unbeatable. My uncle and my cousin both miss the green. I line my shot up. I hit a screaming line drive left of the green that will not only miss the green completely, but end up rolling out of bounds. Standing alone, 30 yards left of the green, is a single pine tree. My ball finds the dead center of the tree, kicks at a 90 degree angle to the right, spins onto the green, and comes to rest about 8 yards from the hole.

And I laugh at the irony of the metaphor. My brother has always kept his head down, worked hard, and consistantly driven the ball down the middle, keeping it straight, and getting to his destination in the simpelest, purest of ways. And me, I've alwyas lucked out, finding that one tree that saved me from spilling out of bounds.

The round ends, my brother beats me, completeing the metaphor:)

The rehersal dinner is doomed from the start. My older brother and I go for a drive, dropping off his friends after the golf outing and making the 45 minute drive to his house to let the dog out. We arrive a half hour late to the dinner, receiving a thousand dirty looks and scowls from the other attendees. They've waited outside in the garden the whole time so that we could practice. Sheepishly we apologize and secretly we're not sorry one bit. We spent a good two hours laughing and swapping old stories, like we always do. And that's time that is invaluable and worth the dirty looks, a hundred times over.

The practice session ends, 45 minutes spent teaching us when to walk and when to talk. It's like an elemntary school play, and of course someone is going to botch their part anyway.

The dinner begins with a video montage that my parents put together of Derrick and Erin when they were kids, when they met, with Dylan, etc. It's pure cheese, and it serves the purpose of moistening everyone's eyes. I know Derrick hates the way it makes him feel. He's never been one to show the emotional side of himself to anyone, alot like me I suppose. The minute the video starts, the waiter asks if he'd like a white or red wine.

"Both."

45 minutes later he's drunk and doing his best not to make it obvious. The dinner is over and people are chatting. I catch a look from him that says, quite simply, "Help!"

I slide out of my chair, make my way to the head of the table and we excuse ourselves outside.

By now he's silly drunk. The wasted where you feel invincible and your tongue is loose you say the most obnoxious and crass things, then follow them up with heartfelt confessions. For example:

"Dave... I'm a fucking maniac man. I could fucking fight anyone right now... Dave, I love you man. You and I will always be close, even after I'm a married man."

I serve as a support shoulder, steering my brother outside and away from judging eyes. The wine is flowing into the others around the table, so they dont notice our disappearance for a while. 3 hours later, I'm finally pulling out the sleeper sofa in the bridal suite and laying him down. I've got Dylan into his Pj's and he curls up next to his daddy and they snore identically.

The next day Daniel takes me and his girlfriend for a tour of the campus. I see the baseball field where he will undoubtably make a name for himself, I see what passes for "dorms" these days (a four bedroom apartment with two baths, kitchen, living room, etc. lucky bastard) and we spend the time chatting about his new college experiences. He relates first time stories about seeing friends very very drunk, helping them make it through vomit episodes, etc. The kind of stories we're all familar with (and for some of us won't seem to go away). I laugh at his innocence as he reserves judgement and tries to keep the stories as factual as possible. What a good kid. He really is the pride of the family, and I can't help but find myself bragging about him every chance I get.

The wedding gets closer and again I offer a shoulder to my older brother. We wait in the lobby for the cue to head over to the garden. The wedding will be outside, in a flowery southern style garden. The weather is perfect, a smooth 78ish, with very little humidity. Still my brother is sweating, beads of nervousness well up around his hairline and ears. He smokes a dozen cigarettes and I bring him a couple of cokes to help try and stem the tide of nerves, to little avail. My father is the best man, both in his role in the wedding and in the moments that lead up to it. He distracts my brother with funny anecdotes of when we were growing up, making sure to embarass each one of us, including himself. It helps, and by the time Daniel and I head to the front to begin seating people, it almost looks as if my brother might make it thru this.

I take the arms of friends, family and strangers and move them around the 180 white chairs. I make light conversation as I do my best to keep warring factions far away from each other. I'm really nervous for some reason. I find myself willing whatever karma I have amounted towards a successful and lovely ceremony.

The ceremony begins and my brother looks nervous only to me. In the tradition of the Dale family, he has stacked his emotions behind so tight a barrier that only someone who has done the same could even possibly notice the fear and uncertainity that hides behind a relatively relaxed face. That's us. So very emotional, and yet so detatched.

The bride appears and she is lovely. The ying to my brother's yang, she wears her excitement and joy on her sleeve. This is truly her moment in the sun. The congregation beams at her and nods to each other in approval. The dress is flatterring, her hair and make-up perfect, she is truly a blushing bride.

As the ceremony progresses, my little nephew (the ring bearer), saves my brother on multiple occasions. Just when it seems Derrick might succumb to fear and high tail it out of there, Dylan breaks the silence with a grumbled "How much longer?" or a diarmingly cute "You look beautiful Erin." Each time the pastor stops and the congregations laughs or "awwwwws" just long enough for my brother to wipe away the perspiration and renew his strength and courage.

When all is said and done, my brother looks... happy. Not ecstatic, not afraid, not drained or overjoyed. He looks happy. It's a rare emotion for either of us, I know. A feeling that things are just fine. He's not punching the air and shouting his love for his wife, nor is he heading for the bar and wondering "What have I done?"

Instead, he's looking at her with a gentle smile, looking down at Dylan with the same smile, and occasonally glancing at the his friends and family with the same warm smile. This is happiness. It's a feeling of calm accomplsihment, a feeling of "so what next?"

The dinner and reception are fairly straight forward. The band is as cheesey as they come, the lead singer jumping off the stage to lead the drunken revelers in a chorus of "Shout!"

I take turns dancing with my mom, Derrick's mom, and some of the bridesmaids.

I'm not really there though. They drawl conversation into my ear and I nod and make appropriate comments to keep them fooled into thinking I'm listening. In non-Dave tradition I ignore the majority of the passes made at me, as I spend most of my energy talking with the family and the family-friends I don't see enough. I'm suddenly very aware of everyone's age, including my own. I take the time sit and chat with my grandmother about whatever her mind settles on. I pick out the relatives who look sad or lonely and place myself next to them until they run dry of conversation.

Sure it sounds selfless, like I'm doing them a favor, but in reality its all for me. I love the way they sound, the way they make me feel when they launch into a story. I'm 100% selfish. I'm making them talk to me so I can feel something, some kind of glow from knowing that I made them happy. It's horrible and yet completely satisfying at the same time.

Before I know it, the reception is ending. I make a typical choice at this point, fully aware of the regret I'll feel in the morning. I catch a hurtful eye from the maid of honor, and I pocket it with the rest of the hurtful eyes I've endured in my lifetime. Lucky I have spared her from a far worse fate. Better for her to wonder "what if" as oppossed to "what now?"

The next morning I'm back in route to home. I feel compltely numb, save for the horrific pain of landing. Take that as you will.

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