The groomsmen are stripped to the waist and oiled, flexing and bulging where they line the entrance ramp. Suddenly, they turn and gesture with arms like taut cables. The pyrotechnics kick in.
Jonny Q stalks down in full regalia, stirring the crowd to new heights of frenzy. Opposite him, Regina is hauling herself to the top of the Wedding Cage.
“Do you?” yells Pastor Pain, when they’re both before him. “Do you? All right!”
“With this belt!” thunders Jonny Q, holding it high. “I! Thee! Wed!”
Then Regina pile-drives him down into the ring, and Reception Rumble 2K4 finally gets underway.
“Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan,” says Cote.
“What?” says Ballard. “You think that’s chemistry?”
“They’ve got it.” Cote slurps Slushee. “They’re like iconic for it.”
“That’s not chemistry! That’s the farthest thing from chemistry!” Ballard presses his face in his hands. “Everybody thinks that because everybody else says it, but it’s just two attractive people taking turns with–with jokes written by lonely women.”
“Lonely women can’t make jokes?” she asks.
“There’s no mmph! No chutzpah, no danger, no blood in the water!” Ballard’s getting louder. “Chemistry is about shit blowing up!”
“I wish you wouldn’t yell.”
“I’m not yelling!” he yells.
After Autumn repeats for the millionth time that “everybody’s doing it,” Kam gives in and decides to try.
She drinks orange juice at breakfast and apple juice at snack. She hits the water fountain, too, and by lunchtime her juicebox is less than appetizing. She gets in trouble for foot-tapping in class.
She persists, though, and after a tortuous bus ride she sprints into her home bathroom and finally, finally lets herself go. The sensation is astounding. Kam groans with relief; there are goosebumps on her arms. Maybe everybody really is doing it, she thinks, if it always feels this good.
None of the volunteers can double-dutch. It’s embarrassing. Brant thinks of himself as a drummer, someone with rhythm; he should be able to jump in double time. He hasn’t made it past the second rope yet.
The shelter kids are better, but too young to keep it up. When a shelter mom wanders out to watch, bemused, little Pasha drags her into line. Brant and Hillary are turning; they eye each other, but don’t stop.
She dances through their ropes perfectly, to cheers and applause. It’s when she stops, grinning and gasping, that Brant finally realizes she’s years younger than he.
“Weird stuff, man.” Larry shakes his head. They’re cruising Market. “The other night, okay? It’s like two in the morning and this girl calls and wakes me up. She wants to come over. I’m like fine, okay, I put some pants on and let her in. And she goes, ‘Hey, let’s watch some porn.'”
“What?” says Lowell. “What?”
“I know! Like girls ever want to watch porn!” Larry nods. “I was really falling asleep, though. She left after a while.”
“Larry,” says Lowell, “she was trying to have sex with you.”
I don’t know,” says Larry uneasily. “Man. You think so?”
Malkin’s halfway through droning about demo-centric sales thrust, and Guyver’s so busy trying to figure out who has the ball that he barely catches Byatt’s wink before she sends it his way. He catches it footwise without looking down, then kicks up; it seems to hang suspended above the table, then plops into his hand just as Malkin whirls around.
Guyver snaps on his best interested-vacant face and lets the ball roll down his leg, stopping it with a practiced foot-stall.
“As I was saying,” mutters Malkin, “the B2C market…”
Guyver gives Patel the slightest of winks, then kicks it on.
“Jesus, you guys. Who decided to let her do that? ” Larry isn’t concentrating on driving, and Lowell’s gripping his seat. They’re cruising Broadway. “Is she bleeding? Nose, eyes, ears? Well check.” Pause. “Okay, is she breathing? I know she can’t. Check her breathing.”
His loose shirt is puffed up by the air vents, and he’s got a sunburn on his upper arms; his skin looks older than it should. The blue light from the dash shadows out his eyes. Sweat on his upper lip: he needs a shave.
“She’s fine, okay?” he says, trying to cradle his tiny phone. “Fine.”
“The difference,” says the Abbot, “is that here several orders share one roof–united in devotion, divided amicably about its expression.” He’s the first fat man Pearl’s seen here, which fits her mental image perfectly. The long scars of his eyes, however, don’t. His fingers see for him, quick as spiders.
“We’ll talk after dinner. Brother Pruitt will take you to your cell,” he says as a stooped man enters the office. An Anorectine, she guesses, under vows of hunger. He holds the door, and his hands look intensely fragile: yellow and dry things, formed of rice paper and balsa wood.
“Pardon. Sorry,” says Bo. “Excuse me. My–pardon me.” He’s squeezing his way through everyone, provoking many a glare, trying to keep track of the big tree on what was once the city park. Tall landmarks are like gold these days.
When he arrives, Linda’s already there, sandwiched between two obese women and trying uncomfortably not to touch either. She manages a smile.
“Hi,” he says, and smiles back, knowing they’d both like a little more privacy. That’s even more precious than tall landmarks, though. It’s a tight fit, with all 293 million of them, but nobody’s ever leaving Delaware again.