on a six-foot rolling tripod with a small, white-hot spotlight burning at its summit. The videographer, a nerdy, ubiquitous guy named Lenny, stood beside it with an air of proprietary importance, a battery pack wrapped around his waist like an ammunition belt. The professional still photographer, whom Dave had never seen before, was crouching in front of the three-tiered weddingcake, his camera aimed at the doorway, where a bridesmaid and usher now fidgeted, awaiting their introduction.
“o-KAY,” Artie resumed, reading from an index card supplied by the maitre d’. “How about a big round of applause for bridesmaid Antoinette Lambrusco and usher Paul Cross.”
Arms locked, Antoinette and Paul strode past the wedding cake and across the dance floor. A bodybuilder with a profusely moussed crewcut, Paul acknowledged the tepid ovation with magisterial nods, while Antoinette clutched a bouquet of spring flowers to her chest and beamed ecstatically, as though she herself were the bride. After they passed the video camera, the maitre d’ escorted them off the dance floor, and Artie moved on to the next couple.
Dave always enjoyed this part of the ceremony. It was the moment when the evening began to take shape, to transform itself from a generic wedding reception into a unique occasion with a particular cast of characters. By the time the second couple had been introduced (Lori Lambrusco and Joe Tresh), he already knew that the bride had identical twin sisters (sturdy-looking girls with big hair and toothy smiles) and that the groom's buddies spent a lot of time at the gym.
The bridesmaids’ dresses always merited a moment's consideration. Julie had once told him that they were designed ugly to make the bride appear more beautiful by comparison, and he was beginning to believe her. Tonight's weren't the most hideous he'd seen by a long shot, though no one in her right mind would have worn one of her own free will. They were shiny green, with puffy sleeves, a scalloped neckline, and a tight bodice that exploded into a big rustling bell of a skirt, really pretty tasteful as far as these things went, except for the yellow bow in the back, so large that it seemed like some kind of practical joke. None of the Lambrusco women seemed to mind—the third sister's name was Heidi—but the fourth bridesmaid (Gretchen Something-or-Other) gave the impression of being deeply chastened to be seen in public in such an outrageousget-up. She was a thin, glum-looking woman with men's eyeglasses and sexily bobbed hair, who didn't even pretend to smile as she shuffled across the dance floor attached to the elbow of the first usher who didn't look like he injected steroids for breakfast.
Lighten up, Gretchen
, Dave thought to himself.
Your secret's safe with us.
The flower girl and ring bearer were introduced right after the Best Man and Maid of Honor; as usual, they hammed it up shamelessly and got the biggest ovation of the night (Dave made a mental note not to allow any kids in his own wedding party). Then the parents of the groom and the parents of the bride came bounding out, the Lambruscos looking markedly more comfortable than the DiNardos (this was also typical, the bride's family possessing the home-field advantage). Finally, the big moment had arrived. The happy couple appeared in the doorway, staggered slightly on account of the bride's prodigious hoop skirt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the guests of honor, the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. PJ. DiNardo.”
Despite unspecified “gown problems” that had delayed the start of the reception by twenty minutes, the bride was glowing as she made her entrance. She was a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking girl—maybe a basketball player, Dave thought—with a crown of flowers on her head and so much makeup that she didn't look completely human. The groom was a muscle-bound behemoth in white tails, black pants, and a black vest decorated with a pattern of white dots meant
“o-KAY,” Artie resumed, reading from an index card supplied by the maitre d’. “How about a big round of applause for bridesmaid Antoinette Lambrusco and usher Paul Cross.”
Arms locked, Antoinette and Paul strode past the wedding cake and across the dance floor. A bodybuilder with a profusely moussed crewcut, Paul acknowledged the tepid ovation with magisterial nods, while Antoinette clutched a bouquet of spring flowers to her chest and beamed ecstatically, as though she herself were the bride. After they passed the video camera, the maitre d’ escorted them off the dance floor, and Artie moved on to the next couple.
Dave always enjoyed this part of the ceremony. It was the moment when the evening began to take shape, to transform itself from a generic wedding reception into a unique occasion with a particular cast of characters. By the time the second couple had been introduced (Lori Lambrusco and Joe Tresh), he already knew that the bride had identical twin sisters (sturdy-looking girls with big hair and toothy smiles) and that the groom's buddies spent a lot of time at the gym.
The bridesmaids’ dresses always merited a moment's consideration. Julie had once told him that they were designed ugly to make the bride appear more beautiful by comparison, and he was beginning to believe her. Tonight's weren't the most hideous he'd seen by a long shot, though no one in her right mind would have worn one of her own free will. They were shiny green, with puffy sleeves, a scalloped neckline, and a tight bodice that exploded into a big rustling bell of a skirt, really pretty tasteful as far as these things went, except for the yellow bow in the back, so large that it seemed like some kind of practical joke. None of the Lambrusco women seemed to mind—the third sister's name was Heidi—but the fourth bridesmaid (Gretchen Something-or-Other) gave the impression of being deeply chastened to be seen in public in such an outrageousget-up. She was a thin, glum-looking woman with men's eyeglasses and sexily bobbed hair, who didn't even pretend to smile as she shuffled across the dance floor attached to the elbow of the first usher who didn't look like he injected steroids for breakfast.
Lighten up, Gretchen
, Dave thought to himself.
Your secret's safe with us.
The flower girl and ring bearer were introduced right after the Best Man and Maid of Honor; as usual, they hammed it up shamelessly and got the biggest ovation of the night (Dave made a mental note not to allow any kids in his own wedding party). Then the parents of the groom and the parents of the bride came bounding out, the Lambruscos looking markedly more comfortable than the DiNardos (this was also typical, the bride's family possessing the home-field advantage). Finally, the big moment had arrived. The happy couple appeared in the doorway, staggered slightly on account of the bride's prodigious hoop skirt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for the guests of honor, the brand-new Mr. and Mrs. PJ. DiNardo.”
Despite unspecified “gown problems” that had delayed the start of the reception by twenty minutes, the bride was glowing as she made her entrance. She was a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic-looking girl—maybe a basketball player, Dave thought—with a crown of flowers on her head and so much makeup that she didn't look completely human. The groom was a muscle-bound behemoth in white tails, black pants, and a black vest decorated with a pattern of white dots meant
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