By Kitty Johnson
College was Laocoon.
Eddie could never escape. It had been fifteen years since he and Bill had been in the same dorm and dined in the same cafeteria and smoked similar dope and listened to the very same Pink Floyd. Now in 1987 (foreboding number: sounded like a countdown) Eddie was playing the part of a groomsman at Bill’s preposterous wedding. The passage of those fifteen years had not earned him a pass from this duty. Eddie was having to, well, not act enthused but certainly emit a silently enthused vibe over this wedding over which he was actually deeply neutral.
But it was in New Orleans, so that was pretty interesting. Plus the bride’s parents were interesting as hell. Rich. At the rehearsal dinner at a restaurant on Bourbon Street (which was so expensive the waiters picked out the menu for you) the sky was the frightening limit of how much champagne and beef a man could have.
The rehearsal dinner had been on Friday (which wasn’t the whole story of Friday), but now it was Saturday afternoon and the wedding—performed as if a ritual union of sun and eclipse—was over at last.
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