Monkey in Twenty-Five Words or Less

At her wedding, my sister wants her bridesmaids to recite, in twenty-five words or less, what marriage means to us. Don’t laugh. She wants me to speak last out of six women bound in pink rayon and control-top pantyhose. Two are receptionists. Three are from college. I am her older sister who lives in New York City and is only seen in black and blue jeans. OK, laugh.

My sister thinks that I will use all twenty-five of my words. She thinks that I will make marriage seem like the best choice because I am a writer and, if I want, can make juggling live monkeys sound tempting.

 

Her fiancé is a monkey.

He grins all the time. He tucks his lips under and opens wide as if to brag See how many ? See?

With his picker and his dirty bird, he holds his beer bottle by the neck and downs it. When he thinks no one is looking, he pinches and tugs at the shirt seams that hammock his armpits. Silly monkey.

When I can, I cage him with glares and stares and sideways glances.

 

To my sister, marriage means allowing bananas in her bed.

 

At the bridal shower, my sister’s best girlfriend puts her toddler in a playpen in the living room. The baby girl lies on her back and turns her head to stare at us through the tight string. Her puffy tummy goes up and down, fast like the nylon roof of an air castle. She pulls her ears as we squeal. She watches us bounce on the sofa and chairs. She watches us topple toward my sister to see what waits inside the next box wrapped in silver paper. The paper shines. Coffee table lights make the presents look wet. Baby wants to touch.

My sister rips the paper off and throws it up in the air, down to the carpet.

My sister’s best friend squats and gathers, squats and crumples. She drags a Hefty bag like a sunburned turtle who is tired and cannot squeeze into her house. She crosses her legs and stays on the floor. She claps the loudest.

She looks up at my sister who hooks each present with her pinkies. Show and Tell: red lace body suits; black garters; silk, washed and sand washed and slippery; panties that bare the bottom; bras that boost and cradle.

Twelve women sit and imagine the honeymoon. Fresh love and rum and hardly a stitch required. We remember when our men belonged to us.

My sister passes each gift to her best friend. Her best friend folds each carefully. She matches the cards to make Thank You notes easy. She hopes we do not notice that her girl is unhappy. Baby is pouting in her pen.

 

To my sister’s best friend, marriage is arranging everything just so.

A London Underground wall read: A woman needs a husband like a fish needs a bicycle.

 

My sister met her husband on a flight from Birmingham to Atlanta. She likes to say that she met the man of her dreams on a twenty-three minute trip to heaven. Don’t roll your eyes. It was cute the first time I heard it. My sister, the flight attendant, committed his complimentary beverage to memory. Budweiser, no cup.

“Alcohol really isn’t complimentary,” my sister whispers, “but that night, something told me I should buy that man a beer!”

She loves that story. She tells it like it has an expiration date.

My mother can’t hear it enough.

“Half an hour in the air and she finds a good man. A lawyer, even!”

OK, roll ’em.

My sister has chosen to wear my mother’s wedding dress. She had the seamstress cut the sleeves off, raise the hem, and make a train with the leftovers. Mama didn’t need no train.

My sister wants to show some skin. My sister has skinny upper arms and calves as wide as her thighs.

I am older and much softer.

My theory is this: Keep your weight lower than your IQ. If I want, I can weigh twice as much as her.

My best friend Wyatt says, “You don’t want a little girl’s body. You’re twenty-five years old. You have a woman’s body. Believe me. Most men will pick a pair of B cups over a flat stomach any day.”

 

To Wyatt, marriage is assuring you that a John Grisham book is good reason to skip the gym.

 

I hug Wyatt longer than I should and invite him to the wedding.

 

My sister says she is glad I found a date so close to the wedding. She says she is going to seat us at her high school boyfriend’s table at the rehearsal dinner.

“Wyatt’s so funny,” my sister says. “He’ll be good for Buddy. Lift his spirits. You know. He refused to bring a date.”

I tell her that the table will be fine. Sitting with Buddy will be just fine.

My sister smiles and squeezes my hand. She bets that everyone will be so excited about meeting a man from New York City.

“MeeMaw will probably call him a Yankee,” she says.

“MeeMaw calls Spiderman a Yankee.”

My sister asks me what Wyatt does for a living. When I tell her he writes, she asks me if I think it’s wise to get involved with another writer.

“How will you support your children?”

“We don’t have any children.”

She bends her lips and swats an invisible fly. “You know what I mean!”

I assure her that Wyatt and I are not involved.

 

In Australia, I took a year and walked from the east coast to the west, then north to south. I spent every step with a man eight years my senior. Every night, he checked our sleeping bag for snakes. He taught me how to build a fire and how to use a rifle. He said my body was beautiful. He taught me that there were fifty-two ways of saying the word yes.

When I left, I learned that lovers could never be friends. I can only assume the opposite is true.

 

My sister tells me I can borrow her car to pick Wyatt up at the airport. She tells me to go early. She tells me I did not get a chance to look around when I landed.

“It’s been renovated. There’s a McDonald’s and a bookstore.”

She tells me to have a shake and see if my novel is sold at the new and improved Birmingham airport.

 

On the way to baggage claim, Wyatt walks down the escalator and points, “Ooooh! Mickey D’s!”

Going up, a mother smacks her 6-year-old for laughing.

 

My sister’s best friend stands behind a desk and says, “Welcome to the Winfrey Hotel. How may I help you?” She chuckles as if she and Wyatt and I are in a play.

I introduce them, and when Wyatt turns to follow the bellboy, she mouths the word WOW to me. She waves to me even though I am less than two feet away. I smile and follow Wyatt.

 

In the room, Wyatt’s phone rings. It is my sister’s best friend. She tells Wyatt that everyone is so excited to have a man from New York City visiting. She reminds him that he is in Alabama now. He should not be afraid to take advantage of her Southern hospitality.

I sit on the edge of Wyatt’s bed and watch him humor my sister’s best friend. He runs his fingers through what is left of his hair. He makes a face at me and pretends that he is going to pull it out. I laugh like firecrackers, and Wyatt tells my sister’s best friend that I am watching The Comedy Channel. I think, two years is a long time to be friends with a man.

My sister’s fiancé says my sister is the best friend he has ever had. He says my sister is the best he’s ever known and so he has to marry her. He says no one has ever understood him so well. He says my sister is the most patient and forgiving woman on this earth. He says he can’t believe that she puts up with him. He loves her, he says, and he’s not afraid to say it in front of a church load of people.

At the wedding rehearsal, he says if no one believes him, we can check the price tag on the open bar tomorrow night.

 

To my future brother-in-law, marriage means drinks on him.

 

A bartender in SoHo told me never to take a man with more than two beers in him seriously. Especially when he proposes. He’s looking at you, but remembering that girl he kissed on the beach. Tan and willing. That’s all he wants after he tells you he loves you. If he tears up, hail a cab.

 

My sister quit her job one month before the wedding. I don’t think she’ll ever work again. She spent six months in a real job and now she will never have to worry about the rent or grocery money or only shop when clothes are more than 30 percent off. My sister is going to devote her life to being a good wife and mother.

No, she is not pregnant. She is just in love with a monkey.

My sister’s best friend’s husband is out of town on business. She is sad to say that her one and only will miss my sister’s wedding. She left the baby at home with a temperature because she would never dream of missing my sister’s special time.

I do not like my sister’s best friend. I have not liked her since she telephoned Wyatt in his hotel room.

I am sure it was she who switched the name cards at the rehearsal dinner. Buddy ended up next to the groom, poor soul. During the salad, the groom punched Buddy’s shoulder and boomed, “Thanks for breakin’ her in for me, kid!”

Buddy fingered his Ranch.

My sister’s best friend sat at our table and asked Wyatt if he wanted her cherry tomato.

Wyatt turned to me and boomed, “This fair lady’s tomatoes are up for grabs. Shall I fork one for ya?”

Everyone laughed and my sister’s best friend turned close to purple. She excused herself to powder her nose and call her sitter.

When I am around, Wyatt always knows the right thing to say.

 

My sister asks me later that night if Wyatt is going to embarrass her like he embarrassed her best friend.

“Coming down the aisle,” I say, “watch your feet.”

 

To Wyatt, marriage means taking a joke and keeping your fruit on your plate.

At the end of the aisle, my sister’s fiancé’s eyes are red and he has trouble standing still. He sits down twice before the wedding march.

“He’s overcome,” my mother whispers to Wyatt.

“Yes,” says Wyatt.

 

Before we walk down the aisle, my sister asks me what I am going to say in my twenty-five words or less.

“I haven’t decided,” I say.

“What?” she says. “Everyone’s ready but you!”

“Everyone’s married but me.”

 

Before the “I Dos,” the preacher announces that the bridesmaids will say something about marriage. The crowd goes quiet as if we are all going to vote yea and make sense of it all. My sister’s best friend says that marriage is two people becoming one. The other maids say marriage is compromise, commitment, an endless journey, the ultimate love affair, forever and ever amen. Randy Travis sung it best, says one. When all eyes turn to me, I say, “Well, the experts have spoken, but I think marriage is taking advice from no one.”

 

Only Wyatt smiles.

 

The preacher tells my sister to love, honor, respect, and she says she will. My sister’s husband kisses her. Right answer, I guess.

On the plane, Wyatt says that marriage is giving up the window seat.

I think about shrinking pools. I imagine seeing stars. I kiss him longer than I should, and I unbuckle my seat belt. I stand and Wyatt puts his hands on my hips. As we switch places, the flight attendant frowns. Tonight, we are roaring up toward heaven or New York City.