diploma

As the dean handed the Bachelor’s Degree to me,

Matt and Amy’s wedding invitation in my pocket

began to warm, and I scratched my thigh awkwardly

as I returned to my seat, cold perspiration falling

down my nose onto my Mr. Potato Head tie,

and I thought:

“I could sure use those weekend passes to the

Martian colonies right about now, Mr. Bradbury;

overnight mail, if you please.”

(I also remembered I needed to buy a present –

how much money can I earn in the two days between

graduation and Matt and Amy’s wedding?—

I should’ve listened to my maternal grandmother

when she was trying to teach me to crochet;

I could’ve made shimmery periwinkle fallout suits)

On the day of the wedding, I couldn’t remember

the location of my shoe polish (I was in Pennsylvania,

and the polish was in New Jersey). The scuffs on

the fronts of the shoes likely occurred when I

tripped up the concrete steps of the reception hall

at Aunt Mary Pat’s wedding in Mamaroneck five years

earlier. My mother was thankful I wasn’t holding cake.

Jon and Cliff stated they’d be wearing sneakers, but

they were sure God would forgive them. I remained

incredulous, a good Catholic boy in a Lutheran minefield.

The wedding vows spoken in the atrium of Fisher Hall

(the science building I called “Fortress of Frankenstein”)

coincided with both the swinging pendulum, suspended

from the top of the building, and the jovial chorus of

“The Banana Splits Adventure Hour”. Tra-la-la, your

lawfully wedded wife, la la-la-la, to have and to hold,

one banana, two banana, three banana, four –

I know pronounce you husband and wife forevermore.

After the ceremony, I stood still long enough for a

“nice picture” with Tami.  Her Colgate smile,

my cockeyed smirk. Mr. Potato Head wore a bowtie

on my necktie. In the distance, I heard bagpipes;

Tami put her hand to my forehead as Amanda quipped:

“oh, your first post-graduate hallucination…how touching.”

Jon and Cliff’s car experienced a heart attack,

its third of the week, during the left turn into the

restaurant parking lot. As we pushed the car, Jon insisted:

“the sneakers have nothing to do with this.” I still

remained incredulous and well-dressed.

I drank my first and last martini at the reception.

I asked the DJ if he had “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple

played on the ukulele. He said “I have Meat Loaf,” and I

knew nothing good would come of that. I loosened my tie.

Amanda took my hand and we danced. “Mike doesn’t

dance like this,” she said. I thought about my wedding day,

about quitting smoking, about an impending temporary

employment position with the United States Post Office,

about the Nazi-generated half-man, half-shark of the

Peter Benchley novel “White Shark”, but mostly about

Mike and his Dumb Luck.

The wedding was over, and I was re-ingested by the Garden State.

The family went to Hawaii, where my brother suffered

nosebleeds. I sorted packages at 6 AM and listened to

the morning radio show on WPLJ, developing a delightful

distaste for crow(e)s – Sheryl, Black, and Counting. One day,

I was questioned by the state police because I resembled

a bank robber. Yeah. Postmaster saved my day:

“Naw, he’s been buried up to his neck sortin’

Good Housekeepings and Ladies Home Journals”.

So that’s how I got out of Hell that morning.

Postmaster Wolf, Please Save Me From All Future Calamitastrophe.

I looked for my high school poetry in September;

Dad explained the washing machine flooded, ruining

beyond reclamation important documentation:

1990 through 1994 tax preparation, Killer Kowalski’s autograph

on my (stolen) Denny’s menu, and my high school poetry,

height, weight, depth and breadth of each silly word. 

The Devil doesn’t let his son sharpen pencils. 

I sat in a dugout across from home, retreating to this

sanctity on many melancholy post-grad summer nights,

with the chipped paint and slightly pink popsicle sticks

that littered the ground writing my mantra so sticky sweet:

“You are not Monstrosity. You are Entity. You are Niagara Falls”.

There, I thought about Matt and Amy – are they happy? –

and noted I couldn’t see the baselines clearly,

a thick fog enveloping my thoughts, here and ahead,

big, hairy, nasty critters. I am so funny and futile,

for I really did hate the taste of that martini.

It had its chance. Tasting it, I walked home into

my garage, retrieved my brother’s Louisville Slugger,

and walked into the basement to stare at the

washing machine, twirling the bat until sunrise.