PART 1
When my niece Chloe announced she was having a traditional church wedding followed by a reception, my husband Arthur and I bought new clothes, booked a hotel room downtown, and drove two hours on a Saturday morning so we wouldn’t be late. Chloe is my late brother’s youngest child, and I always felt a soft spot for her.
We arrived at the church in Pasadena just before eleven. The ceremony was lovely, if a bit long, and finished right around noon. Outside on the stone steps, as people hugged and wiped away happy tears, one of Chloe’s bridesmaids handed out small printed cards with an address in Glendale.
We were told that the cocktail hour and appetizer course were waiting for us at that venue. Arthur and I got back into our sedan, rolled down the windows because the air conditioning was acting up, and joined the long snake of wedding guests driving through Saturday traffic. There were about seventy-five to a hundred of us in total. Older relatives like my cousin Sarah, who is seventy-two and has bad knees, groaned a little when she had to climb back into her car, but we figured it was just part of a modern wedding itinerary.
When we got to the Glendale banquet hall, parking was a nightmare.
We circled the lot three times before finding a spot four blocks away. By the time Arthur and I walked inside, greeting other breathless family members, the tables were already set with green salads and plates of sliced chicken and fish. We sat down next to Arthur’s brother, Jim. Jim looked at his watch, noting it was already past one o’clock, and asked if we wanted a roll. We ate the chicken, which was dry, and finished the salad while watching the bridal party sit at a head table that looked staged for photographs. No music was playing. No one was talking across tables because the acoustics were terrible and everyone seemed confused about what was supposed to happen next.
Before we even had time to wipe our mouths with our linen napkins, Chloe and her new husband, Tyler, stood up at the head table. Tyler tapped a butter knife against a water glass, though nobody was really listening yet.
Chloe smiled that bright, toothy smile she has used since she was six years old whenever she wanted everyone to look at her. She took the microphone from a stand and thanked us all for coming out. Then she asked us to please grab our things and accompany them to the next location for the real reception, which she cheerfully announced was only twelve miles away in another suburb.
Arthur dropped his napkin on his plate. He looked at me, his eyebrows pulled down in that stubborn way they do when he is trying not to lose his temper. Seventy-five to a hundred guests, many of them older people in stiff shoes, standing up in unison because a twenty-four-year-old bride decided her wedding needed three distinct acts in three different cities.
PART 2
We filed back out to the scorching parking lot. Cousin Sarah was leaning against her car door, rubbing her ankle, asking if anyone knew what was actually going on.
Nobody did. Arthur wanted to just go back to our hotel room, but I couldn’t do that to Chloe. Her father wasn’t here to see her get married, and I had promised myself I would stay through the evening to support her. So we got back in the car, turned on the GPS, and joined the second caravan of confused guests crawling down the freeway toward the San Fernando Valley.
By the time we pulled into the second venue, an outdoor patio behind a strip mall where a taco truck was idling, it was nearly three in the afternoon. We were hungry again, or rather, confused about whether we were supposed to be hungry. Another meal was served, a main course of heavy Mexican food consisting of carnitas, refried beans, and greasy chips that sat like lead in my stomach. The heat radiating off the asphalt was fierce. Older aunts were fanning themselves with paper plates. There was still no music, no dancing, and not a single speech. People were just standing around in small, tense groups, eating tacos off paper plates while holding their nice clothes away from their sweating legs.
I walked over to Chloe while she was standing near the truck talking to her photographer. I tried to keep my voice light.
“Chloe honey, is there a DJ coming? Or a place where people can sit down out of the sun?” I asked.
Chloe didn’t even look away from the camera lens. She adjusted her veil and said, “Oh, Aunt Brenda, we aren’t doing the whole boring traditional ballroom thing. That’s so outdated. We wanted an experience. Everyone is coming with us to the final spot in about twenty minutes.”
That was when she dropped the second shoe. There was a third location. Eight miles further south, taking us straight into downtown Los Angeles during mid-afternoon traffic. By now it was past four o’clock. My feet were swelling in my heels, Arthur’s blood pressure medication was sitting back at the hotel room, and cousin Sarah had finally announced she was driving straight home to Bakersfield because she had had enough.
PART 3
Arthur looked at me with a look that meant we were getting in our car right now and turning the ignition toward home. But my stubborn streak kicked in. I wanted to see how far this ridiculous logistical nightmare actually went. I wanted to know what kind of person drags a hundred guests across an entire county just to feed them in installments like livestock.
We got back on the highway. The drive into downtown Los Angeles took forty-five minutes because of weekend construction on the 110. By the time we arrived at the third location, which turned out to be a cramped third-floor loft with no elevator and no reserved parking, half of the guests had already turned around and gone home. The parking garage cost thirty dollars. When Arthur handed the attendant his credit card, his hands were shaking slightly from the frustration.
We climbed the three flights of concrete stairs, my breath burning in my chest, only to find the loft packed to bursting with people who looked just as miserable as we were. There were no tables left. There was a small station with cupcakes and warm champagne, but no seating whatsoever. Tyler and Chloe were standing by the window taking selfies with their friends from college, completely ignoring the older family members who were leaning against the brick walls trying to catch their breath.
I walked right up to Chloe through the crowd. The noise in the room was deafening, but when she saw my face, she lowered her phone.
“Aunt Brenda,” she started, flashing that same rehearsed smile. “Isn’t this cool? We wanted an urban loft vibe for the dessert portion.”
I didn’t yell. When you are fifty-eight years old, you realize that shouting just makes you look like the unreasonable one. Instead, I looked around the room at the handful of bewildered elderly relatives standing in the corners, then back at my niece.
“Chloe,” I said, my voice completely steady. “You invited seventy people to follow you across three counties for three half-meals, zero music, thirty-dollar parking, and no place to sit down. That isn’t an experience. That’s a hostage situation with tacos.”
The cousin standing next to us let out a sharp, unexpected snort of laughter. Chloe’s face flushed bright red, matching the artificial roses pinned to her dress. She opened her mouth to say something about how we just didn’t understand her vision, but I didn’t wait to hear it.
ENDING
Arthur was already standing by the doorway, holding our jackets. I walked over to him, took his arm, and we walked down those three flights of concrete stairs without looking back once.
We didn’t go to the dessert table. We didn’t say goodbye. We walked four blocks to where we had parked our car after the second venue, paid another twenty dollars to get it out of the lot, and drove straight back to our hotel. We ordered room service club sandwiches and watched an old movie on cable while our feet soaked in warm water in the tub.
Chloe sent a group text message three days later complaining that half her family had abandoned her reception early and that nobody appreciated all the planning she had put into her special day. Nobody replied. I didn’t text her back either. My phone stayed face down on the nightstand, resting quietly beside my hotel room key.
