Love American Style

The next morning, J. awoke famished. Not eating the Chicken Whatever and replacing it with Necco Wafers and Jujubes had been a mistake. Though he wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the hotel to leave this incident behind, he’d have to join the girls – who were joining the bridal party – for breakfast downstairs. Pancakes with a side of aggravation.

Much to his surprise, the meal was uneventful and quiet – at least until the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Scungili made an appearance before walking across Lot C to board their flight to Disney.

And there, in front of hotel guests and restaurant patrons of all kinds appeared Chuck, wearing the cargo shorts that had become his uniform, flip flops (Eeeww) and a golf shirt (at least he’d opted for a collar). But on his head he wore a top hat. One with Mickey Mouse ears attached.

No word on the presence of a Superman cape.

Waiter! A round of Heimlich maneuvers, please!

The image singed the edges of J.'s brain. He made a note to himself on the table napkin: Call to schedule lobotomy.

Having endured all a grown man can bear, he gathered the gals and checked out of the Hotel du Freakshow. He hit the road and the girls were asleep at once. He was alone with his thoughts.

He wondered how Em was this morning with her whole purpose for living now in the past. She was not a gal to step willingly from the stage into relative anonymity without a fight. She would go on thanking the Academy long after the pit orchestra began her swan song – if it were her nature to thank anyone.

J. glanced at his teen in the backseat. Hair still shellacked into the up-do, snoozing away. Just weeks until she’d be capped and gowned and accepting her diploma.

He shuddered at the next thought. It would not be an outrageous surprise to anyone if Em just had to take one more twirl on stage and announced a pregnancy at the graduation party and reclaimed the spotlight for another insufferably long period of domination.

Because, barring any Freda Payne Band of Gold wedding night drama, or any sheepish admissions to one’s equipment being in disrepair, or even an apocalyptic revelation about one partner or another’s unnatural proclivities, or a penchant for his or her own gender, or a troubling aversion or inhibition of some kind, Em was going to be pregnant before Chuck could land the Batmobile in Mommom’s driveway.

They didn’t strike me as a touchy-feely couple. Or even as having any discernible sexual chemistry. But a mission was a mission. Em would need another project. And a reason not to return to her teaching job in the Fall.

Anything is possible. Em could return from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride having discovered her inner hellcat. Or that it’s a small world after all. Hopefully we’d not all hear about it at her first graduation party as a Scungili. Aaaawww.

J. would place a sizable bet on just-home-from-the-honeymoon Baby News. I had more dubious ideas.

Baby News, my friends, would require Baby Making. And intimacy. And passion. And more physical activity than either appeared capable of. And at least a modicum of attraction to one another.

If the top hat with ears was any indication, we’d be spared the Baby News for now.