The One That Got Away (572 hits)
Category: RomanceRating: 0.98 on 16 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Cymak (View user info) at 2004-08-20 03:10:09 EDT
"Hey, Drake!"
Drake turned around at the sound of his best friend's voice as he plucked the day's mail from his box. Barry was just under an inch shorter than he, and had to stand on tiptoes to be seen over the gate barring his way into the apartment complex. Drake could just make out the spiky blond hair as he released the lock and allowed him in.
The two friends shook hands. "How are you, Barry?" Drake asked. "Everything going okay with you and Kelly?"
"Oh, fine, fine," he replied nervously.
Drake eyed him warily. "The wedding's still on, isn't it?"
"Oh, yeah, yeah," Barry said, sticking with his rhythm of nervous cryptic complaints.
Drake sighed and waved him up the stairs as he made for his apartment. "Come on up, Bar. Have a beer with me."
"Thanks," came the breathless reply. "I really need one."
It wasn't a problem helping his friend to Drake. God knew they had been through everything together, including getting lost on a Boy Scout hike when they were sixteen and spending two days alone in the wilderness together. Friends weren't made much closer than Drake and Barry, so it came as no surprise when Barry asked his friend to be the best man at his wedding.
Drake, of course, accepted. A bachelor though he was, and as much as he hated weddings, he would be perfectly willing to go through it for his best friend and his lovely fiancée, Kelly. To be exact, Drake had actually met her first and introduced them, so it made even more sense that he be present.
As Drake tooled the lock on his door, he realized that what bothered him about the whole arrangement was that Barry was about as far away from a desirable companion for Kelly as possible. He loved his friend, albeit only platonically, and he was pretty sure that Barry and his bride-to-be loved one another. The knowledge did nothing to calm his fears, for something simply didn't click between them.
A few minutes later, Barry reclined on Drake's sofa as he tossed him a can of beer and sat down next to his typewriter, taking a long draught from his own drink. "So," he grunted around the bad aftertaste of cheap alcohol, "what do I need to get you out of?"
"Well," Barry said, scratching the back of his head and fidgeting. "It's complicated, really. Kelly and I were talking about the ceremony for next month—what we're going to do and all..."
"Someone cancel on you?"
"No."
"In-laws the scum of the earth?"
"No. Well, yes, but that's not the problem."
"Favorite priest in jail for molesting a little boy?"
"No!" Barry said in shock. "No, it's just that Kelly wanted us to do our own wedding vows."
Drake could feel his heart sinking into his chest like lead. "Uh-huh."
"And I'm really bad with words..."
"Uh-huh."
"And you're a writer and have helped me in this area before, so..."
"...so I write the vows, and then at the wedding I say them while we're both hiding underneath a balcony so she thinks it's you?"
Barry's brow crinkled. "What?"
"Uh, never mind. Look, Barry, I'm flattered that you want me to write something this important to you. But...don't you think she'd like it a little more if you did something a little more...personal?"
Barry grimaced. "Personal sounds like middle schooler language to her."
"You know, 'schooler' is not a word, right?" Drake queried.
Again, a look of confusion. "It isn't?"
Drake cupped his forehead in his hands. "I...see what you mean. At the very least, you come up with what you want to say, and I'll rephrase it so it sounds a little more eloquent, okay?"
A nod of satisfaction came from Barry. "Already done," he said, pulling a stack of white note cards from the breast pocket of his shirt. "Some cute stories and similarities..."
"Similes."
"Right, similes. You know, mushy stuff. She likes that."
It took all of Drake's composure to swallow hard instead of spewing out a rant that he knew was coming. Regardless, he accepted the notes and put them beside his old electronic typewriter, already mapping out how he would go about writing Barry's wedding vows for him.
"Thanks for the beer," Barry said, standing. They shook hands again before Barry saw himself out. He paused at the door and turned.
"Drake?"
"Yeah?"
"You've been a true friend."
Drake just stared back.
* * *
The month between the last time he'd seen his best friend peacefully and the wedding itself flew by in an instant to Drake, who seemed to be spending more time at his writing desk than ever with his new task on the table. His most recent novel had been returned from the editor for a redraft due not more than a week and a half after the wedding ceremony, and he wanted to make a good start on that. Two magazines had commissioned pieces from him about literature—his specialty as he circulated his columns through several different readers.
But most of all, he lost night after night of his sleep as he paced in circles about the typewriter desk, occasionally dragging one of Barry's cards from the small stack, skimming it over and suppressing a groan. One by one the pithy and shallow excerpts had found their way into the paper shredder as he marveled at just how non-artistic people could be with one language and still manage to communicate with it.
Kelly was special to Barry, that was sure, and by the rule of chain logic that meant she was special to him. He owed it to her to make this run correctly, and the night before the wedding, he was still polishing the final draft.
His fingers touched the keys on the typewriter slowly, giving more than just thought to sentences and words as he had on any other piece written. Now every letter counted, each one a tiny bolt that would hold the entire ship together, punctuating just as carefully as he spoke.
A steady rhythm befell him that night—type, strike, trim, retype. He tooled it further and further, shaving it down to its core essence without making it read like a laundry list. By the time the sun was rising again, Drake had a fresh layer of stubble and a beautifully crafted piece of spoken word to show for it. So he did what any man in the situation would do.
He got coffee. Lots of black coffee.
When Barry answered the door to his parents' house—where he was staying as they had the wedding in their hometown where Drake still lived—he saw a haggard-looking friend holding a folded piece of white paper. It was small enough to conceal in a coat pocket and nondescript enough not to stand out at a ceremony that by tradition was planned down to the molecule.
"Oh, you got it all done?" Barry asked, his hair already slicked down before he changed into his tuxedo.
"Yes," Drake croaked, his voice a little hoarse from the late night. "Hold onto that. And for God's sake, read it before you get up there, okay? Get the rhythm down?"
"Oh, I will," Barry said, a smile crossing his face. He fell forward and embraced his friend in a bear hug. "Thanks a lot, man. You don't know how much it means to me."
Drake waved his goodbye, stating that he really needed a shower and shave before he could present himself to the wedding party, and the door closed as he walked back to his car. No one was nearby, but if there were, they could have heard him mutter, "But I know how much it means to her."
* * *
Two hours later, clad in a nice tuxedo specially fitted for him several years ago when he first started attending black-tie occasions for his syndicated column, Drake rubbed his sweaty hands nervously at his sides, trying not to sweat in the August heat but knowing that his heavy garment made that damn near impossible.
The Finch Arboretum was a beautiful locale to hold the wedding, secluded from the nearby highway but close enough to main roads so that transporting equipment in and out wasn't an impossibility. Apart from the string quartet playing what Drake thought to be the positively dreary Pachabel's Canon, the only sounds nearby were a small stream in the background and the occasional bird. In hindsight, he probably would have had his wedding there, too.
A hand landed on his shoulder from behind, and he nearly leapt straight out of his dress shoes.
"Whoa!" said Jeff, Barry's brother and another groomsman. "Easy there. Who's getting married?"
"Please tell me you're not drunk and you really do know."
"You look more nervous than Barry does," Jeff chided before falling back to his place in line.
"I do not," he insisted, but he had to admit as he faced forward that Barry was remarkably calm, awaiting the arrival of his bride and not even fidgeting as he often did when nervous.
Drake leaned back slightly so that his whispering to Jeff wouldn't be heard into the small crowd of sixty or so guests.
"Did Barry practice his vows?"
"They're doing their own vows?"
"Very helpful, Jeff."
The musicians changed from their plodding background music, and the wedding was on. They struck up the tune of Bach's "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," and at the rear of the garden-like clearing in the park, Drake saw the flower girl and the ring bearer making their way up the center aisle.
'Okay,' he thought to himself. 'Just breathe. Breathe, asshole, breathe.'
He had to admit that he was doing remarkably well at his charge. And then she came.
A fairy tale stereotype of a princess in white, and the sheer epitome of gentle femininity, Kelly looked a vision in her wedding gown and white veil. It was a very classic design, neither flashy nor outright vintage, but just perfect for an occasion as such. She came in on the arm of her father, a hunched over man suffering from the first stages of Parkinson's disease, but still insistent on giving her daughter away.
"Dearly beloved..." the priest's voice began, and the world fell silent to Drake's ears.
* * *
"And the vows of the groom?" said the minister some ten minutes later.
Drake's eyes popped open, and he felt himself take a sharp breath that he hoped wasn't too noticeable. How long had he been clenching his eyes shut? He knew he hadn't wanted to hear Kelly speak, but he must have missed so much else. Not much wedding left, in fact.
His eyes moved downward just in time to see Barry's hand reach into his tux pocket and come up empty. For the first time, the groom did look scared, and he looked around as if maybe he'd see some kind of thief running way with notes in hand.
Fortunately, Drake was prepared for just such an instance. He pulled the extra copy of the vows from his jacket pocket and put them in Barry's palm.
From the way his friend studied the words, it had been obvious that he hadn't pre-read it like Drake suggested. But he tried anyway.
"I can still remember the first day I met you," Barry began easily, speaking to his future wife's quiet, inviting smile with relaxed ease. "After so many beautiful moments together with you, it's hard to pin down just one of them and try to conjure everything that made it wonderful. Try as I might, no single time with you would stand out in my mind, because I was so lost in the ocean of compassion and affection we've shared.
"It's been said," Barry continued, reading intently, "that you can't see the forest because of the trees. I may not see the trees, Kelly, but I can see the one thing all of our memories together have in common that's made them so wonderful. It was your very presence."
At this, some of the audience members sighed peacefully, and the parents of both families dabbed at their faces with handkerchiefs. A single tear rolled down Kelly's face as she stared at her future husband. But he didn't see it with his head buried in the paper.
"The whole thing seems almost...serial," Barry stammered.
Drake's tongue caught in his throat, and as quietly as he could manage, he cleared his throat to pull Barry's attention away only momentarily.
"Surreal," he whispered quietly, hoping the sound wouldn't carry.
He failed. It carried far enough that Kelly noticed, and within seconds, her eyes were no longer on Barry, reading away at a stock script that could have been torn from the pages of harlequin romance novel. Her piercing green gaze instead fell on Drake, who was trying to avoid contact at all costs.
But he couldn't. He melted every time he saw her face, with those few delicate locks of blond hair framing her cheekbones. Just as he could remember on the first day he met her. On the day he fell in love with her.
And she wasn't looking away.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This was the first time I've written anything this serious, so if it seems a little awkward, it's probably because my standard fare is satire or darker drama stuff. If this gets fairly positive ratings, I might consider continuing it on to wrap up the story, but thanks for reading anyway if it doesn't.
User Reviews
Submitted by Socialist_Joe (user info) at 2004-08-22 04:01:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
you care far to much
there are plenty of other people who do the same as i sit around and dish out +2's and -2's where they are deserved
do you know why i do this?
because i can, its fun and somtimes i can get a rise out of fools
would it make you happy if i gave you a +2
would not stop the tears that flow from your face
it may take some skill to make a good post or two
but there is an art to reviewing
attacking ones charecture or faults is also a poor way to argue
i know it works, and i do it from time to time
but but every single one of your retorts has been an attack on me not on what i am saying
so in short
stop trying to demean me realy its geting you nowhere
Submitted by Cymak (user info) at 2004-08-22 03:37:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Shit, Joe, so you've admitted that you're basically just the asshole sits off to the side until somebody screws up, and then proceed to run out and kick them in the pills. Real humanitarian of you.
So you come to Ubersite not to post but to -2 those who can't? Congratulations; good to know that you've surged past all expectations and become a valuable human being. My point is that although I can taste the difference between good and bad whiskey, too, I don't drive to the brewery and nail a sign on the door that says "your whiskey blows." Why? I've got better things to do.
YOU, on the other hand, have absolutely nothing better to do. You spend however many hours/minutes/I don't care browsing around a website that is primarily a post/reply forum--give and take. You give your writings to the general populace, and in return offer helpful criticism or approval to bad/good works. Or, theoretically, that's how it should work.
But of course, you couldn't do that. After all, it takes above average intelligence to write--reviewing requires a pulse. Congratu-fucking-lations, Socialist, you have a pulse.
"It's alive. It's alive!" - Dr. Frankenstein
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2004-08-22 03:19:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Pretty good.
Submitted by Socialist_Joe (user info) at 2004-08-22 03:07:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
i dont come to uber to make good posts
i come to uber to rate those who cant
and saying i dont know a good post because i cant make one is idiotic
i cant write good books but i know one when i read one
i cant make good whiskey but i know good whiskey when i taste it
asshat good one sir that is very much origional
next you will be saying eat shit and die
and your counter review was hardly scathing, your first one was better
Submitted by Cymak (user info) at 2004-08-21 03:47:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Attacking your posts isn't pathetic. I'm just proving that anyone can be a critic, including those who know nothing about that which they critique.
So you've "seen it before." Can you do it? Or would it end up looking something more like this:
"THAr was this guy who was like TOTALLY psyched out for this chick. ANd then his l337 friend was all like, 'Write me some shit,' and the cool guy was like, 'No, fack you.' [Insert hit-boosting mention of someone on the MVA list]. Then shit happened and they R0x0r. Then I slapped this bitch, cummed on her face, and then killed her (hello, most heated). W00t."
[Include a candid picture of someone doing something stupid, a favorite TV personality, or of course, a link to a site everyone has either already seen or never needed to see.]
Face it: if you can't do it, then you have no credibility anyway.
This counter-review feels nice and scathing. Still, I sense that something is missing... Maybe if I throw a "your an asshat" in for could measure (yes, I know it's actually "you're").
Your an asshat.
Submitted by Socialist_Joe (user info) at 2004-08-20 18:32:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
fianly someone who can come back
but done in a pathetic style buy insulting my posts
everyone who is anyone knows my posts are rubbish
and yes i placed a song without saying who it was by for the sake of irony
have another -2 for -2+-2+-2=-2
Submitted by lrw (user info) at 2004-08-20 10:17:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
most excellent.. a few little slips, but pretty damn good read. keep on keepin' on
Submitted by Spookster (user info) at 2004-08-20 09:11:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Well written.
As has been said before, at bits it did seem slightly forced but that improved near the end. I'm not usually much of a fan of the romance genre of writing but that was something I'd probably keep reading if it was continued.
-Spookster
Submitted by Vanilla (user info) at 2004-08-20 07:32:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it!
But you know what.. as much as I wanna know what happens, I think if you came up with a sequel, it'd kill it. Leave it be. It's a gorgeous piece.
Submitted by I_Have_a_Kristen_Fetish (user info) at 2004-08-20 07:16:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by Cymak (user info) at 2004-08-20 05:04:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thank you, Socialist Joe, for a highly informative and entertaining series of ratings (two -2's within the span of a few minutes) complete with a repetition (or dare I say, plagiarized version?) of Tom Lehrer's "Lobachevsky."
I find it ironic that you accuse me of plagiarizing, not only because it's a genre I don't read (and thus could not knowingly plagiarize), and to prove your point, you posted a lengthy work about plagiarism that's not even your own.
In fact, try and Google the word "Lehrer's Lobachevsky" and see what you find:
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&lr=&ie=ISO-8859-1&q=Lehrer%27s+Lobachevsky
Aw, somebody jotted down a URL in English 101 Remedial. How tweet.
But again, I am indebted to you. A -2 rating with no significant critique of the flaws within the work is not only helpful to the betterment of the creative arts, but a second -2 rating further drives home the point, and helps me learn how to create masterpieces like Ubersite's great author, Socialist Joe:
User id: 1542
Registered on or around: 2003-06-26 22:21:58
# Messages posted: 13
# Reviews written: 1193
# Times these posts have been reviewed : 305
# Hits: 4442
AVERAGE RATING OF ALL MESSAGES: -0.42
Truly, my amateur and hackneyed skills at writing the tragic works of our time are unparalleled by the legends penned by Socialist Joe, including the much-trivialized "I beat the shit out of a goth kid" (http://www.ubersite.com/m/39588), or on the darker side of human emotion, "I slit my wrist today" (http://www.ubersite.com/m/39458).
You've made a believer out of me, Joe. And I SO promise not to write anything again until I've managed to come up with something as original as "This week in cable july 18-24 2004" (http://www.ubersite.com/m/38729).
And one other thing: You might want to try slitting your wrist again, prick.
Submitted by Socialist_Joe (user info) at 2004-08-20 04:40:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Who made me the genius I am today,
The mathematician that others all quote?
Who's the professor that made me that way,
The greatest that ever got chalk on his coat?
One man deserves the credit,
One man deserves the blame,
and Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache...
I am never forget the day I first meet the great Lobachevsky.
In one word he told me secret of success in mathematics: Plagiarize!
Plagiarize,
Let no one else's work evade your eyes,
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,
So don't shade your eyes,
But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize...
Only be sure always to call it please, "research".
And ever since I meet this man my life is not the same,
And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache...
I am never forget the day I am given first original paper to write. It
was on Analytic and Algebraic Topology of Locally Euclidean Metrization
of Infinitely Differentiable Riemannian Manifold.
Bozhe moi!
This I know from nothing.**
But I think of great Lobachevsky and I get idea - haha!
I have a friend in Minsk,
Who has a friend in Pinsk,
Whose friend in Omsk
Has friend in Tomsk
With friend in Akmolinsk.
His friend in Alexandrovsk
Has friend in Petropavlovsk,
Whose friend somehow
Is solving now
The problem in Dnepropetrovsk.
And when his work is done -
Haha! - begins the fun.
From Dnepropetrovsk
To Petropavlovsk,
By way of Iliysk,
And Novorossiysk,
To Alexandrovsk to Akmolinsk
To Tomsk to Omsk
To Pinsk to Minsk
To me the news will run,
Yes, to me the news will run!
And then I write
By morning, night,
And afternoon,
And pretty soon
My name in Dnepropetrovsk is cursed,
When he finds out I published first!
And who made me a big success
And brought me wealth and fame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache...
I am never forget the day my first book is published.
Every chapter I stole from somewhere else.
Index I copy from old Vladivostok telephone directory.
This book, this book was sensational!***
Pravda - ah, Pravda - Pravda said:
"Jeel beel kara ogoday blyum blocha jeli," ("It stinks").
But Izvestia! Izvestia said:
"Jai, do gudoo sun sai pere shcum," ("It stinks").
Metro-Goldwyn-Moskva bought the movie rights for six million rubles,
Changing title to 'The Eternal Triangle',
With Brigitte Bardot playing part of hypotenuse.****
And who deserves the credit?
And who deserves the blame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.
Oy!
Submitted by GodChicken (user info) at 2004-08-20 04:07:13 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
not bad.
Submitted by veins_of_glass (user info) at 2004-08-20 03:48:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'd hit it.
Submitted by Socialist_Joe (user info) at 2004-08-20 03:35:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
seen it before
Submitted by Impassive-Digressive (user info) at 2004-08-20 03:25:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
I quite liked this. I would give it a 1.5 if I could. Some parts felt a little bit forced, but overall I thought it was a well-written piece.
It's nice to read something every now and again where nobody gets slapped, ejaculated on or dies.