Some Other Person  

By Duncan Robertson

Pete was not there, so I let the happy couple into the executive office. They were young, just out of college if they'd went, and broke, which is why they were thinking of booking Pine City Fun Center for their reception. The ceremony was slated for a Friday at a hillside inn some hippies had built in the seventies. The inn was pretty run down but did okay because it was close to the national park and because we did okay on weekends. Plus, from the backyard, you could see the whole valley, including the crowning attraction of the Fun Center which was the Log Splitter. The Log Splitter sort of loomed up out of the treeline, which was probably how they'd got the idea to use Pine City Fun Center for their reception.

"I dunno where he is," I said. "During the off-season, he's usually here."

"It's okay," she said. She smiled: not nervous, just polite. They were both very polite.

"We'll wait," said the groom.

They sat down in a couple of chairs in front of Pete's desk. We surveyed the room together. Pete's desk was empty and unclean, a few crumbs scattered across a dossier of inventory sheets. His computer’s CRT monitor was going yellow on its sides. It struck me as ugly and sort of haunted by broken dreams, though, as far as I knew Pete had never had any dreams. And I worked for Pete, so what did that say about me?

"Anybody wants some coffee?" I asked.

"Sure," said the bride-to-be.

"Yes," said her fiance. "Sugar if you have it, and creamer please."

"I don't think we have any creamer," I said.

"That's okay," he said. "Black coffee is okay with me."

I went outside to fill the coffee pot at the spigot by the trailer hookup, which was where Pete found me.

"What are you doing?" asked Pete. He was holding a sheet of tattered blue tarpaulin.

"Making coffee," I said.

"There's water damage on the scrambler," said Pete. A 'scrambler' is the kind of ride that spins you around and around on two axes.

"Oh yeah?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said pointedly. "It must have happened in that storm last weekend." I was supposed to have retarped the scrambler before then, but push had come to shove and now Pete had done the retarping.

"Where's the damage?" I asked, feigning disinterest.

"On the operator's chair by the transom."

"Oh that," I said. "That’s been there." He squinted at me. "There's a couple waiting in your office."

"What?"

"They want to use the Fun Center for like a party."

"A party?"

"The party after their wedding."

"You mean a reception."

"Their reception, yeah."

Pete put his hands on his hips, one still with a fistful of blue tarpaulin.

"That's why I'm making them coffee." I turned off the spigot at the trailer hitch-end of the Pine City Fun Center's executive office.

"What'd you tell them?"

"I didn't tell them anything."

Pete scratched the back of his head, big right arm balling above his chest and the sack of his guts. "What do they look like?"

"Kids," I said.

"I mean, do they look rich?"

"No," I said. I glanced at the coffee pot full of water. "Well, richer than me."

"How young?"

"Real young."

He pursed his lips and blew out a breath. "This could be just what we need."

I led him up the steps of the executive office. Once inside, he stomped on the mat, making a racket and knocking clots of black dirt across the carpet. I said, "This is Mr. Wilner," and went to put on the coffee.

I could hear the introductions from the kitchen unit. When I came back in, Pete was leaning back in the disemboweled swivel chair behind his desk. He looked like he was explaining the facts of life—like they were pretty tough facts, the way he was leaning back in that chair.

The groom's brow was furrowed. He accepted his cup, but when they left I found the coffee still inside, untouched.

#

It wasn't half-past nine on Friday before I found an excuse to make my presence felt at the Rebar, which was the only bar of pedigree in the valley and was therefore where they’d booked the reception.

"Private party," said Josh, who was tending bar.

"It's okay," I said. "We're acquainted.”

Josh caught the groom's eye and pointed to me. I gave him a wave and he nodded, smiling politely.

"On the house," said Josh. "For friends of the happy couple."

"Thank you very much," I said. I took my cranberry soda and retreated to a corner.

It was beautiful in there. They had cleared all the tables out of the middle of the bar and set up a dance floor, a DJ booth in one corner. Christmas lights were strung along the rafters, which were a kind I'd never seen. They looked like drops of silver moonlight that were collecting along the Rebar's wooden beams like it was raining silver outside and the roof was leaking. People were dancing, too. All kinds of people: some I recognized like the hippy couple that ran the inn above the valley, but mostly strangers: a Black couple and a lady in a huge red dress who screamed her approval whenever the DJ put on a song she recognized.

"I'm so glad you could make it," said the groom. He looked tired and happy.

"Hey no problem," I said.

"No hard feelings?"

"Are you kidding?" I asked. "Thanks for inviting me."

It wasn't till my second cigarette break, I noticed Pete's Yaris in the parking lot. He was slouched way down in the seat and I would've pretended not to recognize him under normal circumstances, but, the way it happened, we were basically eye to eye by the time I figured out who I was looking at.

He rolled down the driver's side window.

"Hey," I said.

"Enjoying the party?" he asked. There was a sour note in his voice and I thought maybe he'd been drinking already.

"Yeah," I said. "You okay out here?"

He looked at me insolently. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"It just seems a little peculiar, you slouched down in the front seat of your Yaris in the parking lot outside a wedding reception."

"Jesus," he said. He slid his hands over the top of the steering wheel. "Can't a guy go for a drive?"

"Sure," I said.

"Can't a guy be alone with his thoughts, without being interrupted?"

"There's no law against it," I said.

He leaned forward and adjusted the driver-side and rear-view mirrors, while I took a sip of my cranberry and soda. 

"You want to come in?" I asked.

He looked at me, eyes bloodshot. "Hell no."

I shrugged and made to leave, but I must have felt sorry for him because I said, "Open bar."

"Open bar?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. I mashed the ice around in my drink with the stir Josh had given me. "You can try all those fancy beers from Portland and San Francisco."

"Fuck that shit," he said.

"You can drink Coors."

"Whiskey?" he asked hopefully.

"Well, drinks yeah."

He turned away from me but, before he did, I thought I saw a look of triumph pass over his otherwise clouded face. "Sure," he said. "Sure. Why not?" He selected a lighter from the seat next to him and took his keys out of the ignition.

#

Without pretense, Josh pointed to Pete and we all turned expectantly to get the groom’s reaction. He hesitated. Whether he hesitated because he was surprised to see Pete, or whether he actually considered a discerning shake of his head, I couldn't say. But we all picked up on it, even Pete. Then the groom blinked as if he had just remembered something and nodded.

"What are you drinking, Mr. Wilner?" asked Josh.

"Well whiskey and a beer back," said Pete.

"You?" he asked me. He poured a cheap bourbon for Pete.

"Same again," I said.

Josh nodded, opening a can of Coors, which he set on the counter. Pete grinned and toasted me. Then his face fell and he said, "It's bad luck to toast with an empty glass."

My drink was gone and my ice had melted down. "Hold on," I said. Josh poured me another cranberry soda, and I made like to toast him.

"It's bad luck," he repeated. He dipped his fingers into the bourbon and dashed them over my drink as if sprinkling holy water. I looked doubtfully into my cup.

"Afraid I’m contagious?" he asked. We had known each other five years by then and he had never had a problem with my not drinking. He laughed and clapped me on the back. "Just kidding.”

"Cheers," I said. I took a sip.

"See?" he asked. “You’ll live.”

"I'm gonna make the rounds," I said.

"Have fun,” he said. He waved me away.

Basically, I went around asking young attractive people if they were on the groom's side or the bride's side of the wedding. I love to ask people this at weddings. Guests will detail their entire personal histories with the couple getting married: who they met first and when what they were like in college and high school. It's the most important the telling of these stories will ever be for them and may be the only time they bother to hold it all in their head long enough to communicate it to some other person.

I was gone a long time, but by the time I got back, I felt like I knew everybody’s name. I ordered another drink and Josh gave me a dark look. He nodded at Pete, who was hunched over the bar.

I approached him from behind and placed my hand gently on his back. He gazed up at me.

"Hanging in?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "You know me."

"Yeah," I said. "Wanna get something to eat?"

A long string of folding tables was set against the far wall near the shuffleboard, covered with chafing dishes for the guests. He glanced at the picked-over food, then at the dance floor. I followed his eyes. "We could cut a rug," I said doubtfully.

Just then the lady in the big red dress extracted herself from the melee and came over. She had a black and pink tattoo down one arm and up onto her shoulder. When she got close, I realized it was a tattoo of a lone cypress like the kind that grows along the coast highway.

She glanced sideways at us as she came to the bar and smiled to herself. Before I could distract him, Pete said, "Hey, I guess you like music."

"What?" she asked. She brushed her hair behind one ear and leaned toward him.

"I guess you must like music," repeated Pete. She shook her head as if she didn't understand and smiled. "You were cheering at all the songs," he explained.

She gave a rambunctious laugh. "Just the ones I like."

This answer seemed to surprise Pete. He screwed up his face. "What do you like?"

"What?" she said.

"You said you only cheered at the songs you like." She nodded, irises flitting around the room, and took a sip of her drink. "Well, what are they?" asked Pete. 

"The ones I've been cheering for?" she asked.

"No," said Pete, "I mean what kind. What kind do you like?" She glanced at me and I experienced the urge to crawl under the bar. I tried to freeze my expression as if Pete was asking a normal question.

"All kinds," she said. "The hits."

"Oh," he said, "the hits." He nodded sagely, then asked, "Do you like rock?"

"Yes," she said. She smiled nervously and drained her glass. "Anyway, nice to meet you," she said.

"Wait a second," said Pete. Josh looked up from where he was cutting lemons. "Where are you from?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What?"

"We don't get a lot of people like you around here," said Pete. "Where are you from? Like your parents, I mean. Are they from Japan or Korea or what?"

She paused. You could tell she was considering whether or not to answer. "Carmel-by-the-Sea," she said at last.

Peter screwed up his face. "Where's that?"

"Near Monterey."

"Oh that figures," he said. "California."

She tilted her head. "What do you mean by that?"

"All the cool people are from California." He said this in a voice completely devoid of hope as if he had found out that she was a member of a club to which he could never hope to belong.

Her expression slackened, surprised, then she burst into a fit of laughter. I felt something in my body unkink and relax.

"I don't see what's funny about it," said Pete.

"Hey honey," said a new voice. Pete and I turned to see a long-limbed specimen in an expensive suit. He had come around behind her and was touching her on her tattooed shoulder. "Are these guys bugging you?"

We looked critically up at him and she bowed her shoulder softly away from him. "No," she said. "I'm fine.”

"Sorry guys," said the newcomer, "she's spoken for."

I was surprised. She had not seemed spoken for. She smiled and arched her eyebrows like maybe this was news to her, too. Pete chuckled.

"What are you laughing about?" asked the guy in the suit.

"Is she really, though?" asked Pete. "I mean, she’s not, right? She can’t be."

"She’s not what?" said the man.

"Forget about it," said the woman.

Pete cocked his head. "You're not really dating this guy, are you?"

She looked worriedly up at the well-dressed man. Without waiting for her to answer, he said, "Yes she is."

"I was asking her," said Pete. "Cause, man, you might think you're dating her—and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way—but I don’t think you are."

"Joke’s on you," said the man. "We've been going out a month."

"Oh a month," said Pete.

The woman bit her lip. When the well-dressed man glanced at her, she looked down. "What the fuck business is it of yours?" he demanded.

"All right," said Pete. He got unsteadily off his bar stool in a way that meant things were about to spin out of control.

"Everybody calm down," said Josh.

"All right, what?" asked the well-dressed man. "I'm sorry, are you about to fight me? Are you about to fight me because you were hitting on my girlfriend?" This was sort of a good question and it resulted in a moment of reflection on the part of Pete.

"There's no way you two are actually dating," he said.

"Actually we are," said the woman. "I should have told you earlier. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Let's go dance." She turned to the well-dressed man and tugged on his sleeve.

"Wait a second," said the man. He looked at Pete and sneered, triumphant. "Did you think— Did you think that you had a shot with her?" he asked. "You're so old."

"I'm fifty," said Pete.

"You're old enough to be her dad."

Pete shook his head. "You're a little prick," he said.

"Guys, this is a wedding," said Josh.

They were eye to eye, maybe four feet apart and leaning in, drawn to each other like magnets. They had their chins down and their jaws set. It occurred to me that it was my fault Pete had not stayed in his Yaris.

"There you are, Justin," said the bride. She had changed out of her wedding train, looked like a million bucks, and was sweating lightly from having danced. She gave everyone the once over and we all tried to act natural, caught in the act. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Nothing," said the well-dressed man. "Just getting to know the local color."

Pete looked from the well-dressed man to the bride, who seemed taken aback. "Oh, hello," she said.

"Congratulations," said Pete.

"Thank you," said the bride. She turned to the well-dressed man. "Doug needs help carrying the cake in from the truck."

The well-dressed man scowled.

"It's a three-man job," said the bride.

"I'll do it," said Pete.

This seemed like the final straw for the woman from Carmel-by-the-Sea. She shook her head and released the arm of the well-dressed man. Then, abandoning us, she shrugged and returned to the dance floor.

The bride eyed Pete in frank appraisal. He was standing remarkably straight, swaying only a little—almost undetectably; I guess the adrenaline had sobered him up. Behind him, Josh was shaking his head like, 'not a good idea.'

"That's okay," said the bride slowly.

"No, no," said Pete, "I insist." He glowered at the well-dressed man. "I'll give you a hand."

"Yeah great," said the man.

I followed them out because I thought there might still be a fight, but once we got outside we found the groom standing between a pair of open doors, holding his own wedding cake halfway out of a delivery truck. Someone, the baker maybe, was tenting a newspaper over the part of the cake that was exposed to the elements. The cake was huge, an old-fashioned three-tiered wedding cake like you see in pictures. The groom had evidently tried to carry it by himself because it was sort of teetering on its perch on the back of the truck. We hustled over and the well-dressed man and Pete both took up positions on either side of the cake stand.

I had planned to insert myself in Pete's place, but never got the chance, so I wound up standing next to the delivery man or whoever—holding my cranberry and soda—until they reached the door of the Rebar, which I rushed to open. And it was at the door to the Rebar that the groom first became aware of the direness of the situation vis Pete. There was a shallow sill in the doorway, and he stumbled on it, causing the cake to rise precipitously.

"Jesus Christ," said the well-dressed man.

Pete struggled with his end and nearly dropped it. "Shit," he said, "I'm sorry."

The groom peered at him from around the middle tier. Pete was wide-eyed, sweating freely. He wiped his sleeve over his forehead and it came away damp with flop sweat. It dawned on the groom in just whose hands lay the success of his wedding. "Maybe you should let someone else carry it," said the groom.

"No," said Pete. The same look of peevish triumph I had seen in the parking lot, muted slightly by its circumstances, flitted over his expression. "It's okay. I insist."

The groom was silent for another second. A brief, ugly battle was waged and lost inside him. "Okay," he said.

The music had been turned off, and space had been cleared at the end of the buffet line. There were three steep steps between them and the food, and I think we all—even Pete—understood that if there was to be a disaster that was where it would come.

They set off, guests stopping to watch as the cake bobbed past, a few people moving tables and chairs out of the way as the three men crab-walked the towering dessert across the dance floor. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as they approached the stairs, and several people positioned themselves immediately behind them as if to catch someone should they faint.

There was a "Hup," as the groom climbed back onto the first step. I could see Pete wobbling minutely, trying to compensate for the shift in balance. I didn't know what to do, so I just watched as it listed badly to port. And then the well-dressed man and Pete raised their end, bringing the stand level.

Slowly, they began to rotate the cake counter-clockwise. The well-dressed man said, "Okay," and took the first step, so Pete was alone in the stern.

"Hold on," said the groom.

"No," groaned Pete. "Keep going."

"Okay. On three," said the groom. "One. Two." He raised the cake and stepped back onto the second stair. A small wheeze escaped Pete. He was stretched upward, cake level with his chest. "Now me," said the well-dressed man, and they began turning the cake, again, repeating their previous maneuver. This caused the weight of the dessert to fall undistributed onto the lower vertebrae of Pete's back. Desperately, he reached out his leg and felt for a step. Finding the first, he put his foot onto it and bared his teeth. A long, wet fart left his body as it self-cannibalized to remain upright. The whole configuration lurched once, wobbled, but did not capsize.

"Last step," warned the groom.

"Wait," said Pete. "Wait one second. I don't know how—" He adjusted his grip, positioning his shoulder beneath the gigantic desert.

"This is going to work," said the well-dressed man.

"One more step," said the groom. "On three, again." He counted to three and lifted. Only, the well-dressed man, fearing that he would lose his grip or else that the cake would fall, stepped with him. The extra momentum dragged Pete along with them, pushing the groom and causing him to trip.

He staggered and the cake tilted dramatically on one end. It hung for a split second at a thirty-degree angle and, in the next instant, began to slide.

There were gasps from around the room: a shout of, "No!" I raked my face as the tower began its inevitable collapse.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Pete raised his free left hand and pressed all five fingers into the cake's middle layer.

The fingers sunk about a quarter-inch into the icing and, as if the hand had cast a spell or held an invisible shield, all three parts arrived at the edge of the metal tray and stopped. "Oh my God," said the bride.

The groom hurried to help Pete and, a second later, all three men had stumbled up the short flight to set the whole thing down, quivering, on the end-most folding table.

Only then did Pete remove his hand, drawing out five milky white olives of cake flesh. He tried one. "It's good," he said.

The dance floor erupted. People were cheering like he was the fucking Beatles—clapping and laughing and hugging each other. The groom walked over and gripped Pete’s be-caked hand at the wrist. He lifted it over their heads and shook it, inspiring a fresh round of applause and calls of, “Bravo!” and “Encore!” Even the well-dressed man was grinning wildly as if it was he who had saved the cake instead of Pete.

What followed was, without a doubt, one of the finest evenings of my life. Pete was a celebrity, and I, as his only known associate, was colored with the spotlight of that celebrity as surely as if we were standing side by side on stage. No one even cared when he went out to be sick in the parking lot. The opposite: they recommended us hangover cures; they kept asking us to dance.

#

"They were fighting," he said.

"Who?" I asked. I was driving him home in his Yaris. He was slumped down in the passenger seat, which he had neglected to adjust so that his chin was pressed against his knees.

"That guy and that girl. From California."

"Carmel-by-the-Sea," I said.

"He found me talking to her and got all pissed off. I wonder if she's still there."

"Do you want me to take you back?"

He gave me a look like he was trying to tell whether I was joking. "No," he said. "There's no way I could even get it up." Pete was silent for a moment. "I guess that means he was right."

"Who?"

"That guy, that tall guy."

"Justin?"

"Yeah," said Pete, "that guy."

"Right about what?"

"That I'm old, I guess."

"You're not old," I said. "You're fifty."

He shrugged, smiling. "I’m fifty-three."

"Hey," I said, "Who caught that cake? Jesus, that was something. You know what that was? That was a miracle."

"He apologized, you know?"

"Justin?"

"The groom," said Pete. "Nice kid. Man”—he drew a sharp breath—“I think they're going to be happy. You can just tell with some people that they're going to be happy."

"I think that's true."

"I told him it wasn't his fault." He looked out the window at the dark trees as they shot past. "I told him I was sorry it didn’t work out. It would have been so nice to host the reception for their wedding." He was quiet a little bit and I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. "I hope he'll be okay. He was so angry."

"The groom?" I asked. Pete pantomimed height. "The tall guy?"

"That's the thing,” said Pete, “life is so much harder when there's some other guy."

I cleared my throat. "I'm sure he's fine."

After a while, I heard him snoring and glanced over. He was leaned against the door, fast asleep. Drool was trickling down the passenger-side window into its rubber seal. When we got to a straight-away I slowed down. 

Careful to keep the wheel steady, I pulled the lever under his seat so that it slid all the way back. It caught against the rail stop and he jerked awake.

“Thank you,” he said.

I said, “Forget about it.”

*

Duncan Robertson is a native of Seattle, Washington, who lives in Budapest, Hungary. His work has appeared in Expat Press Online, North Dakota Quarterly, and Unlikely Stories. He edits Panel, a magazine of literature produced in Central and Eastern Europe. His debut novel, Visegrad, is forthcoming from New Europe Books this fall.

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