1
Tamar
Henry Mann forced himself up the final steps to his fifth-floor walk-up with the heavy gait of a man who has had two marriage proposals rejected in the same evening. After fumbling with his keys, he finally managed to gain access to his small apartment, where he tossed his tie onto the beat-up console piano and flopped backward, spread eagle, onto the couch. The effects of the four whiskey sours were finally wearing off. Also, the three glasses of champagne and the two---or was it three?---tequila shots. But this was one night when Henry would have been perfectly happy to remain permanently plowed. Had he really done it? Proposed to two women? At the same lousy wedding? Sadly, the answer appeared to be yes. That the mother of the bride was actually pretty damned good-looking didn't soften the blow. That Charlotte, the cousin of the groom, had seemed flattered. Facts were facts: It was inappropriate to pledge one's eternal love to a total stranger, especially while attempting to keep the beat to an anemic rendition of ``Brown Sugar." Further, it was wrong to grab the bride's mom by the waist directly after she had delivered an emotional rhymed toast. It was even worse to pay homage with one's own short poem: In your arms, the bride you carried. You're old! So what? Let's get married! That both of Henry's intendeds could tell that he was drunk and joking was beside the point. He had turned himself into the guy at the reception that everyone was talking about. Not because he was cute, smart, witty, tall, clefted, buff, talented, rich, or in any way desirable, but because he was, well, pathetic. That nice but sort of sad young man who better get a girlfriend---or better yet a therapist---fast, before his head caves in. When a full five minutes of staring at a small crack in the ceiling did nothing to lift his flagging spirits, Henry finally rolled off the couch and found his way to the bathroom. There he threw his coat over the shower curtain and doused his face with cold water. After that came a long, appraising look in the mirror. True, this had been what one friend had called ``the year of weddings." Eight of them to be exact. And yes, it had been difficult to devote so many weekends to other people's happiness. The most confirmed playboy would have felt left out. But left out was one thing. Desperate was another. Was Henry really so lonely that his drunken alter ego had felt it had no other choice but to embark on a covert take-no-prisoners bridal mission? Before he had time to ruminate on the issue in greater and possibly more humiliating detail, Henry was saved by the phone. Given the lateness of the hour, he knew exactly who it was. Even so, at the first ring, Henry decided to screen. In his current state of mind he couldn't bear to talk to anyone, not even Glenn. But by ring number two a vain hope took root in his mind. After all, Henry wasn't usually a big drinker. What if all that booze had clouded his memory? What if he hadn't proposed to two total strangers at all? ``No, dude," Glenn would reassure him. ``The cousin followed you around all night like a homeless beagle, and Mrs. Miller grabbed your ass on the receiving line. They proposed to you!" Henry answered on the fourth ring. A millisecond after he pressed talk his fate was sealed. Before the receiver reached his ear he could hear Glenn's laugh registering loud and clear. ``Man oh man, Henry!" Henry slumped on the piano bench as though he had taken a hard kick to the stomach.``I know. I know."
``You are a case, my friend! A fucking case!" Of course, Henry knew it was true. On the other hand, where was the sympathy? Hadn't he been sympathetic when Glenn's wife, a thirty-seven-year-old knockout named Diana, had recently decided to take some time off in Colorado? Had he laughed? Made jokes? Of course not. Then again, Henry knew that a potential divorce was not joking material. But two drunken marriage proposals in a single night? Open season. ``Alright, alright," Henry said, a bit gruffly. ``I know it was bad, OK?" Glenn was undeterred.
``Did any of them say yes?" The perfect opening. Perhaps there was a way to save a little face. ``Actually, the cousin took my hand on the dance floor," Henry said. ``I think she liked me." Then he paused. ``If only she didn't live in Zaire." ``Focus on Mrs. Miller, then," Glenn said. ``I don't care if she is pushing fifty-five, she is hot."
Henry had to agree. ``Then again," Glenn went on, ``I don't suppose Mr. Miller would appreciate his wife taking a second husband." ``Guess not," Henry said. ``It'd be pretty weird to be Jane's stepfather anyway." Henry knew it wasn't that funny a line, but the sound of Glenn's laughter worked wonders. For a brief moment, the cloud of mortification lifted and Henry saw himself in an entirely new light. True, he didn't rake in a ton of cash. On the other hand, he was only thirty-two, an excellent musician, a good writer, a perfectly acceptable athlete, disease free, and straight. The city was his to conquer. Who gave a damn about a couple of drunken proposals? No one. Henry almost believed it. He even started to stretch out on his couch, ready to get Glenn laughing at some of the other wedding guests. Then Glenn lowered the boom.
