Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (27 page)

Ka-thunk!

Mother Keller looks up, startled. “What was that?”

“We hit something.” Ed squints through the window.

“Oh dear Lord!” We see Mother Keller's expression as she looks out the windshield at the confused scene outside. Nick pulls over and everyone piles out. The exterior camera shows everyone gathering around a disguised Bi'ch, who lies sprawled on the ground. Beside her kneel Dizzy Bee and Star Fan. “Grandmother!” Star Fan shouts with emotion. “What have they done?”

“You done hit this old lady!” Dizzy Bee shouts. “I seen it!”

“What's happened here?” Ed barks.

“You hit this poor old lady and her chicken!”

“A chicken?” Mother Keller clutches at her gauzy neckline, which blows in the wind. “What on earth is he talking about?” Someone points to the old woman's wicker basket, which is now lying upside down beside her, its captive chicken now running free down the boulevard. “We must get the chicken!” Star Fan pleads as Bi'ch groans pitifully.

“Well, help her, for God's sake!” Mother Keller orders.

“Should we call the police?” a white-haired board member asks her.

“Don't be stupid,” she says. “Just help her off the street. We have a press conference in twenty minutes.”

Star Fan begins crying. Her acting skills are superb. “Please help us,” she says. “We must get Grandma's chicken! He's been blessed by the high priest and we must catch him. Otherwise, it is Hmong custom to sue.”

“To what?” Mother Keller clutches her throat.

“Please, ma'am,” Star Fan says pathetically. “We are a peaceful people. Our Hmong chickens are highly revered in the community. They're an endangered species.”

“Oh dear Lord.” Ed sighs. “Perfect!” He turns to Nick. “Had to hit an endangered chicken! Today of all Goddamned days!”

Nick apologizes and offers to call the police.

“Hold on now,” Mother Keller says. “Let's not be hasty.”

 

The department store, meanwhile, is now filled with eagerly waiting employees and reporters. I'm standing off to the side. I check the clock and take a deep breath.

It's time.

I step up to the microphone. My hands feel cold and my head feels oddly disconnected from my body. It's so strange to be up here alone. I wish there was even like a potted plant or something beside me . . . but there isn't, there's just me. Just here, right now.
Just breathe. Relax. You can do this.
Remember the twins.

I lean into the microphone and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, there's been a slight change of plans today. The Kellers have been detained, unfortunately, by circumstances beyond their control . . .” The microphone squeals with feedback. I hold a manila envelope in one hand. Inside it are the Olya doll test results. I sent one of the dolls to the animal hospital and Greta forwarded it on to their toxicology lab. The report contained good news and bad. The good news is the dolls are not radioactive. The bad news is . . . they're made out of untreated post-consumer garbage, which is largely comprised of chemical sewage. A sludgy mix that was superheated in a conductor oven until it melted and gelled into resin. Then it was spun into waxy strands of hair. I told Brad, “Darling, you're selling dolls made of shit and garbage.”

He didn't care. He was mad . . . at
me
. Not at the shit-and-garbage-doll people, but at me! He couldn't believe I'd actually sent a doll to the lab. He called me a pain in the ass and a “muckraker.” Well, I guess he's right. Here I am about to rake some serious muck. I also have the report from Addi's private eye, the one I hired to investigate CLOG Industries. He dug up enough dirt on the Prophets of Profits to cover a landfill.

The lobby is more crowded than I ever remember it being. I clear my throat.

“Hello, good afternoon, thank you for coming. I'm Jennifer . . . Keller, and I'm here today because there's been a delay in the official naming of the new president.”

The crowd buzzes slightly and I clear my throat again.

“I'm here today to deliver some sad news. The Keller's name has always stood as a symbol of quality and family integrity. But regretfully that good name has been tarnished in recent months by inadequate product safety policies.” I expect some reaction to this, but there's just a sea of faces staring at me. I clear my throat and say, “Keller's has recently discovered that the popular Angel Bears, which Keller's sold for Valentine's Day, were in fact imported illegally. They were filled with fibrous DDT, a cancer-causing material that's currently banned in the U.S. entirely.” The crowd starts to murmur.

A few reporters raise their hands.

I tell them that the Angel Bears were sold to Keller's by a religious import/export conglomerate named Christian Lambs of God, or CLOG, Industries, which is controlled by some of the largest churches in America. The men of the cloth travel around the world to some of the poorest places on Earth and routinely exploit those very people they've been tasked with helping. They employ foreign factories with substandard safety protocols and often use underage employees. They buy in bulk from illegal sweatshops, sometimes even opening their own, in order to ship low-cost product back to the United States. Now the room starts getting excited. Reporters begin pushing closer, jostling each other to get their microphones near me.

“What does Ed Keller have to say about all this?” somebody asks.

“When can we get a statement from the family?”

I tell them that the Kellers will be issuing a formal statement shortly, but for now . . . they'd like to invite everyone to very special event.

“A wedding,” I tell them. “To celebrate the Family Equity Act.”

The room gets very quiet. All the Keller's employees look at each other. No one's heard about any special event. Little do they know that the Gay Bee Brigade's been working feverishly night and day for this moment. Christopher's design lab was the rehearsal space.

They have no idea what we've prepared for them.

I smile and say, “Keller's Department Store is
proud
to host the very
first
gay wedding in Minnesota!” The room freezes. Everyone looks up at me, confused. For a second I wonder if I'm dreaming. There's no sound, no motion, nobody says a word. I thought there'd be a big uproar. I start to panic. Maybe this was a big,
big
mistake.

Then a short, myopic reporter in the front row raises his hand.

He says, “Um . . . could you please repeat that?”

I clear my throat and tell them that the Keller family wishes to host the first gay wedding in Minnesota—for one of their most beloved employees—in an effort to extend their support of the Family Equity Act, which they hope is passed speedily with a unanimous vote.

The myopic reporter raises his hand again. “Do they know the Family Equity Act hasn't actually passed yet?”

Then some big guy in the crowd wearing a blue jacket shouts at me. “You're lying!” he says. “No
way
did the Kellers okay some faggy gay wedding!”

I swallow hard. I wasn't ready for that reaction. I regain my composure quickly, however; I've survived much worse than this in my lifetime. I survived five years of online dating, which made me
many
unattractive things, including a quick liar. I know from blunt experience that there are only two ways out of a lie. You can either say you have to use the bathroom and flee the scene, or hold your ground and go down deeper.

Seeing as this is not the time for a bathroom break, I firmly repeat myself. “I can assure you, the Kellers have sanctioned the wedding.”

“Then where are they?” Blue Jacket shouts. I hate that guy.

“The Kellers will be along shortly. They've been held up at the senate. They went there to personally express their support for the Family Equity Act to lawmakers. As you know, Keller's is a family-owned company. And it's not just any family. The Kellers are a family with strong values. It's no secret that they're also quite religious and they've prayed about the issue of same-sex marriage. They've looked into their hearts and they respectfully disagree with the church's stance on the matter. The Kellers believe that
love
is what makes a family. They believe that true love—real love—is under the jurisdiction of
God,
not the courts.”

Flashbulbs start popping, which somehow relaxes me.

“It's true the Family Equity Act hasn't passed yet,” I say. “But the Kellers hope to send a
clear message
to the community that we must all stand
together
to support the great institution of family. They hope lawmakers realize that times aren't changing . . . they've already changed.”

I pause and the space is filled with whistling and clapping. I smile at the room. Suddenly this seems easy. I stand on the podium, and still shaking slightly, I raise both my arms.

“Welcome!” I shout. “To Minnesota's first gay wedding!”

Then the banner behind me unfurls and instead of saying
HAPPY FIRST ANNIVERSARY!
it says
HAPPY FIRST GAY WEDDING!

The room explodes in an uproar. Thunderous applause, shouting, cameras flashing, reporters jockeying with one another to ask me questions. The guy in the blue jacket manages to muscle his way to the front. “Bullshit!” he says. “The Kellers didn't sanction this, did they!”

Bolstered by the room's reaction, I smile widely at him. “Oh no?” I say. “Then why is
this
happening?” I snap my fingers and suddenly the large curtain draped across the marble staircase opens, revealing a sixteen-piece string ensemble. The conductor taps his little wand twice and they begin playing the wedding march.

The crowd gasps.

Everyone looks around the room until someone whistles and points up.

The room turns to see Christopher and Jeremy at the top of the escalator. They're both wearing black tuxedos and they're both beaming. I've never seen either one of them smile like that before. As they step onto the escalator and begin their smooth descent to the lobby, everyone starts cheering.

 

The hearse-cam catches the chaotic scene unfolding in the back of Nick's hearse. Everyone piles into the backseat, only now they're joined by four new passengers. Dizzy Bee takes up almost a whole bench. Several board members are crammed in too; they look like white Styrofoam packing peanuts stuffed in around him. Mother Keller is wedged in between Bi'ch and Star Fan. Star Fan holds the flapping, squawking chicken on her lap.

“Wouldn't the chicken be happier back in his basket?” Mother Keller asks tightly.

Star Fan says
no,
Hmong chickens need space.

Mother Keller rolls her eyes. She asks again if she couldn't
call them a cab
—which would take them anywhere they want to go—but Star Fan declines adamantly. They're headed downtown too; catching a ride in the hearse will be much quicker. When Mother Keller tries to insist they take a cab, the fearsome Star Fan sits up and points a finger at her. “Are you insulting my people?” she asks out of the blue and quite indignantly.

Mother Keller looks startled. She says
no, no, of course not. . .

Then Brad sits up and stares out the window with a weird look on his face. “No . . .” he says under his breath. “It . . . it can't be!”

Mother Keller looks over at him. “What?”

“Look over there. Is that . . . Is that my car? Fuck! That's my Lamborghini!”

“Where?”

“Right there!” He rolls down his window and starts shouting at the driver of the apple-green Lamborghini, which is idling on the other side of the street. “That's my fucking car!” he shouts. “Hey, asshole! Jackass! I know you can hear me!
That is my car!
”

Mother Keller starts fanning herself. “Bradford, I cannot condone this swearing.”

“Hey, jackass!” Brad tries to flag the driver down, but the girl in the driver's seat just waves at him and guns the engine, peeling out in the opposite direction. “No! Fuck! Follow that car! Dude . . . driver guy . . . follow that fucking green Lambo!”

“Bradford! Stop it this instant! We are
not
chasing down some car!”

“Dude!” Brad lunges toward the driver's seat and pleads with Nick. “Dude! I'll fucking give you
five thousand dollars
to catch that fucking car!”

“Righty-o!” Nick says cheerfully.

“
No!
” Mother Keller shouts.

“
Go, go, go!
” Brad shouts. He lunges right over the privacy divider, scrambling into the passenger seat next to Nick for a better view. The chicken breaks free, squawking and flapping wildly around the hearse, bouncing off the seats, the ceiling, and many of the board members. Bi'ch seems to be feeling much better and begins singing a shrill duet with Dizzy Bee, who bellows “Old Man River” in his deep baritone voice.

Mother Keller's face is a portrait of fury. She demands they stop the car and Brad tells Nick to ignore her. He keeps upping the price he's willing to pay until they hit fifteen thousand dollars. Mother Keller keeps on shouting at Brad and Brad tells her to shut up.

It's his car, for Christ's sake!

Ed shouts at Brad to stop speaking to his mother like that and all three of them manage to keep up the heated argument. Nick chases the Lamborghini onto 394 East, headed away from the city. Mother Keller starts frantically calling people on her cell phone.

It only takes the Cinnabon girl a half mile to lose the hearse . . . but it takes Mother Keller three more miles to convince Brad to let Nick turn the damn car around. After she checks her messages, she turns quite pale. “Hurry!” she says. “Something's wrong down at the store.”