Lovesick (22 page)

“This is nuts,” I tell Paige as we cautiously maneuver the narrow, windy road.

On the next sharp turn, an approaching school bus nearly knocks us off the cliff.

“Maybe we should forget this,” Paige says, catching her breath. “We can’t expect our sort of guests to manage this trip.”

A children’s science museum seems like the last place you’d want your wedding, but
Here Comes the Guide
gave it four stars. The parking lot is jam-packed with yellow school buses just like the one that nearly killed us. It’s midafternoon and the museum is hosting dozens of student field trips with kids aged elementary to high school.

We walk toward the main building, across the concrete plaza, and past the fountain and DNA double-helix jungle gym to the ledge. What we see next changes everything. It is enough to make us forget about the hyperactive kindergartners screaming bloody murder or the preteen who just stepped on Paige’s big toe.

We’re much higher up than I realized.

“We’re screwed,” Paige says, letting out a long sigh.

We gaze at the spectacular, unobstructed panoramic view of the Bay Area on this warm, sunny afternoon. It’s breathtaking. We’re outside our price range, way outside, and yet nothing we see after this will ever compare. It’s like buying Paige’s engagement ring all over again.

“It can’t hurt to ask how much,” I say. “It might hurt.”

Sheila, the events coordinator, a lovely, bookish woman in her midforties, with a Dorothy Hamill 1970s bob and a great big smile, greets us at the front desk. She gives us the nickel tour, walking us past the earthquake simulators, the ocean waves display, and the insect zoo. Elementary school children charge through a gigantic maze like rats. As we walk, Sheila tosses around wedding terms of art like “preferred caterer,” “hired security,” and “nonrefundable
security deposit.” Paige and I are total frauds. We’re wasting her time.

As we reach the doors to the private outdoor Science Park, Paige and I are pummeled by a sweet, sickly odor. I follow the scent to Exhibit Hall B, where I see a group of kids gathered inside a giant papier-mâché nose. Following a loud blast, the children are gently expelled out one nostril.

The fruity fragrance is overwhelming.

“What is this?” I blurt out with disgust. “It smells like a boiling vat of Jell-O.”

“It’s an exhibit on the human senses,” Sheila says.

Sheila points to the far wall intended to simulate human skin. Small children use cantaloupe-sized protrusions to climb it.

“That one concentrates on the sense of touch,” she says.

The enormous nose sneezes again.

“This one explores the sense of smell,” Sheila explains. “It was supposed to smell like peanut butter and jelly, but because some children are allergic to peanuts, we kept it just jelly.”

“You can have an allergic reaction to the
scent
of peanuts?” I ask.

“We weren’t about to take any chances,” Sheila says, walking us outside.

Not the scientific answer I was expecting.

The Science Park has a beautiful sprawling lawn with abstract sculptures, a man-made rock garden and small creek, picnic tables, and some strategically planted telescopes around the perimeter.

If we rent the museum, our guests will have exclusive use of the entire building and all the exhibits, Sheila tells us. For dramatic effect, she conducts the entire transaction with her back to the magnificent Bay Area backdrop. Sheila’s coy with figures, but she tells us the most reasonable rates are in the offseason, November through March, and if we’re willing to do a Sunday evening, she might even be able to knock off a thousand dollars.

“Over the next year, the museum doesn’t plan on sponsoring any other aroma-themed exhibits, does it?” I ask.

Sheila needs to check and leaves.

I sneeze a couple of times.

“I think you’re allergic to the smell of jelly, if that’s possible,” Paige says, handing me a tissue from her bag.

I tell her I’m considering suing.

Paige and I walk back inside and stroll through the museum. Opposite the “Nose-Aroma” exhibit is “The Real Astronomy Experience,” where students can learn how to measure the size of a planet and track the trajectory of an asteroid. Outside the planetarium, there is a massive bronze head-and-shoulders sculpture of the hall’s namesake, Ernest “the Atom Smasher” Lawrence, inventor of the cyclotron—a device used to create the original atom bomb.

“When protons collide,” I say, reading the steel plaque to Paige, “just prior to a nuclear blast, there is a massive inrush of air known as ‘the quiet implosion.’”

“Nuclear proliferation, sounds like a good wedding theme to me,” she suggests.

“It would be quite ‘the blowout,’” I say, elbowing her lightly in the rib.

“We’re being silly. We totally can’t afford this.”

“You only get married once,” I tell her.

I love seeing her this happy.

“I could sew my own dress,” she suggests, “and maybe we could skip dinner and just do cocktails and appetizers, right out here.”

Sheila waves us over. She has good news.

“There was a message on my voice mail.”
Yeah right.
“We literally just had a cancellation for Sunday, August 12th,” she says, excitedly.

“August twelfth of what year?” Paige cries.

“Seven weeks from yesterday,” I calculate quickly.

“Are you serious?”

“How much?” I ask Sheila.

“I’d need to get a sign-off from my supervisor, but given the short notice, I could probably give it to you for $4,000.”

Is she going to give it to us or does she want $4,000?

Sheila reminds us that this figure doesn’t include the cost for the preferred caterer.

“Do we have to rent the
entire
museum? Couldn’t we just rent this patch of grass over here?” I ask her.

“Oh, but that would be such a waste,” she says. “I suppose I can ask about
just
the Science Park, but I’m telling you now, they’re never going to dip below $3,000.”

“Seven weeks is
too
soon,” Paige says, not even considering the price.

“I completely understand,” Sheila says.

“A shotgun wedding,” I conclude.

“I’m not pregnant,” Paige quickly reassures Sheila.

“Of course you’re not, darling.”

Both Sheila and I study Paige, who studies the tile floor.

“Can you give us twenty-four hours to think about it?” Paige asks.

“Take your time, but I can’t guarantee the date, or rate,” she replies kindly.

So you can’t give us twenty-four hours? Say what you mean, woman.

“If you’re going to just rent the garden, given the short notice, I can do $3,000.” All of sudden Sheila has all this authority.
What’s it going to take to put your wedding in this children’s museum today?

For $3,000, we can have our dream wedding.

Help Paige realize her fantasy
, Sid told me. Paige wants this.

“Oh, to your other question,” Sheila adds, “the ‘Nose-Aroma’ exhibit leaves next week. So you’re safe. Next up is ‘Legos.’”

Legos! Who doesn’t love Legos?
I tell Paige with my eyes.

But Paige can’t take her eyes off the view.

“I don’t think we need twenty-four hours,” I tell Sheila.

Paige pretends to be stunned.

I pull out my wallet, and right before I hand Sheila my new VISA, I covertly pull off the validation sticker and quickly stuff it in my pocket.
Mental note: Use the men’s room before we leave. Activate this card.
We pay the $500 deposit now, and the balance is due the day before the wedding. Eighty percent of the deposit is refundable if we cancel within nine weeks of the event, but we’re getting married in seven. Sheila makes an imprint of my credit card using a pencil across carbon paper. I sign the contract. Then Paige does.

We’ll be fine
, I tell myself.
You just bought your fiancée the ultimate wedding. We’ll sell more toothpaste. We’ll eat more Top Ra men. We’ll shake down more seniors. The money will come from somewhere. When you owe seventy-five grand, what’s seventy-eight?

THE garage door is partially open. I duck underneath and spot my best friend, planted on a stool, bent over his workbench. Sid is staring into a swing-arm magnifying glass not so unlike the one we inspected diamonds with in Igor Petrov’s office.

I take a step closer and he slowly spins toward me. His batlike hearing compensates for poor eyesight. Sid doesn’t look like himself without the dark wraparound shades, but he is as upbeat as ever.

“Wait ’til you lay your peepers on this,” he cries with delight. “I’ve just about got it flush!”

He and I haven’t lost a step. I want to give him a big bear hug, but I softly put one hand on his back and lean into the lens. It’s too dark in here. I remind Sid that this magnifying glass has a built-in lamp.

His cloudy green eyes widen. “Much better,” he affirms.

Sid has gutted his sacred pinky ring of its blue topaz gemstone and replaced it with a clear, loose-fitting plastic top.

“See right there … that’s where you store the nitroglycerin tablet,” he explains, nudging the lid delicately with a pair of tweezers. “The first sign of a heart attack and BAM! You pop that little puppy.”

In pharmacy school they teach you that a small dose of nitroglycerin dissolved underneath the tongue can sometimes be used to increase blood flow to the heart and preempt angina. The inspiration behind Sid’s idea isn’t lost on me.

“You could also store a little breath mint in there,” I gently hint, taking the tweezers from him to study the prototype.

The façade crudely fits over the opening.

“Sidney!” Cookie screams, nearly causing both of us to pop nitro glycerin.

Cookie is standing in the doorway separating the kitchen from the garage. She has on a wide-brimmed gardening hat and blue jean overalls.

“I’m going to kill you!” she shouts, ready to leap through the air and tackle him to the ground.

But instead, cane in hand, she gingerly descends the two steps to the concrete garage floor. Then she hobbles toward us with a small brown package tucked under her arm.

“I thought we had an agreement,” she demands.

Cookie tosses the package onto the table, causing Sid’s blue topaz gemstone to disappear into oblivion.

“No more eBay! No more online! You promised!” Cookie cries.

“Where’d you find that?” Sid wonders.

“In your bottom dresser drawer.”

“Well, aren’t you the nosey parker? Can’t a man have some privacy? That’s not mine,” he insists like a teen busted for weed. “It’s Andy’s.”

“Yeah, and I’m Ava Gardner,” she says, leaning her cane against the workbench. Cookie rips off the small piece of Scotch tape holding the package closed. She’s already rummaged through the contents. Tossing the packing on the floor, she pulls out a ream of personalized stationery.

“This letterhead has
our
address and
our
phone number on it,” she yells at Sid. “Plus the invoice has
your
credit card number. How is this Andy’s?”

“Are you
positive
that’s
my
credit card number?” Sid bluffs.

That’s when Cookie notices Sid’s disassembled pinky ring on the countertop.

“For crying out loud!” Cookie hollers. She picks up the empty gold setting. “I gave this to you for your sixtieth birthday. Where’s the goddam gemstone?”

Sid begins frantically looking around for the blue topaz.

“
Why
would you
do
such a thing?” she pleads.

Realizing this is my big chance, I casually reach inside my breast pocket and squeeze the record button on the handheld device.

“It was my idea,” I jump in. “I wanted to see if we could stick a pill in there for emergency’s sake.”

I show her how the little lid barely fits over the top.

“You are a dumb person,” she says, pointing at me with both hands like an air traffic controller. “You ruined a perfectly good piece of jewelry for what? Nothing. And besides, there is no way that idiotic lid will ever stay on. Where is the original stone?” Cookie demands. “Show it to me now!”

She snaps up her cane and takes a step closer to Sid.

I block her path to protect him.

“Move!” she yells, inches from my face.

“Come again?”

We dance to the right, and then to the left.

“What part of ‘get the hell out of the way’ don’t you understand?” she cries.

“I think you need a time-out,” I tell her.

“Listen, buster, I’ve had just about enough of you.” She eyes me up and down. I’m at least a foot and half taller than her. “You think just because I’m two thousand years old that I can’t take you?”

We stare some more. She throws up her hands in defeat.

“This is why you have no friends your own age,” Cookie concludes.

Cookie does an about-face and heads inside, addressing Sid once more before slamming the door in our faces: “If that stone is missing or I learn that you bought that stationery on the Inter-web, I will beat that computer of yours senseless with this cane.”