Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
It was the warmest day of the year and we’re waiting for the altar.
One, two, five couples pass our number. “When is it our turn?†the groom inquires. No one has the documents, it seems. They’ve found a way to the bottom of the stack.
“Do you take this woman… “; “Do you take this man… ?†“Yes.†“Yes.â€
We’re handed bags of seed as we leave the City Clerk’s office on Worth Street. The bride and the groom revolve onto the street to a hail of cheers and edibles â€" for the birds after we’re long gone.
The party continues across town as we hail cabs; the clock ticks down. The kitchen closes at 3:30 â€" waiting past 3 just for us. Its 3:07 without a free cab in sight. We cross the street to meet an elderly gentleman with walker in hand and sweat on the brow: “I’ve waited here for 10 minutes; the next cab is mine!â€
The groom’s sister-in-law notices the M22 stopping in front of us. She and I think for a split second â€" the bus on their wedding day, and we think it’s going crosstown. She runs to ask the driver if he’s stopping on Chambers. He is and she yells, “Everyone on the bus!â€
Some of us have cards, some do not; some have never taken the bus before. We escape the heat and the wait for a cab and, happily, if quizzically, head west.
The bus is mostly empty but for a few tourists, some children and their caretakers. We take our seats. The bride throws her bouquet.
We leave to the well-wishes of our bus driver, run a few blocks and make our reservation.
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