'We'll laugh about it later'

As readers may know, I got married last week. I’d wondered how I would write about the event after the fact. I’d figured that something was bound to go wrong, because no wedding is perfect. And of course my wedding had its hiccups. But that’s what makes for good stories later. So here’s a good story:

There I was, lying in bed in the hotel room the night before my wedding, attempting in vain to get my brain to turn off so I could get some sleep.

In the room next door, someone whistled incessantly. Whistling? At 2:30 a.m.? I considered banging on the wall.

The phone rang. I ignored it. It was 2:30 in the morning after all. It rang again. And again. I stumbled out of bed and across the room.

The screen read the name of one of the groomsmen. He’s a sweet guy, but he’s always been kind of a wreck. We’ll call him Pete.

“What?” I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know where anyone is and I don’t have anywhere to sleep,” Pete said in a drunken slur.

A string of profanities whirred through my head. I pushed back images of the grisly violence I would inflict on the offending groomsmen to answer Pete’s cry for help.

“Can’t you call the others? Call them to come get you,” I suggested.

“They’re not answering their phones,” he told me. “Oh, hang on, Ashley’s calling.”

Who’s Ashley? I thought to myself as he hung up. Maybe she’s coming to get him.

“Just let him figure it out,” Shawn said in a sleep-fogged voice.

“And have to pick him up from the police in the morning? No thanks!” I replied.

About two minutes later, just as I had crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up, the phone rang.

“What is it, Pete?” I answered through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whined.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, come to our hotel room and spend the night,” I practically shouted.

I told the groomsman which hotel we were staying in and despite my specific directions and the fact that he had lived in Lincoln for years, somehow he managed to lose himself. Again.

“Which street is the hotel on?” he asked during the 10th phone call in the past half-hour.

Out we went into the muggy Lincoln, Neb. night to track down the groomsman.

Standing at the door of the hotel eating a taco was a good friend who had flown in for the wedding.

“Oh hey, Nat” I said to her as I walked past. It took me a minute to recognize her because of how out of place she was standing there.

She followed my then-fiance Shawn and I into the street. I complained to her about the situation while she munched on her taco.

“Well, when the other groomsmen get married, make sure Pete has to spend the night with them,” Nat suggested.

Pete came tottering down the block, finally.

We got him up the elevator to the eighth floor and were walking to the room when Pete leaned over the railing to look down on the atrium below.

Oh god, I thought, now he’s going to ralph all over the hotel.

Shawn and I were of one mind and we dashed back to guide Pete to the room.

We steered him toward the bathroom and then deposited him firmly on the sofa.

We were finally getting wound down and falling asleep when Pete’s phone started ringing. He answered and began talking to whoever was on the other line.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, while Shawn giggled about the whole affair. “Pete! Turn your phone off or you’re sleeping in the hallway!”

A meek voice answered. “Oh, OK.”

I’m proud to report that instead of killing Pete where he slept — I was sorely tempted — I even brought him a bagel for breakfast the next morning.

Our wedding went wonderfully. The reception was one heck of a party and everyone had a great time talking and dancing. I was glad the day went off nearly without a hitch.

Monday, as Shawn and I were making our way back to Montana, my mother called.

“I want to tell you about one incident at the reception,” she said.

Turns out Pete was hitting on her all night.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.