(Photo stolen from Laura & Alex on Flickr)
In the last days of my "relationship" with Nick I knew his entire repertoire of oafish behavior, and yet was so completely and embarassingly under his spell that I let most of it pass without much comment.
I was surprised and hurt to find that he was planning to attend a friend's wedding one late summer Saturday night, and hadn't asked me to come, too. About two questions to Nick and I learned that he was crashing the wedding. This was deemed okay, in his book, because the friend in question was a volleyball buddy. What, volleyball players are oafs?
Anyway, Nick was getting a ride to the wedding, an hour away, with several of the old volleyball team. They had a van, and Nick wormed his way into it. Lied his way into it, actually; Nick told them more than once, nervously, that he had forgotten his invitation. What -- did he really expect that they'd be checking invitations at the door for forgeries? But for my part, no amount of talking sense to him worked; he crashed that wedding.
Nick got supremely drunk, which goes without saying. He sat at the head table to eat his pirated dinner, pulling a chair up to the front, right in front of the bride, and clearing a space among the bridal table decorations. One of the groom's best friends walked up to Nick and asked him what the Sam Hill he was doing at the wedding party table. Nick didn't like that very much and his mood turned ugly. "Somebody's gonna get punched," he warned, before moving to another seat.
The bride, who is by nature as easy-going and gracious as almost anyone I know, had had enough of Nick by the garter toss. When Nick pushed to the front of the assembled bachelors and assumed the stance of a defensive rebounder, effectively screening out other potential garter-snaggers, the bride snapped. "Get him outta here!" she hissed. Under the circumstances I'd say that was rather charitable.
I was relieved to learn that it wasn't Nick Asshat who had stripped down to his tighty-whiteys to dive into the pool and fetch a huge floating flower arrangement. It was, of course, one of the volleyball crowd (those ruffians!), and after he retrieved the giant bouquet, he heaved it up onto the top of the volleyball van and proceeded to drive the van around and around the sweeping circular driveway. The apparent goal was to see how fast he could drive before the bouquet flew off the van. Again -- NOT Nick Asshat, this time. Small comfort.
In fewer than two months I would be free of Nick forever and dating his old volleyball teammate and golf partner, Chas. In just over three months Chas and I attended a Christmas dinner party of a newly-married couple, who of course were the couple whose wedding Nick had crashed. How awkward to have to explain to them that I had been dating the clod we were laughing about -- but how nice to get that ugliness out of the way early, since we were all to become such good friends.
I will carry a black mark on my record forever, though -- the mark of Nick Asshat.