APRIL 29, 2024 – Recently, five of us from our clan attended a wedding and reception just outside of the little ski resort town of Windham in the Catskills. The bride was the daughter of the legendary “Cliff” from my Inheritance series posted last summer right here on this blogsite. For me wedding was a bit of a reunion, not only with Cliff and his wife, but other characters straight out of Inheritance, which means straight out of “Joisey.”
Although the crowd was mostly from New Jersey, the weather was mostly from Minnesota—cold, wet, and windy. The ski slopes of Windham Mountain, which rises prominently just beyond the village, were still snow-covered. If conditions were tolerable for diehard skiers, however, the location of the wedding ceremony itself didn’t favor the thinly-clad guests from the Garbage State.
Oops! That was a slip on a patch of Freudian ice. My apologies. Of course I meant quite the opposite of trash. I meant what appears on every single New Jersey license plate. I meant, “the Garden State,” though having spent many days, weeks, months over many decades in urban New Jersey, I did see actual garbage splattered on a license or two.
Truth be told, New Jersey’s official moniker is apt in many places throughout the state, not only in the southern half, long famous for its garden farming. The northern part of the state boasts wooded expanses soothing to a hiker’s soul. Furthermore, readers who read Inheritance know that the infamous UB was a horticulturist par excellence. Moreover, Cliff himself, the former semi-pro hockey player who later became a rock star—but always the son of a New Jersey florist—knew the Latin name of everything that grew in UB’s expansive flower gardens.
But I digress. Back to us shivering wedding guests as we huddled on the large half-log benches in a forest glade alongside an ebullient brook. The entire affair—ceremony and reception—took place at a venue outside of Windham, tucked away in the undulating terrain shadowed by what would qualify as mountains back home. I half-expected the narrow winding road to take us back to Rip Van Winkle’s time and village. My dream state was abruptly interrupted, however, when just a few meters in front of our rental car (with Florida plates), a large black bear bounded across the road.
The event instructions had stressed that we should arrive early for the ceremony, since it would be of short duration—15 to 20 minutes. Being of punctual persuasion, my wife led us to the glade with time to spare. This afforded us ample opportunity to observe the surrounding guests.
Normally a pleasant and amusing experience (people fascinate me), on this occasion I found the observational exercise unsettling. I realized that I stood out like a container of Half-N-Half among bottles of fine red wine. Having interpreted “black tie optional” as license to revert to Minnesota men’s spring dress code circa 1995 to 2005, I wore a blue blazer with beige trousers, and a pair of decent, well-shined brown (shell) shoes. Everyone else was dressed in modern New Jersey—or was it the entire world?—black. The only black outfit I owned was what I’d assembled for a few of my Fiddler Under the Roof winter concerts back home, and that outfit lacked any kind of jacket or even a tie.
In my naivete I’d assumed that since the wedding was in late April and because late April is in the spring, and moreover, given that the wedding was a wedding, for crying out loud, not a funeral, I could go with attire that reflected joy, spring, new beginnings—happy stuff!—not the color of mourners at a dirge. At least my blazer was navy blue, I thought, but the beige of my trousers was yelling, “Look at me, and notice: I’m not from around here!”
As I used my black rain jacket (just by chance, thank God; it was the only color available in my size when I’d purchased it at REI a million years ago) to cover my lap, I considered my sartorial predicament. I drew slight relief from having chosen a subdued blue tie instead of a “joyful” yellow when packing for the trip out East. As more people—over 100, eventually—joined the assemblage, I searched for like-minded company; for someone, anyone whose attire could help camouflage my ill-suited “spring joy” scheme, but none appeared until . . .
At last! I saw a guy in his early 60s, I figured, with a long full white beard, no less, and wearing a very bright red suit. “Santa Claus!” I said, nearly out loud. At that moment I knew—the guest was probably one of the whole line-up of Santas that Cliff’s high-end party production business hired each December. How appropriate, I thought, that Cliff’s loyal, A-squad Santa would attend the wedding . . . in character!
The joyfulness that Santa’s presence had stirred within me faded quickly. Santa was Santa, sure to spark a smile, a chuckle, even a warm-hearted slap on the back by the people in black. Me? I was the carton of Half-N-Half amidst a lot of Italian (as I’d learn upon meeting people) red wine.
Back to surveying the crowd for someone wearing anything but black. What I noticed was only black, although Cliff, father of the bride, was wearing a high-end silver tuxedo jacket (with black pants). Upon examining people’s outfits a bit more closely, however, I noticed that none of the gentlemen except Cliff was tuxedo-clad . . . until . . . finally, I did espy a guy who’d opted for the optional.
He looked about 50 and had well-styled sandy colored hair. His tux was well-tailored, and he looked as eminently comfortable in it as he looked important, successful, in command of substantial interests—other people’s, as well as his own. I watched him as he looked around, waved, smiled, then took his seat next to his spouse (I presumed) at the end of a bench across the aisle from us. I then noticed something terribly peculiar—something incongruous, slovenly . . . of disappointing effect. By my standards, this peculiarity swiftly and irretrievably undercut the rest of his cut-above-the-rest image that to that point he’d successfully projected.
This Wall Street mogul, this real estate tycoon, or high-ranking executive of a Manhattan-based money center bank, high-flying investment banker; this hedge fund senior manager, this big shot in his big shot tuxedo, who’d been groomed for success since he was born into a family of billionaires . . . was wearing . . . slippers and no socks!
So the guy is some kook, I thought. A freelancing prestidigitator, no doubt, hired by Cliff now and again to perform at a big 5-O birthday bash or a New Year’s party or corporate event. A performer whose act required some kind of prop—a waist-to-floor curtain, perhaps, rigged around a table that would hide his sleights of hand; a specially designed arrangement behind which he could pass off a card, a coin or a rabbit without notice by his spectators. Such a set-up would eliminate the need for shoes, I thought.
I was disappointed in myself for having been so easily fooled—by a person in the business of doing so.
In time, the ceremony got underway. The wedding party of legions led the parade, followed by the stars of the show. Waiting for the couple, of course, was the officiant, a slight man with long hair the color of the clouds. The man’s greeting triggered an untoward change in the already unpleasant weather. The cold gray mist turned to wet spit bordering on drizzle.
The guy’s voice, however, distracted me from the shivers. I closed my eyes and as his words accelerated, trying desperately to stay ahead of the rain, I nearly burst out laughing. Here our clan sat, surrounded by New Jersey black, and what should we hear but the exact voice of actor Joe Pesci. No, the man wasn’t Joe Pesci, but the timbre, cadence, inflection, and above all, the accent of the voice was straight out of the leading scenes of My Cousin Vinny.
Because of the uncooperative elements, “Joe Pesci” wisely concluded the ceremony in about five minutes flat, whereupon shoes, heels, and . . . slippers . . . double-timed their way along a gravel walkway to the cavernous reception center a couple hundred yards away.
After an hour of schmoozing, we took our appointed places at a table shared with acquaintances from Rutherford. In the great American tradition, however, the band cranked the decibels up to the “Danger – Deaf Zone,” thus precluding any conversation beyond “What?! Oh, hi!” During a break, I did have a chance to amuse (I thought) our clan by telling about my mistaken impression of the man in slippers with no socks.
I was not prepared, however, for our son to laugh at me, not my description. “Dad, that’s the style now. Those were probably Wolf & Shepherds or some other high-end Italian shoes, you know easily costing a thousand bucks.”
I was flabbergasted. “Really? A thousand bucks? To me they looked like low-end slippers.”
“No, Dad,” said Byron. “You just need to get out more.”
“I guess . . . But wait a sec.” I wasn’t yet willing to be wholly humbled. “Maybe the shoes that sure looked like slippers were actually shoes, but the guy wasn’t wearing any socks, and that’s unacceptable.”
“That’s how those shoes are worn—without socks.”
“Huh,” I grunted, dumbfounded.
“Or . . . or,” Byron added, “they’re those really fine socks that are so fine they’re almost invisible.”
By this juncture in the exchange I realized just how isolated I’ve been since the advent of the Covid lockdown over four years ago—continuing through the period of my avoidance of public appearances because of my compromised immunity. My thoughts were soon obliterated by the band, back in stride to blow out eardrums and anything remotely meaningful in the way of conversation.
My self-assessment regarding my cave dweller status was affirmed three days later as I buckled myself into an aisle seat aboard Delta Flight 1726 from Hartford-Springfield to MSP. In the aisle seat across from me, one row ahead, I saw a guy about 50, wearing a business suit and paging through a paper version of The Wall Street Journal. At first I tried to catch a headline or two, but his perusal went too fast. I then happened to lower my sight to the aisle floor, and what should I notice? Exactly! With that fine gray suit of his the man was wearing black . . . slippers . . . and no socks!
Amused, I furtively snapped a picture and texted it to Byron. “Check out the . . . shoes and invisible socks,” I wrote.
“LOL,” he texted back a few moments later. “Hahaha. You’re gonna show up in June with that style, huh Dad.”
I smiled as the directive came over the intercom to put away our electronic devices. Byron was now laughing with me, no longer at me. Come June, however, or any other month of the year—any year—I know I’ll be perfectly comfortable wearing shoes in public.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
