Page 55 of Fathers of the Bride
“It’snotracist, Andrew. See, the waiters are white.” He leaned in close. “Pudge wanted to hire Black waiters, but I said, ‘absolutely not.’”
“This isn’t any better.”
“Bae! If Kelly and Avery had met in Germany, we would have hired a bunch of blond, Aryan types, dressed them up in Lederhosen, and you wouldn’t say a thing.”
“Um, no… I don’t think that’s much better.”
Honestly, I wasn’t sure if the whole thing was racist or colonialist or some other -ist. It justfeltwrong—something Raj should have known since younger people were supposedly more—
The waiters descended upon us with trays full of food. She took a good look, dropped the half-eaten donut she clutched, muttered “I can’t. I just can’t,” and then ran off into the slowly growing crowd.
One of the cater waiters stood in front of us saying, “Would you like some nthochi?” It sounded like he’d said, I-touchy. I sincerely hoped he hadn’t.
“What is it?” I asked. Raj was already snapping photos of it.
“It’s a Malawian banana bread.”
“Of course, it is,” I said.
19
Miles Kettering-Lane
Felliniesque.That’s the only way I can describe my entrance into the engagement party. And if you don’t know what I mean, think 1960s hallucinatory Italian film. And if that doesn’t make any sense to you, think accidental LSD overdose. And if that—oh for God’s sake, it was cray-cray. Okay?
I was late, naturally. I mean, could someone please put a freeway between Beverly Hills and Santa Monica. Yes, I could have taken Wilshire over to the 405 and cut down to the 10 which would have landed me right in front of the pier, but… those were not the freeways I needed. I need a freeway that floats above Santa Monica Boulevard and has an express lane. And not an express lane for carpoolers, an express lane for Miles Kettering-Lane.
Any-who, when I did finally get there—dressed to the nines by the way in a vintage Versace shirt—I couldn’t find a decent parking place, so I had to park blocks and blocks away. And then, as I was walking up to the pier, I saw a sign that said PARKING for the Lincoln-Collins/Kettering-Lane engagement party.
Duh. I’m an idiot.
Yes, I could have gone back and moved my car. In fact, I should have since I had the distinct feeling the parking spot I’d taken would be illegal before the party was over. Unfortunately, I was in a hurry, so I rushed up to the pier—parking ticket be damned.
Nearby was a small group of what look liked protesters. There were about twenty of them, a disparate group holding signs that said, FREE THE PIER and THE PIER BELONGS TO EVERYONE. And then, rather unfairly I thought, they booed me as I went by. I guessed they weren’t happy the pier was being rented out for parties. And I suppose I could see why. Itwasa Sunday night, the sun had just set, and no one could stand on the pier without being invited. I was tempted to shout out that none of this was my idea.
I reached the entrance, where a security guard stood glowering. She asked for my invitation.
“I don’t have an actual invitation,” I said. “It’s my daughter’s engagement party.”
“You don’t have an invitation to your own daughter’s party?”
“It was a verbal invitation.”
I suppose I should have asked for an actual invitation, but I’ve had other things on my—I took out my wallet and showed my license to her.
“See. Miles Kettering-Lane. My daughter and I have the same last name.”
She studied it for a moment then scanned a clipboard.
“I don’t see your name on my list.”
“Why would they put my name on a list? I’m Kelly’s father. That should be enough to get me in.”
“Um, no. For all I know you’re estranged.”
“No, we were never estranged. Her father and I, that’s a different story. We were—”
“You just saidyouwere her father.”
