“How nice, and hello!” says Robert. He emerges from the water, all eight to nine feet of him, and in a very experienced way, shucks off his head lantern and shakes away pond water like a gleeful golden retriever. Grainy footage always depicts the Sasquatch as being lopey and dopey, but Robert is impressively slick, with a great sense of balance.
“We need to get across the pond,” I say. “Can you push these canoes for us?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “Not.”
Pained, I ask, “Which one is it: yes or no?”
“That was a joke!”
“Sorry?”
“I’m a stand-up Sasquatch,” Robert says. “The joke was when I said ‘not.’?”
Unfortunately for Robert, comedic timing matters. I stare at hisoverwrought, fuzzy forehead until I get the feeling he might run off awkwardly in shame. Sasquatches are notorious for this.
In the end, Mandy’s the one to rescue us from not laughing. Balling her hands into fists, she cries, “I’M SO EXCITED! This is my first wedding! EVER!”
Either appeased by Mandy or enraptured by her, Robert agrees to do his job. And so Mandy, Bulan, and I release the oars and let a man-ape ferry us across the pond to Fi and Asher’s extremely makeshift venue in a worrisomely porous canoe.
In retrospect, maybe Ishouldhave worked through lunch to earn a longer nap. Because looking past the pallets and my companions, at the glowing island ahead, I feel a sense of… I don’t want to say that I’m overwhelmed.
It’s just a lot.
I shut my eyes, imagining I’m far away from this boat of grim passage—specifically, that I’m back in New York with Jane. That I’m well-rested and unruffled, with my taupe, pilled cotton comforter tucked up under my armpits. A blah and characterless apartment wall in front of me, and a dry, drab-covered book about tax history askew in my lap. That would be great. So great that I meditate on this image for the entire crossing until the canoe lands on the island’s shores with a sloshy, wet bump.
The island, it turns out, is also a bit leaky.
When I clamber off the now-dampened pallets and jump onshore, mud floods the toe box of my Crocs. This is a just punishment for wearing them to a wedding again. One must reap what they sow and all that. But does it have to be this… mushy?
Mandy hops into the slop beside me, apparently unworried about her rainbow-striped tights being swallowed to the ankles. Then she shrieks.
“Chihuahua tongues!” Her shriek becomes a laugh. “It feels like tiny dogs licking me!”
“The island does that,” calls out Robert from the shore. “He’s just saying hello.”
“He?” I demand.
“We call him Dexter.”
“What kind of name for an island is Dexter?”
“Oh, let me guess!” answers Bulan. “He goes by Terry for short!”
Because the world is unfair, Bulan doesn’t sink into Dexter, the overly friendly island that also goes by the nickname “Terry Firma.” Instead, Bulan finds himself bouncier on this surface than usual. He’s practically an astronaut, freshly landed on the moon. He jumps like it’s his job.
Which reminds me. We have ajobto do here. I forcibly wrest my attention from Dexter/Terry and focus on the circle of boulders at the island’s center. It’s lit dramatically by floodlights, which explains the glowing from the shore.
“Robert, is everything ready at fake Stonehenge?” I ask. “Can we set up?”
“It’s a historical replica,” sniffs Robert. “Not ‘fake.’?”
“Sure it is. I’m going to start off with the ceremony area, setting out pillows and pallets. Mandy will go to the reception. If you could point her to where she should store the catered food, then…”
“A head? Right here!” Robert points at Bulan defying gravity and laughs.
“Or righthair,” says Mandy, grabbing onto Robert’s dangly arm hairs.
“Har-har!” Robert is now bent over laughing. “Har-har-har!”
