Friend of Pam’s

April 25, 2008

As the train was pulling into the station, a guy passed through the turnstile, did a double take, stopped in his tracks and pointed his finger at me. "Are you a friend of Pam's?" he asked, trying to place my familiar face.

"No," I said. But I did recognize him. "You and I went to school together. You were a year behind me. I saw you on this same train a couple of years ago and we figured it all out, remember? We actually ran into each other a couple of times after that."

"No," he said. "I don't remember that at all. I don't remember you."

It wasn't exactly true; there must've been something he recognized, since he was the one who stopped and asked if I was a friend of Pam's, whoever that is. But I suppose there's a difference between recognizing someone and remembering them.

"You modeled for a student fashion show with my friend Brian," I said. "For a girl named Alex."

"Oh my god," he said, and shook his head a few times in an attempt to clear away years of clutter. It was like trying to wipe fog off a mirror in a steamy bathroom, but it keeps fogging up..

"Last time I saw you, we talked about your gallery in Chelsea," I said, "You still have that?"

"Yeah," he said. "It's going really well, actually. They're really supportive, which is great. Are you an artist too?"

"Depends on who you talk to," I said.

He seemed embarrassed that I remembered these things about him while he drew a blank regarding me. I introduced him to Deborah, which seemed to put him at ease — meeting someone he wasn't expected to remember or know anything about.

"What are you guys up to today?" he asked.

"We're on our way to get our marriage license," I said.

"No kidding! Congratulations. Look at this." He pulled a folded-up page of newspaper from his back pocket and showed us a clue in today's crossword puzzle. "Four down: Necessary doc for marriage. Right here, L-I-C. License. That must be some kind of omen."

"Must be," I said, though I really couldn't imagine how or why. It meant nothing to Deborah or me in any case.

"How about you?" I said. "What are you up to?"

"I'm on my way to therapy."

"Congratulations," said Deborah.

"Thanks."

We struggled to keep the conversation going a little longer, but no one had much to say, and anything we brought up seemed forced and awkward. We all finally gave up and rode the rest of the way with nothing more than an occasional nod and a raised eyebrow.

"See you next time."

When Deborah and I first started talking about marriage, we considered getting married in a civil ceremony at City Hall. Why not, we figured, people do it all the time. Raymi and I were witnesses at my friend Denise's wedding when she and her girlfriend got married at City Hall in Toronto, and I remember it being a nice ceremony. There was a carpeted "chapel" set aside for weddings, complete with wooden pews, an altar, and several lush potted plants. New York City must have something similar, don't you think?

Deborah and I ultimately decided against it, mainly because my friend "Brother" Russell, a legally ordained minister with the American Fellowship Church, can perform legal marriages, which gives us a certain freedom to do whatever we want, get married in a tree if we want to. After visiting the Marriage Bureau today, we realize what a close call it was.

Nothing like Toronto, New York's "chapel" is a dingy yellow room with linoleum floors, a linoleum-covered plywood "altar" and plastic chairs. A variety of paper signs, Scotch-taped to the walls, telling people what's allowed and what to do.

"It's like getting married at the DMV," I whispered, as we peered in on the wedding of a couple of kids who looked no older than eighteen.

We got in the queue at the information desk and were immediately approached by a guy who looked like Ned Flanders, in a suit that was two sizes too big and a camera over his shoulder. He asked us if we were getting married or just getting a license.

"Just a license," I said.

He nodded with disappointment and then asked the same thing of the people behind us. "Just the license," they said.

When he approached a woman wearing what looked to be an off-price wedding dress from Conway's, it was hard for her to deny what she was there for.

"My girlfriend and I are getting married today," said Ned Flanders, pointing to his future wife standing nearby in a white business suit, trying to force a smile through the humorless freeze of Botox and an extra coat of makeup. "We need a couple of witnesses. Will you be a witness for us?"

It wasn't clear why he needed a witness who was getting married rather than one who was only there to apply for a license, but either way, the woman in the wedding dress shrugged, Okay, I guess so.

"Thanks. Sorry about this," said Ned Flanders. "The clerk suggested I just ask someone. It won't take long, I promise."

Deborah and I showed our passports and money order to a woman at the information desk, who glanced over everything before giving us an application and telling us to fill it out and then wait in line eleven.

We made up stories about the other couples in line and speculated over how long each marriage would last. Deborah joked that the Queen of King's County, ahead of us, was bummed she had to miss her appointment at the tanning salon today. I studied an Indian threesome and tried to figure out who was getting married to whom, while behind us, a six-foot-tall Polish woman spoke Polish to her five-foot-five future husband.

"What about those two kids we saw getting married on our way in?" I said. "Do you think they're still married?"

Deborah wanted to use the bathroom and wondered if she could go before we got to the head of the line. "Go for it," I said. She came back a moment later.

"I'll wait," she said. "The bathroom is on another floor. Can you fucking believe it? All these people getting married, not to mention all the families, kids, old ladies, and they can't put a fucking bathroom on this floor?"

"Next!" the clerk finally called. We sat down in front of an inch-thick Plexiglas window and struggled to hear his questions through a small round hole. I had to rely on Deborah's better hearing and kept turning to her to ask what he said. He was overweight and breathing heavily, which didn't help. Neither did his mustache. He pulled at his tie like Rodney Dangerfield, while he had us proofread everything he had typed.

"Everything okay?" he said.

"You can change my birth date if you want," said Deborah.

He smiled like someone who had already heard every possible joke, but managed to laugh anyway.

"Looks good," I said.

"Okay then, take this and go to line one, pay the cashier, and you're all set. Good luck."

"Thanks."

We had to take two separate elevators to get outside, the same as we took on our way in. Up the south elevators to the fifth floor, down the hall to the north side of the building, then down another elevator to the first floor, past the security checkpoint X-ray machines at the building's entrance, and into the bright afternoon sun.

"What a dreary place," said Deborah.

"It doesn't really apply, exactly, but I'm reminded of that quote: Laws are like sausages. It's better not to see them being made. "