I mostly know Hugo’s best man, Samir, through stories of their drunken antics from the year that Hugo and Stick were roommates, and I lived in Yantai, China. So I’ve heard secondhand about the time Samir locked himself in the car’s trunk, or turned up at Hugo’s place to grill steaks at 3 AM. I do remember Hugo’s graduation party, when Samir filled his car with alcohol and drove to Michigan, though.
Last night, Samir caught the airport shuttle to a spot near Hugo’s place, and Stick went to pick him up. As he got closer, Stick saw a guy with a couple bags near the appointed spot.
“Hey, ugly!” Stick leaned out the window and shouted at him. “Somebody’s really let himself go!” The figure — I think I’ll give him a name, since he’s so important to this story. I’ll cleverly call him Not-Samir — turned towards Stick. Stick realized then that Not-Samir was, well, not Samir, so he cleverly picked up his phone and pretended to be talking on it. How did we get out of awkward social situations before the mobile phone?
“I flew this tiny Midwestern airline,” Samir said, once Stick brought the correct person back to Hugo’s. “Called Frontier. Have you heard of them?”
Actually, I have heard of Frontier, just a few weeks ago. When Harold and I were coming back from Seattle, and being rerouted through every city in the United States, Harold mentioned that he wished we flying Frontier. Not because he thought they would be less prone to hurricane delays or have more flights or even be cheaper, or because he wanted to show how much more polite Midwesterners are then New Yorkers, but because all passengers on Frontier get a cookie.
Just a hint here: When someone has begged, threatened, and finally promised her kidney to get re-rerouted tickets back to New York, it is really not the optimal time to grumble about not getting a cookie. I’m just saying.
“Oh yeah, I know them. Based in Milwaukee or something, right?”
“Yes! They gave me a cookie! They give all their passengers a cookie! I’m flying Frontier from now on!”
(I texted Harold to apologize.)
Most of the bridal party were flopped on couches at the apartment, with varying degrees of jetlag and altitude sickness, or in my case, the hope that if I don’t move and drink lots of water, the air will stop trying to kill me. Stick showed Samir around Stick, Hugo and Diana’s place.
“Wait, Meg, where do you live?” Samir asked.
“In New York.”
“How’s the long-distance thing working out? You guys must be pretty good at it by now, huh?”
There was a pause, then Stick explained that we live in Denver and New York now because we broke up last year.
“That’s awkward.” Samir paused, but a man like Samir is only at a loss for a moment. “Hey, Meg, how YOU doing?”
It is the night before Hugo’s wedding. We’re sitting in his living room, with almost twenty-four hours before he’s going to be making a lifetime commitment, as he’s starting to write his vows. I have seen Hugo pull off some pretty dramatic deadline-induced successes in college, but part of me wonders if Diana will promise to love, honor and cherish, and Hugo will say “Yup, me too!”
by Stuart Brown with Christopher Vaughan
