A Different Drummer: Two weddings and a funeral, Part 1

Funny coincidences came up in conversation the other day. Four of us were sitting around my awesome new propane-powered fire pit in the backyard staying warm on a windless Benicia evening, sipping toddies. The circle of Adirondack chairs consisted of Susan, Gino, Patricia, his new sweetie – and we’re glad she is – and me. We were reminiscing on how fond we were of Gino’s late cousin, Joe Capone, who passed away too early two years ago.
The three of us had a lot in common. All three of us moved to California and fell in love with women from wealthy families. Joe moved to Sacramento to sell gypsum and fell in love with and married Jan Pugliese of Sacramento whose father was a big-time contractor home builder. Gino moved in with us to remodel homes and fell in love with Deb M— of San Francisco whose family owns hotels, restaurants, and apartment buildings. I started in Modesto straight off the bus ready to work at Taco Bell and ultimately fell in love with and married Susan who didn’t have a dime either but her father had the prestige of twice being mayor of Richmond. Her brothers were wealthy, one from real estate, the other from owning a lobbying firm, and all the family friends were loaded.
Gino, Joe, and I were just three footloose guys of meager origins from Pennsylvania who happened out here on impulse looking for adventure. We all met beautiful women, married up or at least dated up, and all for love. The outcomes of those relationships are radically different. Joe died. Deb and Gino fell apart. Susan and I are still holding hands, refilling each other’s toddies.
“That’s a lot of coincidence,” said Gino after I paraphrased the observation. “You’re the sole survivor,” he said of me.
I looked at Patricia whose ears were perked to hear any background stories on this enigmatic man who had encouraged her to travel clear across the country to hang out with him. “I don’t know, Gino. You may have been recently revived.” I smiled at Patricia. She reached over and rested her hand on his forearm.
“Another coincidence,” said Gino. “None of us have any kids of our own.”
“True,” said I. “And I’m the end of my family name, Gibbs. I’m the only male.”
“And I’m the end of my family name, Giambrone. Neither I or my brother Vincent have kids.”
“Your mother’s maiden name, Capone, lives on.”
“But the Joe strain is gone for good.”
“Here’s another coincidence, Gino, between you and me. All our dogs have died tragically. Neither one of us has ever owned a dog that died of old age.”
“Don’t forget cats. Neither one of us has owned a cat that died of old age either.”
We laughed at that now, but we felt the sorrow deep down. I held up a finger. “I lost nine dogs, 11 cats, and 20 girlfriends.”
“I lost three dogs, two cats, and every girl I ever dated, or married,” said Gino.
That remark brought up the topic of Gino’s wedding. The wild, weird memories of that insane day came flooding in. We both became animated in our chairs recalling stories to tell and who goes first.
“Coincidence ends with our two weddings,” said Gino. “No two could be more different.”
“You’ve got that right,” I agreed. “Yours cost $25,000 and mine was $335.”
“And mine lasted two years. Yours has lasted now what?”
“Thirty-one years,” I said.
“You got your money’s worth.”
Now, all this time the women were sitting silently across the fire from each other so they couldn’t lean in and start a side conversation. We were louder than them and they acquiesced to listen. Patricia was getting an ear full. We had a new audience for our old stories.
“My wife Debbie wanted a big wedding,” said Gino. “And speaking of coincidences, her last name was Pugliese.”
“Susan and I stopped in rural Pennsylvania and got married during an around-the-country road trip with the kids. We were living out of a van, sleeping in a tent in my sister’s yard. A Free Methodist preacher asked $300 for the service and use of the church. We rented the Grange Hall for the reception for $35. Gino drove up from Philadelphia to be my best man.”
“I got married at St. Paul’s Cathedral in downtown Philadelphia, put all my guests up at the Four Seasons Hotel, rented out the Academy of Music for the reception and arrived in a horse-drawn carriage.”
“The Methodist Church was across the street from the fire station. An alarm sounded in the middle of our vows and two fire trucks rolled with much fanfare. We had the doors of the church propped open because the clapboard structure had no ventilation.”
“We asked Father Dinda, a friend of my mother’s, to preside. He’s from a small church in Norristown. St. Paul’s Cathedral was ten times bigger and packed with Italians. He was nervous and kept forgetting what to do next.” Gino held his gut and laughed at the memory. “Father Dinda leaned into me said, ‘Should I read the next passage or move to the vows? I didn’t know.”
“It was so hot in the Methodist church that sweat was dripping off the end of my nose. My preacher leaned into me. With his eyes he pointed out the side window where an old black Buick sat on blocks in the yard, tall grass grown up around it that the mower couldn’t reach. He said, ‘That’s the getaway car.’”
To Be Continued…