by Jordy Greenblatt
Alright, I get it. Everyone’s mad at me. I’m not oblivious. To be honest, I can completely understand why. Even though the whole thing was an accident—AND IT WAS—it may have been avoidable.
I should probably start by saying that I get invited to very few open bar events (maybe this whole incident explains that fact) so, needless to say, I jumped on the opportunity. Hell, I’ll just come out and say it; I slightly overindulged. Nick, I sincerely apologize for spoiling your special day. And Beth, I am truly sorry for vomiting on your wedding dress, which by the way is gorgeous. Maybe this isn’t the right time to say it, but you guys were made for each other. I bet some day this whole thing will just be a funny story for you to tell your kids. That said, I am fully aware that we are not laughing about it yet.
Before I go on, I have to ask: why didn’t anyone tell me that knife was a priceless heirloom from Nick’s dad? I’m not fucking psychic! When I look at an old rusty knife, my first thought isn’t going to be, “hey, this looks like something that would have been handed down from father to son on the son’s wedding day for seven generations.” Admittedly, I still shouldn’t have grabbed it without asking but, like I said, my judgment was a little impaired.
It will be difficult to explain what happened next without you all seeing it from my inebriated perspective. Nick approached me, very distraught, and asked if I’d seen the knife. Normally I would have just handed it over, but clearly I wasn’t in my right mind. Maybe I was worried that you’d be mad, Nick. Maybe I liked the knife and wanted to keep it. Or maybe I just flat out forgot I had it. Obviously, whatever the reason, I fucked that part up.
Now as for the fireworks, they were meant to be a fun surprise for after the reception. They were meant to be a magical ending to your wedding day and probably would have if I hadn’t left them next to the open flame at the omelet bar concealed in what turned out to be a flammable box. It might also have been a good idea to leave Max at home but I couldn’t find a last minute dog sitter and he has a habit of peeing on my favorite rug.
Finally, I was on the fence about whether or not to show off my new magic act but, get a couple of drinks in me and clearly my discretion takes a nosedive. You guys probably remember what happened next better than I do. Between the shock of the moment and the lingering effects of five Jager-bombs, a double martini that ended up being more like a triple, a surprisingly potent pitcher of margaritas, and some brownish mystery cocktail, my recollection is a little blurry. It seems that the moment Beth volunteered to be in my act (just to reiterate, she volunteered… not that I’m blaming you, Beth), the fireworks box caught fire. It probably would have gone out on its own except that when Beth stood up (again, not your fault, Beth), Max was a little startled by the squeaking of the chair and must have bumped into the omelet bar table.
Since everyone else was watching me, it was probably incumbent on me to notice the flaming box and anticipate the impending disaster, but I was very focused on setting up my big knife trick (which is actually a great trick, by the way) and of course my head was still swimming. The last thing I remember was the knife flying out of my hand when I heard the fireworks go off in back and then some screaming.
Basically, what I’m trying to say is this: First, I’m REALLY sorry. Second, I promise I’ll pay for the fire damage. Third, I cleaned off the knife as best I could, Nick, but there’s still some blood caked on the blade. Fourth, Beth, your finger is in the ice bucket over there and, I’m no doctor, but it doesn’t look like tetanus to me. And finally, since I didn’t get a chance to finish, does anybody still want to see the trick?