Wedding Jitters

A groom-to-be has the worst day ever.

1

The crash of shattering glass jolted Sam out of the first bit of sleep he'd had all night. He sat bolt upright, heart pounding, blood rushing in his ears, and peeled the cat off his chest. Bleary-eyed, he blinked back the early morning light. Burglar. Must be. 

With a sudden panic for the welfare of his laptop and cell phone, Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed. Maybe he could convince the burglar to leave his work-related items and take the cat instead? His feet landed in a puddle of water.

So that's what crashed. The cat had knocked down the glass of water from his bedside table. The water went everywhere, though happily his feet had narrowly missed the glass shards.

Sam cried out in horror. Under the broken glass was the pocket watch and wedding rings he needed today. He jumped out of bed, snatched up the watch, and ran to the bathroom to dry it on a towel. Please don't be broken, please don't be broken. 

The face was shattered, dented as if crushed under a boot heel. The entire timepiece was soaking wet inside and out. He may as well have dropped it into a tub and stomped on it. The tic-tic that had kept him up all night was no more. 

"No, no, no, no, no," Sam said, cradling the watch in his hands as though it was a broken baby bird. 

By his estimate, he had a few hours before the wedding; he could pop by the jeweller's and get the watch fixed up, dried out. If the jeweller got to it quickly enough, he could eliminate any chance of rusting. Sam gulped. 

He raced to his laptop and started punching at the keyboard, but his trembling fingers kept hitting the wrong keys. Sam went to the kitchen, pulled out the bottom drawer and dumped the contents on the floor. Tea towels and plastic bags scattered across the floor. The phone book tumbled out. Sam snatched up the book and flipped through the yellow pages to listings for watch makers, but found none. He went to the jewellers section of the book and called every single one of them. Six jewellers in the whole town and five were closed on a Saturday. He punched the number of the last one into his cell phone. It rang through. 

"Gems and Jewellery By Design," a woman said cheerfully. 

"Do you repair pocket watches?" Sam's voice came out in a breathy rush, pushed by panic. 

"Of course."

"And you're open today?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll be right there."

Sam looked at the address. The shop was only a short walking distance away. He was in luck. 

2

The jeweller took one look at the watch and handed it back to Sam. 

"Can't help you," she said. 

"What? Of course you can." Water leaked out, dribbling onto the display case as Sam pushed it back. 

"Can't." She gripped a phone in her other hand, knuckles white and shiny. 

"But you must! I need it."

"Sorry." But she didn't sound sorry. She sounded sad, like she'd been crying. He supposed that explained the red rims around her swollen eyes.

"But—But you have to. I'm getting married this afternoon. I need it." 

"Look, I've just received bad news. Now if you don't mind, I have to close up the shop." Now the jeweller seemed angry, but Sam couldn't understand why. He was a customer, she provided a service. 

"Actually, I do mind! You don't understand! My future father-in-law gave me this pocket watch!" Sam gasped. "My bride—" He grabbed fistfuls of his short hair, as though the action could make his brain work. His mind seemed to have gone completely numb this morning.

"Sir—" The jeweller burst into tears. Shaking her head, she covered her mouth with her hand, choking on a sob. She stalked to the window and flipped the sign to "closed."

"Just let yourself out," she whispered, as though speaking might set forth a wave of the emotion she was fighting to keep inside. She disappeared into the back room. 

Sam froze. Stunned. 

In the back room, keys rattled. Footsteps clicked across the floor. The back door opened, then shut with a bang. Outside a car engine roared to life. 

Sam's mouth fell open. The woman had left him alone in the jewellery store. Alone. In the store. With jewels.

What was he supposed to do now?

Time was running out. He supposed if he had any knowledge of how to fix a watch, he could help himself to the tools behind the counter. But he knew nothing about fixing anything. He wrote blog posts for a living. And using the tools without the shop girl present seemed like it would only get him in trouble. 

He snatched up the watch and left the jewellers, fighting back a full scale panic. There had to be somewhere that could repair the watch. If his future father-in-law learned the watch was broken…  Sam shuddered. 

He started for his apartment, moving through the city as if in a cloud, slowly becoming aware that as he moved closer to his building, there were all kinds of police cars in the street. When he reached the walkway, he found police officers milling about everywhere from the sidewalk to the front door. Yellow plastic tape had been strung across the fence, where the gate should have been. It snapped as it fluttered in the breeze. 

"What--" Sam's jaw went slack as he took in the scene. 

Everything had been quiet when he left. Other than the man he'd bumped into on his way out, not a soul in sight. Now the place was brimming with police officers and on-lookers crowding the sidewalk.

He took a deep breath, deciding that the extra people didn't matter. He was getting married today-- assuming he could get the pocket watch fixed. That was all that mattered. He had a friend who fixed toasters. Maybe he could fix the watch.

"Excuse me," Sam said to the nearest uniformed officer. "Do you have the time?"

The officer turned his head and squinted his eyes as if Sam had asked him to give up his religion in favour of worshipping bananas. His eyes swept over Sam's unkempt hair, the broken zipper track on Sam's hoodie, and the worn knees of his saggy jeans. 

"Got somewhere you need to be?" the officer asked. 

Sam's shoulder's sagged, relieved to find the officer understood his situation. 

"Actually, yes," Sam said. "I'm getting married today."

"Is that right?" The officer gave him the time. Sam had barely three hours until he had to arrive at the church. Panic gripped him and gave him a hard shake. Sam lifted the yellow tape, ducked under it and headed for his apartment. 

A strong hand snagged Sam's arm, stopping him in his tracks. 

"Hold on," the officer said. "Where do you think you're going?"

"The rings-- my tuxedo--" Sam stammered. He gestured with his arms in the direction of his apartment on the third floor. 

"No one goes in or out of the building," the officer said. "There's an investigation underway."

"As in m--murder?" Sam frowned. Murder. That wasn't good. Not good at all. No, this was terribly inconvenient. Murder meant these officers would be here for a while, which meant their cars would be plugging up the road for hours.

The officer stared at him with hardened eyes. 

"But-- the limo…?" he said. "Where's it supposed to pick me up?"

"Somewhere else." The officer started asking him questions-- name, address, phone number, where'd he'd been this morning, what he saw this morning, what time the wedding was, where it was being held and when, who he was marrying-- and Sam answered them all, but it was just words tumbling out of his mouth. His mind was on getting to the wedding. 

The officer seemed to have reached the end of his list of questions, though he continued to scribble in his notebook. 

"Right," Sam said. "If that will be all--" 

He headed for the front doors again, but once again, the officer snagged him. 

"The rings-- my tuxedo--" Sam protested. Didn't he make the matter clear to the officer?

A bright orange ball of fluff dashed across the apartment's lawn. "My cat--" Sam said. But it was too late. The cat had already disappeared down the alley. 

"Do you have a cell phone on you?" the officer asked. 

Sam patted his pockets. He had the watch, his keys, his wallet, and yes, his cell phone. He nodded. 

"Go have a cup of coffee. I'll talk to the supervisor and see if we can get you an escort to your apartment," the officer said. 

Sam nodded again, blinking his eyes. An escort. Yes. Okay. 

"I'll warn you now," the officer continued. "It's going to be a while."

Sam continued to nod as he shuffled away. 

"You might want to make alternate arrangements," the officer added. 

Sam made his way through the crowd, his mind in a daze. How was he going to explain this to his beloved? He couldn't. There was no way to explain this. Perhaps it was best she never find out. Perhaps he should make alternate arrangements as the officer suggested. 

The crowd was thick, most murmuring about the murder and the kinds of people that lived in the building. 

"I heard it was a hitman," one woman said to the person standing next to her.

Someone in the crowd cried out in soul-crushing despair. Loud sobs travelled across the damp, morning air. Sam scanned the area. He saw the woman. The shopkeeper. The jeweller. She was comforting the screaming woman with a group of people inside the fence. He assumed they must know each other. But for heaven's sake-- what was the matter? 

Shot. Hitman. Investigation. A sinking feeling pulled Sam back down to the reality surrounding him. Here he was all worried about getting married, when other people now had problems much worse than his. What must the officer think of him? Cold and callous, that's what. Well, he didn't suppose that made him a murderer, did he? Sam's body flushed red hot. He recalled those police dramas on television. He'd been acting in exactly the cold and callous sort of way all those TV murderers had behaved-- suspicious, nervous… Sam gulped. 

He'd been given permission to go get a cup of coffee, but wasn't that exactly what a murderer would do? Leave? Didn't leaving make him look guilty? 

Sam hurried back to the police officer. 

"I didn't do it," he blurted. '"I didn't murder anyone. I swear." The officer blinked at him. Oh no. Wasn't that exactly what a murderer would say? Sam clapped a hand over his mouth.

"First time getting married?" the officer said. 

Sam nodded, his head wobbling on his neck. 

"Do you love her?" he asked. 

Sam blinked. What did that have to do with anything? Was love enough to absolve one of murder?

"Look, buddy," the officer said. "I've been married four times. I'm at the point where I just show up and say 'I do' but I remember my first time, and you know what?"

Sam didn't know what. He didn't know much of anything at that moment. He was wishing it was all just a horrible, awful, bad dream. 

"All that stuff-- the tuxedo, the rings, the fancy dress, the big meal-- none of that matters," the officer said. "It's just stuff. All that matters is the love."

"Love," Sam repeated. He was pretty sure he had to show up with more than just love or he'd find himself kicked to the streets by a woman in a big, white puffy dress. 

He threw a last forlorn look in the direction of his apartment. Boom. Glass shattered. Great orange and yellow flames licked the outside of the building from the window above Sam's apartment. The crowd gasped. Police officers sprang into action.

Sam's mouth fell open. 

He stared as more windows blew out and flames took over the building. People ran for cover. Ashes and debris rained down. 

"My-- my tuxedo. The rings," he said in disbelief. This had to be a nightmare. A cruel practical joke. 

"Go get that cup of coffee. We'll call you." The officer clapped Sam on the back, a gesture that was meant to be supportive but also forced Sam to take a step to keep his balance. That step produced enough momentum to keep his feet moving. He travelled the side road out to the main street where he flagged down a taxi. He climbed inside and gave the driver directions. He had a watch to get fixed and time was running out. 

3

"What do you mean you can't fix it?" Sam cried. "You fix toasters!"

Hands on a dial spinning around endlessly seemed such a simple thing compared to things with heating elements, electrical cords and popping mechanisms. He blinked at his friend, waiting for a proper answer. 

But Wagnell Crossport was well used to Sam's nervous states. 

"I have a whole cabinet of pocket watches. Pick out another," he said, waving his hand at the glass case near the back of the consignment shop. Wag went back to sorting comic books. 

"No, no. You don't understand. My future father-in-law gave it to me. I have to have it for the wedding. He-- he said it was more important than the rings." Sam hesitated to mention that last part, it had sounded crazy to his ears then as it did now. 

Wag put down the Spiderman comic he'd been flipping through and raised an eyebrow. "You're still going through with it?"

"Pretty much have to, don't I?" The scent of dust and mothballs made Sam's nose itch. He sneezed. 

"Even though you were never really engaged?"

"Of course, we're engaged!" Sam frowned, remembering that night they were cuddled on the couch watching a movie with a wedding in it, when his beloved had said she loved weddings, had dreamed of a big, lovely wedding ever since she was a small girl, and did Sam love weddings too? And Sam had said yes, because who didn't love weddings? On their next date she showed him the diamond ring she bought. And Sam had said yes, it was very nice, but he gulped at the price. She'd said not to worry about it; her daddy was paying for everything. Then every time they met, she was showing him flowers and fabric swatches, and it all seemed a nice hobby she had… Then came the appointments Sam had to attend for his suit, and then the dinners, and meeting her parents, and by then Sam realized he was getting married. He had a responsibility now to show up. 

"It has to be this watch," Sam said. "This is the watch he gave me."

"When did that development happen?" Wag wrinkled his nose as if he expected to hear Sam had made whole thing up in a bad dream. 

"Last night." Sam gulped. Only last night. "At the rehearsal dinner."

Wag frowned. "If it was that important why did he entrust it to you? Why not just hold onto it himself?"

If Sam had been anywhere near his normal self, he would have taken offence at that. "He said it was a long standing tradition of passing the pocket watch down to the son-in-law the night before the wedding." He'd also said something about looking after the watch being a test the son-in-law must perform before the father would hand over his daughter. But that kind of thing wasn't really an issue anymore, right? Women weren't the property of men. The whole 'giving away' thing was just ceremony.  

As for the test, well, that was just ceremonial, too. Right? There wouldn't actually be consequences for the broken, wet watch, would there? Sam remembered the time he arrived for dinner at his future-in-law's house. The place was one of the biggest houses Sam had ever seen. Everything was immaculate. He'd been nervous and needed to use the washroom as soon as he arrived. He'd found the end of the toilet roll folded over just like in a hotel. The garbage can was empty, not even a hair or fingernail clipping remained inside the ceramic can. And before Sam could fully exit the washroom, having completed his business, his future father-in-law pulled him inside and showed him how to wipe down the sink and counter, put down the lid on the toilet, empty the garbage, hang the towel folded lengthwise in thirds, and fold over the end of the toilet paper when he'd finished. Thus was Sam's initiation to the family. Sam had been a right nervous wreck during the dinner. He'd tried to wash down his nerves with wine, only to end up sloshing red wine all over the white table cloth. When he helped clear dishes at the end of the meal, Sam had dropped the entire stack of plates-- though in his defence, they were the heaviest plates Sam had ever encountered. Thus was the family's introduction to Sam. While his beloved giggled nervously and her mother gushed about Sam being adorable as she went to get a broom, her father had stared at him all night with burning disapproval.  

What would his father-in-law do to him for damaging a priceless family heirloom?

A hot flush ran through him and then drained. A faint and tingly feeling washed over him. 

"Relax. Go home and get ready for the wedding," Wag said. "I'll pick out a similar pocket watch and bring it with me. So long as you keep it tucked in your pocket, your father-in-law will never know."

"He'll want to see it."

"I'll run interference, keep him busy and keep him away from you."

Yeah, that sounded like a plan that might work. Except for one thing. Sam explained to Wag that he couldn't go home at the moment.

Wag's eyebrows went up. "So, no rings?"

Sam started pulling at his hair again. They were supposed to go to the hotel last night and stay there, the two of them, but Wag's employee called during the rehearsal dinner and quit. Wag left immediately, so he could try to find someone to fill in, but when that didn't work, they'd settled on meeting up at the church. Sam hadn't had a chance to pass on the rings.

"You-- you're the best man! The rings should be your responsibility!"

"I told you I had to work this morning, but I'll be there for the big moment."

This reiteration did not make Sam feel better. 

"Listen, I know a guy. Cheapest dinner jackets in the city. Sometimes I supply him with vintage cuff links," Wag continued. "Go to him and tell him you need a tux. Tell him I sent you."

Wag went to the desk behind the counter and pulled open a drawer. He leafed through the papers and came up with a business card. He brought it over and gave it to Sam. 

The card was for a men's clothing shop a few blocks over, a place he'd never heard of, but that was hardly surprising. Sam hated shopping, clothing shopping most especially. Wag shook his hand, clapped him on the back, and Sam went outside and climbed into a taxi. Perhaps the day was salvageable.

4

"I need a suit," Sam said. 

He stood in the middle of a shop crowded with racks of suit jackets, dress pants and shirts, and rows of highly polished shoes, breathing in air redolent of wool, leather, old wood and beeswax. Although he knew a man could get a suit in any colour of the rainbow, this shop seemed to specialize in black, and colours that were nearly black. A man-- Sam presumed he was the shop keeper-- of about his sixth decade stood facing him. He wore a light grey suit with a pink shirt that at once complimented his older, pale skin and white hair while also making him stand out like a sore thumb against the sea of dark fabrics. 

The man looked Sam over from his scuffed shoes and tattered hems of his jeans to the threadbare unzipped hoodie over his favourite Boba Fett t-shirt. 

"You don't say," the man said dryly. His moustache twitched, void of enthusiasm.

Honestly, the man looked like muscle for the mob. Or, maybe Sam had seen too many movies lately. 

Sam held out the business card. "Wag sent me."

There was a shift in the man's expression, only for a moment, and exactly what changed, Sam could hardly say. An imperceptible movement of eyebrow, perhaps. A tightening of the jawline, maybe. Whatever it was, it was there and then it was gone. 

"Well now," the man said. "That changes things."

The man went behind an ornately carved checkout desk that stood sentry to the change-rooms and a door to the back. The man shuffled papers around. An audible click came from the door to the back and it opened an inch. The man went to the door. He looked over his shoulder at Sam, and then went inside. 

The minutes ticked by as Sam stood alone in the shop. Had the man intended for Sam to follow? Or wait? Why did Wag's card change things? How did it change things? All he wanted was a tuxedo, so why did this suddenly feel like he was trapped in a secret MI-6 mission? 

He took a deep breath and decided he needed to cancel his Netflix subscription. 

The door opened and the man stuck his head out. He whistled between his teeth. Sam took this for the signal and followed him through the door. He stepped into a large, open warehouse type room with stacks of boxes, racks of suits wrapped in plastic, and a wall of guns. 

The man cleared his throat. "We have a customer."

In the middle of the room, a pair of men paused their game of cards. Judging by the empty bottles of beer and filled ashtrays, they'd been playing for quite a while. A cloud of smoke hung near the ceiling. The men put down their cards, but not their cigars, and swivelled in their seats to face Sam and the man. These men were middle aged, covered in scars and wore leather jackets. One man had shaved off all his hair. The other wore an eye patch. They looked like they belonged to a biker gang. 

Sam gulped down his imagination and tried not to visibly tremble. Guns? Thugs? What the hell was going on?

"What's the situation?" the bald man asked.

They all seemed to be waiting for Sam to say something. Sam drew in a breath of air that was stale with cheap whiskey, cigar smoke and gun oil. 

"Uh--" His voice squeaked and he tried again. "I'm-- uh-- that is-- I'm-- I'm getting married?"

It came out as a question because Sam wasn't sure what they were asking. He wasn't sure what was going on here. He needed a tuxedo for God's sake!

To his surprise, the men nodded. 

"And you want everything to go smoothly," Eye Patch said. 

Sam sagged with relief. "Yes. Yes." He nodded, swallowing against his dry mouth. 

Baldy and Eye Patch stood up and came over as The Man put his arm around Sam's shoulders and guided him over to the wall of weapons. 

"Sure, sure," The Man said. "We understand, don't we, boys? Everyone wants things to go smoothly on their big day, right?"

The boys nodded and grunted in agreement. 

The Man clapped Sam on the back. "Happy wife, happy life." He leaned his head back and guffawed. 

Sam let out trails of nervous laughter, frightened by their boisterous enthusiasm for his wedding while in such close proximity to assault rifles. 

"So how many men are we talking?" The Man said. 

Sam blinked at him, baffled by the question. He did not know how many men it took to get him a tuxedo. "Er--"

"Not to worry," The Man said. "How many guests?"

"Uh-- two hundred?" Sam guessed. His beloved handled the guest list. 

The Man nodded. "Wedding party?"

It took a moment for Sam to realize he was waiting for the number of people in his wedding party. "Oh. Uh-- six bridesmaids, one maid of honour, one best man," he tallied softly, counting on his fingers. "Eight," he said.

The Man nodded again. "Plus you and your bride."

Sam blushed, embarrassed for having forgotten. "Yes, of course." 

"And various staff-- caterers, wedding planner--"

"Right, right."

"So we're talking approximately two hundred and fifty people need protection--"

"Protection?" Sam blurted. "From what?"

He stared at the men. The men stared back. Sam pulled at the collar of his t-shirt, suddenly too tight around his neck. A great and terrible misunderstanding had taken place. Only he wasn't quite sure what the misunderstanding was exactly, but he had a feeling, right down to his Where's Waldo socks that things had suddenly become rather deadly. Like he'd just woken up surrounded by sharks. Hungry sharks. Scarface sharks that had clearly survived situations worse than this. Sharks that knew exactly how to use every single weapon hanging on that wall, but they probably didn't need any of them because Sam was a broken and bleeding lamb that didn't know how to swim. Telling them now that he didn't need their "protection" was a bad idea. He'd seen too much. He could identify them and this bizarre, terrifying room. So he had no choice. 

"Oh. Protection," Sam said hurriedly. He laughed. "Ha ha. Little joke there. Wedding jitters, am I right?"

Fortunately, the men laughed along with Sam. It was as though the entire room exhaled.

"So-- so-- If you don't mind . . ."

"We'll put a man on each door," The Man said with a nod. 

"Er-- Perhaps just blending in?"

"Covert. Keep an eye things. We specialize in that." He clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "We've got your back, eh boys?"

Sam swallowed. "Oh, good."

He had no idea how he was going to explain extra guests to his beloved, but he was positively going to kill Wag for this. Cuff links, he said. Exactly what kind of business was his friend involved in? Scratch that. Sam didn't want to know. 

"Now about a tuxedo…" Sam said. 

5

Sam tried on a tuxedo and let The Man take a few measurements, adjust the jacket and pants hem and whatnot. Sam stood on a stool, surrounded by mirrors. Crimeny. He needed a shave and a comb. He'd skipped right over showering this morning in his haste to fix the watch. A nervous lump sank in his stomach. He wasn't sure he could ever get the timepiece repaired, but perhaps the police officer was right. Perhaps it didn't matter. Only love mattered, right?

The Man stopped his motions mid-air. Sam panicked. Did The Man think Sam found something wrong with the suit? 

Sam gestured at his messy hair sticking out all over the place with one side still mashed to his head from sleeping on it despite all his hair pulling. He explained to The Man the events of the morning. 

The Man nodded and went back to stitching around Sam's ankles. "I know a guy," he said around the pins clamped between his lips. 

Finally The Man finished, Sam charged the services to his credit card, and the tuxedo was packed into a bag with all the accessories. Sam loaded up with the bag folded over one arm and a bag of socks and shoes and underwear and other things in this other hand.

The Man handed Sam a business card for a barber shop. 

"Go here. Best barber in the city. We go way back," The Man said. "He'll take care of you."

Sam nodded and tried to express his gratitude. The Man went silent for a moment and seemed to be studying Sam's hair.

"You shouldn't worry so much," The Man said. "Everything has a way of working itself out without the assistance of your worry."

Sam had always found that worrying came as naturally to him as breathing. Worrying showed concern for something, defined how important it was to him. Worrying showed he cared, that he was responsible and took that responsibility seriously. Not worrying showed just the opposite. And in this case, he had a very good reason to worry-- his soon-to-be father-in-law. He couldn't even imagine what it was like to not worry about something. 

He thanked The Man for his advice and went to the barber shop. 

* * *

The barber looked to be about a hundred years old. He was a hunched over, crooked twig of a man who could barely lift his head to look Sam in the eye. Sam could not fathom how the man would reach his arms up high enough to cut Sam's hair even with Sam seated in a chair. Perhaps there was another barber? Sam looked around the tiny, one-roomed shop and found no sign of any recent customers let alone the possibility of another barber. Sam had never been to a real, old-fashioned barber shop. He usually got his hair cut at the mall. The scent of talc and shaving cream tickled his nose. 

"You want cut?" the barber asked. His voice was heavily accented. Something European. And a half a pack a day for at least sixty years. 

"Oh. Yes, yes. And a shave." Sam ran a hand along his stubbled jaw. After his blunder at the clothing shop, perhaps it was best not to mention who sent him. Especially since the barber had such sharp razor blades within easy reach. For all he knew, the barber could be a retired mob hit man. 

The barber motioned for Sam to sit in the chair. Sam hung the tuxedo and bag on the coat tree. As soon as he was seated, the barber wrapped a cloth cape around him and began spraying his hair with scented water. Somehow the three-part mirror managed to emphasize the bags and dark circles under Sam's eyes and the width of his nose. He was actually impressed by the gravity-defying clumps of hair around his head. 

"You have special day?" the barber asked. 

Sam snorted. It had been real special, all right. 

The barber motioned at the suit bag. 

"Ah. Yes," Sam said. "I'm getting married today."

Emotion swelled in his chest. It had been a long day all ready, and he was really looking forward to it being over. 

The barber offered congratulations. "It is a day to be remembered."

Sam tried to smile. So far the day mostly consisted of moments he wanted to forget. 

"Why so sad?" The barber noticed Sam's wistful expression, so Sam launched into a recounting of most of the events of the day. He filled out his story with details about the forthcoming event, but left out the misunderstanding at the suit shop. It just seemed wise to omit that part since the barber and The Man clearly knew each other. 

"So still don't have the rings, the pocket watch is still broken, but I have a tuxedo," he summarized. 

"And haircut," the barber said. It was true. While Sam had been reliving the day, the barber had trimmed Sam's hair and made order out of the pockets of wild curls. 

Sam grinned, pleased with the result. 

"Thank you," he said. 

"Now we shave." The barber tipped Sam's chair back and brushed cold wet foam onto Sam's face. It smelled of cream and sandalwood. The barber held up a straight razor, not the kind with a plastic handle, but the old-fashioned kind that could slice his head off. 

Sam blinked. Those menacing instruments of death still existed? He gulped, his eyes catching on the barber's spindly arms and hunched posture. His own arms twitched, longing to reach up and tug his hair. Not that he could, even if his arms weren't trapped under the cape; there simply wasn't enough hair left to grab. 

The barber nodded encouragingly. Sam couldn't show up for the wedding without a shave. It wasn't as though he would be mistaken for a vacationing Hollywood celebrity with his facial hair. No, Sam's stubble was as patchy and threadbare as a quilt in the back of a station wagon. He closed his eyes and let the barber work, while a knot of worry sank deeper into his stomach. If he died now, at least he died trying to prepare for his wedding. 

The barber hummed while he dragged the blade across Sam's skin. It was not a tune Sam recognized. It did nothing to placate his nerves, but at least it wasn't a long tune. It lasted for the length of the shave, which was over in a few strokes. The barber returned Sam's chair to an upright position. Sam was pleased to discover he was still alive, and even more pleased to see the blade immersed in a jar of blue liquid. 

"Very good, yes?" the barber asked expectantly. 

Sam concurred. "Yes."

The barber removed the cape that had somehow managed to trap all stray hairs, for there wasn't a single one to be found on Sam. 

Sam paid the man and loaded up with his packages. 

"You have someone to fix watch?" the barber asked. 

Sam shook his head. "I haven't been able to get someone on such short notice."

The man nodded reached into the pocket of his black dress pants and pulled out a pocket watch. It was very different from Sam's, but it was ticking and Sam's was not. Sam tried to explain the watch was a gift from his beloved's father and a test of sorts, but he wasn't sure the man understood enough English to comprehend. The barber nodded and smiled. 

The barber nodded. "Don't worry. You look good now." He clapped a hand on Sam's arm. 

The man was right. A bubble of gratitude burst inside Sam. He shuffled his packages to his left arm and stuck out his right hand. The men shook hands as Sam tried to express his thanks. 

Sam went outside to flag down a taxi. He gave the driver the address to the church. He was out of time. 

6

Sam's change room was in the basement of the church. The room, with its tiny tables and chairs and boxes of crayons, was clearly used for Sunday school and not solely as a change room for grooms-to-be. It smelled of wax and school glue and old carpeting. On arrival, Sam caught sight of his future father-in-law amongst the crowd gathered in the parking lot. Sam ducked into the church, ran down the stairs and locked the door behind him. 

Sam paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath.

There was a knock at the door. Adrenaline spiked through his body. Oh no. Had his beloved's father caught sight of him? 

They knocked again.

"Er--" Sam looked around the room for another exit, but found only bookshelves and chalkboards. 

"Open up, Sam. It's me." It was Wagnell. Sam sagged with relief. He put the suit and the bags on a tiny table and opened the door. 

Wag, dressed in his tuxedo, came into the room, wearing a big smile. Sam quickly closed and locked the door behind his friend. 

"Who's the best man?" Wagnell asked. He stood with his arms wide and his cheeks glowing. 

"Have you been drinking?" Sam didn't care one way or the other, only that he wanted some for himself and his jumpy nerves. 

"Of course," Wag said. "That's my secondary duty." Wag reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask. Sam accepted it gratefully.

The alcohol burned down Sam's throat. He gasped for air. "What is this?"

"Not bad for homemade, eh?" Wag said with a grin. "Now what's my primary duty?"

"Getting me to the church on time?" Sam guessed. 

Wag considered Sam's answer with a nod of his head. "More important than that."

"The rings?" Sam said. He tried for forgiveness but only came out with gloom and doom. 

"The rings!" Wag threw his hands up in triumph. He reached into his jacket again, and this time came up with a small velvet box. "After you left, I went rummaging through all the display cases with jewelry and found one with a set of wedding bands. I called the seller and got them for a steal."

He opened the box. Inside, nestled together on the satin lining, were a pair of diamond-studded circles of gold.

Sam gasped. "I can't afford these." Though they were perfectly lovely, and Sam was certain his beloved would not approve. They weren't the rings she'd picked out.  

"Relax," Wag said. "They're on me. This is my wedding gift."

"Wag…" It was such an expensive gift. Sam wasn't sure his friend could afford such luxurious rings, even with a deal from the seller. He was equally sure his beloved wouldn't approve. She'd picked out the rings. 

"I insist." Wag shoved the rings at Sam, forcing Sam to accept the small box. 

"There's no way my bride won't notice these are not her rings."

"Then just use them for today or however long it will be until you can get the rings back."

"I can't."

"I insist."

Sam eyed his friend. "You forgot to get a gift, didn't you?" he asked good-naturedly.

Wag snorted. "I would never--"

"You did. Admit it, Wag. You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached." They shared a laugh.

Sam started putting on all the pieces of his tuxedo. Wag helped with the bow tie and when they got to the cuff links, Sam remembered. 

"Listen, a funny thing happened when I went to get my tux--"

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. A man cleared his throat. Sam knew right away it was his beloved's father. His eyes widened.

"He must be here about the watch," Sam whispered. 

"Did you get the other one fixed?"

Sam shook his head. He pulled it from his pocket and opened it up. The glass was still shattered and damp with drops of water. 

"Here," Wag said. He fished in his pocked and came out with a pocket watch. He deposited it in Sam's hand. It was a good match for the broken one. Same size. Same coloured metals. But the face and hands were slightly different. 

"Take it just in case," Wag said. 

Sam shook his head. "He's going to notice."

Wag winked. "Interference, just like I said." 

Before Sam could ask what Wag meant, his friend went to the door and stepped out into the hallway. A loud conversation ensued, in which the older man insisted he needed to see Sam, and Wag convinced him it was bad luck to see the groom when his shoes were off. Wag insisted it was time for a traditional ceremony to occur for the Best Man and Father of the Bride, and the two of them retreated upstairs. 

Sam looked down at the watch. Almost time for him to be at the altar awaiting his bride. Given the level of noise on the main floor the church was filling with guests. Dress shoes clicked on floorboards. The organ began to play. 

Someone knocked at the door. Sam opened it, expecting to be letting Wag back in.  

"You," they both said at once. 

It was the woman from the jewelry shop that morning. The woman who walked out on him and left him in the empty shop. The woman he saw consoling the screaming woman from his building just before the explosion and the fire. It seemed like a lifetime ago. 

"What are you doing here?" he blurted. 

"Harry sent me," she said. She certainly didn't seem happy to be there. 

Sam shook his head. "I don't know anyone named Harry."

She sniffed. "Is that so? Because I can smell his trademark shaving cream. Looks like he did a nice job on your head, too."

"The barber?" The barber's name was Harry?

"Like I said, Harry. When Harry calls, you go. Nobody says no to Harry." 

"Oh."

"Do you want the watch fixed or not?" Her eyes were red-rimmed.

She carried a black leather case like an old-fashioned doctor's bag. She stepped inside and set her bag on a tiny table and began laying out her tools. Sam handed her the watch. She sat in one of the tiny chairs and bent over to examine the damage. 

Without a word, she took out all the broken glass, and used a small hair dryer on the interior. She did a bunch of things to the watch's innards with tweezers and pointy things that resembled dentist tools. She removed a case from her bag, unzipped it and took out a piece of glass that was almost a perfect replacement. She pulled a tool that resembled an electric screwdriver from the bag, and used it with an attachment to grind down the glass circle until it slid perfectly into place. Next, she took out a cloth and a can of fluid and started polishing the metal housing. When she finished, she handed the watch to Sam and put away her tools. 

Sam marvelled at the work she'd done. It was impossible to tell that it had broken the fall of a glass of water that morning. Not a nick or scratch could be found. It was even on the right time and ticking away the seconds. 

"I don't understand," he said, rather dumbfounded. 

"It's a watch," she said. "It tells you the time."

"It's very good work."

"Horology has been my family's business for a long, long time."

Sam glanced at her, expecting to see her smiling at the play on words, but her face showed no sign of humour. 

"My father-in-law-- that is, my soon-to-be father-in-law-- gave this to me. If he ever found out it was broken-- well, I don't know what he'd do exactly--" 

He remembered the broken dishes. He'd offered to pay for them, but his bride's father had said some things were irreplaceable, while his wife had said she wanted to new dishes anyway. Then his bride's father had said some people didn't deserve nice things. Those eyes. That stare. Sam shuddered at the memory.

Sam wanted to thank the jeweller, but he didn't know how. If he hadn't ended up at Wag's shop that morning after the fire, if Wag hadn't sent him to the tailor who sent him to the barber who called her… the watch would still be in pieces. Somehow, despite all the worrying Sam had done, everything had worked itself out. 

"No need to worry about that now," she said. "Besides, I owe you for not robbing my store."

"I'm so sorry for what happened this morning," he said. He didn't know where the words came from, they just fell out of his mouth, but they weren't wrong. He was sorry they couldn't have met under better circumstances for her. 

She nodded. "My cousin was shot. In his own apartment. The shooter got away, but not before he left the gas running from the stove in the apartment next door--"

"The explosion…"

"-- Eliminating all evidence. The police are in a quandary now. They have nothing left."

Sam nodded. "My apartment is one level below." He remembered the flames licking out the windows.

"Oh. You lost everything too."

Her words hit Sam's ears and knew they applied to his situation, but they didn't feel right. If she'd said them to him that morning, he would have agreed with her wholeheartedly, but something in him had changed since then. This day, this very important day, and its chain of disastrous events had taught him that whatever happened, he still had himself-- and his cat. That was all that mattered. He had the repaired watch in his hand, and the bride's father was none the wiser. All his hair pulling had no effect on this moment right now. Perhaps the barber and tailor and the policeman and Wag had all been correct. Yes, of course they were right. They were all older, wiser, more experienced.

A weight lifted from his chest. He was going to be fine. It was all working out.

The watch repairer headed for the door. 

"Wait. I-- " Sam said. "I don't even know your name."

"Johanna."

"Johanna. I don't know how to say this-- When you see Harry, give him this--" Sam swallowed down his ill-fitting words and the overwhelming feelings brought forth by the knowledge that a small miracle had been performed today, and crossed the compact room to pull Johanna into a warm hug. He caught a whiff of sweet coconut from her hair. 

The door opened. Sam's future father-in-law stood in the doorway and eyes on Johanna wrapped up in Sam's arms in the little Sunday school room, his face contorted into the most vile expression. 

He was a dead man. 

7

Blind panic sucked out all of Sam's brain cells. The muscles in his face went slack. His skin flushed hot, then went cold with fear, then broke into a sweat. He knew this looked bad, he knew what his beloved's father must be thinking, and he knew he needed to say something. But his mind was a vast wasteland of emptiness. 

Johanna tore herself from Sam's arms. "There, there," she said. "Everything is all fixed, and the wedding will soon be over. No need for last minute jitters." She patted him on the back.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs and Wag appeared behind Sam's about-to-be father-in-law. Wag seemed frazzled. 

"What is all fixed?" the father of the bride asked. 

Another wave of panic washed over Sam. Again, he had no words-- it was as though they were all trapped below a frozen lake. 

"The pants," Johanna said. "They were too long. Now they are hemmed." She gestured with her case. "I'm leaving now."

With that Johanna pushed her way out of the classroom, her footsteps receding as she went up the stairs. 

Silence fell between the men. Sam knew this was his opportunity to clear the air, but could only blink. His chest was too tight to let him breathe. 

"Sir, your daughter's carriage just pulled up out front. She's waiting for you." Wag turned to Sam. "We need to be at the altar, Sam. Right. Now." 

The organ music had changed to the song that played right before the wedding march. An image of his beloved marching down the aisle to find it empty sent him into another panic. He started toward the door. 

The almost father-in-law cleared his throat. "You have the watch?" 

Sam froze. "Y-y-yes."

The older man grunted. "Let's see it."

Sam fished the watch out of his vest pocket, mostly by pulling on the chain since his fingers were trembling too much to fit them into the tiny slit in the fabric. He held out the metal disc. The older man snatched it up. 

"Do you realize how important this is?" He brought the watch up to his face to examine it, pulling the chain, pulling Sam with it. "It's been in my family for generations."

Sam knew if he'd been asked this question this morning he would have cowered with shame, but again, something had changed. 

"If it's so important, why didn't you keep it?" Sam asked. 

Sam felt more than saw Wag turn and gape at his friend. Neither of them had known Sam to be so bold before now. 

Sam's future father-in-law snapped his attention to Sam and narrowed his eyes. He shut the watch and handed it back to Sam, while holding Sam's gaze. 

"Guys, we really should be going," Wag said. 

As Sam tucked away the watch, he let his friend pull him by the arm, extracting him from the classroom. They hurried to the altar. 

"That was intense," Wag whispered.

"I told you," Sam said. 

As they took their places, they earned a frown from the minister and several folks in the crowd for their tardiness. The church's vaulted ceiling was bright with light from the many arched stained-glass windows. The air smelled of old wood and melted paraffin wax, mixed with various perfumes and colognes of the many seated guests. Baldy and Eye-Patch had seated themselves among the guests, but even in their dark suits they didn't exactly blend in. Sam was surprised to see the police officer in attendance as well. 

The organ music changed, the bridesmaids streamed in, and then the wedding march started. Sam exhaled. He only caught a glimpse of the bride before the guests stood up and blocked his view. It seemed like forever before she approached the altar.  

The guests were seated-- as one slipped in the door at the back and leaned against the wall. His red hooded sweatshirt caught Sam's attention. He'd seen that man before. Recently. He thought back through his day, and then it hit him. That was the man he'd run into on the front step of the apartment building when Sam was running out with the broken watch while also trying to catch his cat. The man with the heavy metal thing in the pouch of his sweatshirt. The metal thing had hit Sam in the hand and he'd nearly dropped the precious watch. It all came into focus for him. This was the shooter.  

The shooter was in the church. 

8

The police officer needed to know. They needed to be told about this man. They needed all the help they could get to catch Johanna's cousin's killer. But what could Sam do? The minister had already started the service. This was no time to remember that piece of information. 

Sam raced to the other end of the room, ignoring the gasps and questions. He tackled the gunman in the red sweatshirt to the ground. It was surprisingly easy. Sam sat on top of the killer. 

"This man shot someone today," Sam said. 

Waves of confusion and bewilderment moved through the pews. Beneath Sam, the gunman grunted and squirmed. Sam called for the police officer and waited patiently for the robust man in uniform to exit his row and amble up the aisle. Wag and others also gathered around. Sam explained his epiphany. 

"So this man was entering the apartment building around the time the shots were fired," the police officer summarized. 

"Yes," Sam said, pleased with himself. "And he has a gun. Look."

Sam tugged at the sweatshirt until the gun was revealed. The crowd gasped. The police officer snatched up the gun. 

"Well done, Sam," Wag said. "But what is he doing here?"

"Like you've never made a mistake," the gunman said.

"You mean you shot the wrong guy?" Wag said.

"I refuse to say," he said. "That's just bad business."

The gunman went silent, so Sam poked him in the ribs. The gunman grunted. "I would have got the right guy, but the tracking device cut out. I had to guess."

The police officer took out his handcuffs and put them on the gunman. 

"Before I forget," the police officer said to Sam. "I brought you something." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a soggy velvet box. 

"The rings," Sam said. 

"I wanted to give them to you before the ceremony, but I guess you were running late. Oh, and your cat is in a cage out front."

Gratitude flooded through Sam, and he only just stopped himself short of hugging the officer. Might be inappropriate. Someone gasped. The bride's mouth moved like a gulping fish. 

The officer hauled the gunman to his feet. The gunman looked at Sam, then he looked away. Sam followed his gaze to… his would-be father-in-law? Was the gunman trying to say he was sent to kill Sam? 

"You're still paying me, right?" the gunman said. "I'm gonna need the money to pay a lawyer."

Sam looked to the older man for surprise, denial-- something to disprove the silent allegation-- and found only pure hatred staring back. Sam went cold with fear. 

"I know what you did with that watch," the father of the bride said.

Heat drained from Sam's face. "H--How--"

"You did too good a job fixing it. Thought you had me fooled, didn't you? Is that how you do things? You break them and get them fixed? Think you can do that with my daughter? Break her and fix her?"

Someone cut the silence with the snap of their fingers. The men in dark suits moved to stand on either side of Sam's almost father-in-law. A cloud of white pushed through the crowd. The Suits cuffed the father-of-the-bride's arms behind his back and escorted him toward the door following the police officer and the gunman. The bride trailed behind them; together the group made a bizarre procession.

"Daddy? Daddy, what is the meaning of this? Why did you order a hitman to my wedding? I certainly didn't want a hitman at my wedding!"

"Have you looked at that clown you're about to marry-- really looked at him? He's a screw-up! Remember the dishes? He was going to do that with your life!"

"But-- But-- my wedding!"

"Your wedding? What about my money? You've spent a hundred thousand dollars of my money on this slacker!"

"But Daddy! The wedding is for me! I don't even care about Sam!"

The police officer and the Suits extracted their bad guys from the church. The door shut behind them, leaving everyone in a stunned silence. The bride let out a wail of frustration and then burst into tears. 

Sam knew he should hurry over to comfort her. Wasn't it is duty as her intended husband? His mind said yes, but his feet wouldn't move. His ears rang with the words, "Don't even care about Sam." Could have been just words said in the heat of the moment. 

Or it could be she truly meant them.

The mother-of-the-bride sniffed, put her arm around her daughter and pulled her away to the clergy and administrative rooms at the back of the church. The Minister went with them, as did the bride's maids in their bright taffeta. 

Don't even care. But that couldn't be right. She couldn't mean it. They were going to be married. Sam's feet started carrying him toward the back of the church. Someone grabbed him by the arm. Wag.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I--I have to see her."

Wag shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"She didn't mean it. She's distraught. She's mad at her father."

"Sam, what part of this entire fiasco was your idea and not hers? Other than me, not a single one of your friends was invited. Your family wasn't even invited."

The crowd was thinning, some having followed the drama out to the parking lot, but Sam knew his friend was right. Sam's only contribution had been the Suits, and that was only because Wag gave him that business card. 

"Did you know?" Sam asked. "When you sent me to that suit shop, did you know I needed protection?"

Wag put his hands up. "I sent you there to get a tux."

"You don't just supply him with cufflinks, do you?"

"Okay, okay. Sometimes I send him any knives that come my way." Wag rubbed at the back of his neck. 

Sam raised a brow. 

"All right-- and weapons. We have an arrangement. Now, what do you say we go to the reception hall and drink the bar dry?"

Sam shook his head. 

"Come on, it's the perfect revenge on that evil psychopathic father-in-law-to-be."

Sam smiled, imagining the bar tab. He dug in his pockets and handed over the replacement watch and rings. 

"There's something I have to do, Wag."

Wag clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "All right. I'll save you a seat."

Wag left, and before he could lose his courage, Sam went to the back of the church. It was a short hallway with several closed doors to the adjoining rooms. Sam went to the door to the room containing the most crying. 

Sam's mouth went dry. What if Wag was right? What if she'd never loved him? What if she only wanted a groom for her perfect wedding?

He reached up to grab his hair, but stopped himself. There was really only one way to do this. He had to find out. Did she mean what she said or was she just in the heat of the moment? He drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

9

The murmuring and crying in the room hushed. High-heeled shoes click-clacked across the hardwood floor. The door opened only just enough to reveal the face of a bridesmaid. 

"What do you want?" she said. 

"I want to talk to my bride."

"She doesn't want to talk to you." The door closed. 

Sam knocked again. 

The door opened. "What?"

Sam stared at the bridesmaid. The bridesmaid stared back. She closed the door. 

Frustrated, Sam raised his fist to bang on the door again, but changed his mind. He grabbed the knob and let himself into the room. 

It was an office of some kind, but at that moment, Sam could have been anywhere. His eyes went straight to the bride. She was seated on a sofa, wrapped in her mother's arms. She turned to him with her red and blotchy face with black sludge dripping from her eyes. 

"Go away," she said. 

"I thought we were getting married."

She blew out a huff. "Get with the times, Sam. It's over. Everybody's gone. My mascara is ruined."

Sam drew in a deep breath and hoped he absorbed some courage with it.  "All that stuff-- the tuxedo, the rings, the fancy dress, the big meal-- it's just stuff. We can get married without any of that stuff. All that matters is the love."

"Love? Love? You lost the rings and didn't even tell me!"

"But-- Beloved--" 

"Do you even know my name?"

Sam opened his mouth to blurt 'Karen' but stopped. No, not Karen. Carissa? Camille?

A snarl of frustration burst from her. "Do you know what love is Sam? Love is hiring a hitman to kill your daughter's groom. My father may be an idiot, but at least I know he loves me."

"I don't think that's the definition of love."

"Go away, Sam."

"In fact, I'm quite sure when two people are in love, they decide together to get married. Then they decide together how the wedding is going to be. I'm pretty sure the groom's family and friends get invited to the wedding too. And I'm almost certain that if you truly loved me your father would never have sent a hitman. Maybe I don't know exactly what love is yet, but I do know one thing: this isn't it."

It was possibly the longest speech he'd given in his life.

He felt numb, and he was fairly certain it was because he'd used up every ounce of panic for the day, possibly for the week. No, he was wrong. He wasn't numb at all. He felt lighter with a strange sense of calm. Maybe this was what it was like to live without panic. If so, it was a feeling he could get used to. 

Sam marched over and dropped the soggy box into the puffy white cloud of her dress at approximately where her lap was supposed to be. He added the pocket watch. 

"Have a nice life, Kayley." 

He found himself moving in a daze to the door, through the church, and out into the rain. Rain was supposed to be good luck for a wedding, wasn't it? No, that was something people said to make the bride feel better. No one wished for rain at a wedding.

"Bit of a bust, eh?" 

Startled by the woman's voice, Sam turned around and found the jeweller, Johanna, taking shelter next to the doors beside a cage that contained Sam's sleeping cat. 

"You're still here," Sam said. 

"My ride is late." She shrugged. 

"You saw the whole thing?" he asked dismally. 

"Heard it. Saw enough. Watched the cops take the father-of-the-bride away. He seems like an unhappy man."

Sam snorted. His shoulders sagged. The rain fell on his head, soaked through his suit. 

"I did have one piece of good news," she said. "My cousin is going to live. Imagine that? Getting shot while you slept in your own bed and surviving."

A yellow taxi splashed through the puddles as it pulled up to the church steps. 

"Oh, this is for you." She handed him a tiny square of green plastic. "I think it's a GPS. I found it in the watch. It's water damaged. I  didn't want to say anything until I could see if I could get a replacement. First time I've seen a GPS in a pocket watch."

"Thanks." Sam dropped the micro-circuit board on the concrete step and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. 

"Seems to me, we've both had quite a day," she said, standing with the taxi door open, waiting. "What do you say I buy you a drink?"

Sam considered the offer from this woman-- this woman who'd gone out of her way to fix a watch to save Sam from trouble, even after the day she'd had, and who now stood in the rain, not caring about the rain or the ruined wedding or that Sam had thrown a wrench into her grief and whatever plans she might have had for her Saturday. She stood there offering to buy him a drink. It suddenly seemed to Sam that he was the one who should be doing the buying. 

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."

He picked up the cat cage and climbed into the taxi beside her. 

"Where to?" she asked. 

Sam opened his mouth to suggest the reception with the open bar, but shut it before he could utter the words. That place would be crowded with the curious, and Wag was the only one there Sam wanted to talk to. 

"I think it's time for a fresh start," Sam said. 

"A new cat café opened up downtown," Johanna said. "You can bring your furry friend along."

"Perfect." Sam patted the cage to let the feline know all was forgiven for knocking over the glass of water. 

The cat was getting a whole can of tuna tonight.

* * *