The “I Do” Joker: Or Why You Should Never Marry a Washing Machine
Part 7: Extras, Vertigo, and Champagne Substitutes
“Fifty people,” I muttered, staring at my phone’s contact list, which was so empty you could practically hear an echo. “If I invite all my ex-girlfriends, my dentist, and the people who accidentally followed me on Instagram, I get to eleven. And three of those are bots trying to sell me cryptocurrencies.”
We were sitting in the warehouse “lounge” – meaning on the car tyres – while Lukas tried to rescue the structural integrity of the altar with a bottle of bargain sparkling wine and a roll of duct tape. “Quality over quantity, Finn!” he called enthusiastically, taping a loose metal strut to the table. “I’ve already posted an ad on eBay Classifieds: Looking for extras for a student art project called ‘Love in the Age of Concrete’. Payment: free beer, leftover pizza, and the priceless feeling of being part of a legend.”
“You did what?!” Mia shouted, while trying to sweep the worst of the pigeon droppings off a Euro pallet with a hand brush. “Lukas, my grandma is a former senior customs officer! If fifty hipsters with tote bags show up, reading lines from their phones while asking for the Wi-Fi password, we’ll be exposed within seconds! That woman can smell fraud from three kilometres upwind!”
“Trust me,” Lukas winked, balancing an unstable champagne glass on the duct tape. “I told them to dress like ‘aristocrats of emotional distance’. Black turtlenecks, serious faces, few words. Perfect for the industrial vibe. They don’t have to talk, they just have to exist and, during emotional moments, look as if they’ve just watched a particularly moving Netflix documentary.”
At that moment, the massive hall door creaked open and Basti entered the scene. He was no longer wearing the penguin costume, but a black turtleneck so tight he could barely breathe, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses without lenses. He was lugging around a huge leather-bound tome that looked as if he’d stolen it from a medieval library.
“I am ready for the transformation,” he announced in his melancholic graveyard voice. “Dr h.c. von Vogelstein is present. Where is the couple who wish to enter the bond of suffering… I mean, of love?”
“Here,” I said, raising my hand without enthusiasm. “And please, Basti, don’t call it a ‘bond of suffering’ when Mia’s grandma is nearby.”
Basti strode to the wobbly altar table and placed the book on top. “I’ve prepared a speech. It begins with a quote about the finiteness of existence, draws a parallel to rust forming on steel beams, and ends with a three-minute moment of silence for the lost innocence of youth.”
“Basti, no!” Mia intervened immediately, waving the hand brush in front of his face. “You’re supposed to marry us, not bury us! Grandma Hildegard wants tears of emotion, not existential dread. You need to act like you’ve known us for years. Like you witnessed how we first locked eyes over the Maultaschen in the supermarket!”
“Maultaschen,” Basti noted in a small notebook. “Metaphor for the filled emptiness of the human soul. Understood. I will integrate the culinary element into my sermon on impermanence.”
Suddenly, Lukas’s phone started vibrating on a stack of tyres. He glanced at it and visibly paled. “Guys, change of plan. The extras from eBay are arriving in half an hour for the ‘briefing’. And one more thing… Mia’s mum has sent a photo of a ‘small surprise’ she already has in the boot. They left earlier than planned.”
He turned the display towards us. It showed a life-sized, stuffed swan wearing a small, crooked crown. It looked like it had held a very low opinion of humans when it was still alive.
“A swan?” I whispered in horror. “Why, in the name of all that is holy, a swan?” “It’s an heirloom from Aunt Erna,” Lukas read aloud in a voice fit for a funeral. “His name is ‘Lohmeyer’ and he’s meant to stand on the gift table to symbolise eternal fidelity and purity of intention.”
I looked around the dusty, oil-smelling hall: a penguin priest without glass lenses, a horde of rented guests from eBay, a vengeful stuffed swan, and Karl-Friedrich the rat, who was currently gnawing triumphantly on a piece of lemon meringue cake.
“If we survive this,” I said to Mia, “I’ll actually marry you in Portugal. Just so we have a story that’s less embarrassing than this fever dream.” Mia looked at me, and for a split second there was no hatred in her eyes. “Deal,” she said quietly. “But only if you personally sink the swan in the Atlantic.”
Lukas clapped his hands loudly, breaking the moment. “Enough romance! The extras are standing outside the gate. Finn, stand next to the tyre stack and look like you’ve just won the lottery and got food poisoning at the same time. Basti, adjust your glasses. The show begins!”