But I don't force them on everyone else, and for that I give myself a big fucking high-five!

 

I remember when my parents told me my cousin was getting married.  I was kind of amused, but not to the point where I was going to tell my girlfriend-at-the-time.  After all, she was insisting that we were marrying-age ourselves, while I was still convinced that I was of the age where I desperately needed to find a way to fix the growing crack in my double-chambered bong that I fondly called Grimace.

 

Instead of stirring up a whole new shitstorm in our already crappy relationship, I simply left for the summer, mentioning a bunch of vague "family stuff" and "travel plans" to my girlfriend-at-the-time as reasons I couldn't make the 10-mile drive into Boston to see her, at all, over the next few months.  But that's a different story for a different day.

 

The wedding was a different story, for today.  After all, my whole family knew it was going to be like no other wedding we'd ever seen.

 

For those of you who don't know any Lithuanians, I should point out that we are a confused, existential bunch.  We definitely believe in God, but we're still not 100% sure which horse to bet on.  As a result, most modern Lithuanians believe in Catholicism, Paganism and two or three other major religions, simultaneously.  After all, our gods tend to leave us at really inconvenient times (usually when the Russian, German, and/or Polish gods suddenly start deciding to help the Russians, the Germans or the Poles, respectively...). 

 

So we hedge our bets.  I mean, we know there's something out there, but we just can't figure out what it is.  If you're got ideas, we're open to them.  In the meantime, I've personally seen Tree Chapels in western Lithuania, and I'm not about to pretend that the Lithuanians have gotten rid of their temple to the Thunder God.  I mean, fuckin'-A, why the hell would you turn your back on a badass like Perkunas?

 

The point is, growing up Lithuanian, you end up spiritually confused.  I've seen my share of ghosts, heard about my share of miracles and I've got a wooden owl in my apartment that has my motherfucking back.  And I'm one of the moderate members of my family!

 

My dad's brothers, they're not so moderate.  His late twin brother spoke in tongues for a good ten years and had a spiritual power about him that would make you drop your fork over Thanksgiving dinner.  But at least he didn't force it on you.

 

Another brother was a Catholic priest who somehow kept getting sent to the most far-flung reaches of the world, with smashing results.  This guy could convert Osama bin Laden if they only had a Bingo night on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.  And that brother is cool...

 

His youngest brother was a bit more in-your-face.  For the longest time, he was just a quiet Catholic, doing his thing like the rest of us...  Then, all of a sudden, he moved the whole family to Western Massachussetts, decided "to do some thinking," and installed solar powered panels on the house.  Surely, all was lost.

 

And it was.  We didn't hear from the guy for forever.  That is, until his daughter, my cousin, decided to marry the first guy she ever went out with.

 

The invites were the first clue that it was going to be "something else." 

 

Most wedding invites come from the bride's parents, or both parents, or maybe even the bride's parents, the other parents and the happy couple.  This invite was from Jesus.

 

That's right.  Jesus sent me an invite.

 

All this time, I'd assumed he was busy fighting Satan, debating Mohammed and throwing great water-into-wine parties on the Seventh Level of Heaven, aka the VIP Section.  Instead, he simply wanted me to know that my cousin was marrying a bearded computer science teacher.

 

Cool beans, Jesus.  Thanks for the heads-up.

 

Naturally, no one in my superstitious family was going to RSVP "no, thank you" on that one.  So we all got duddied-up and packed in my dad's '94 Bonneville for the trip to Western Massachussetts...

 

It was a motley crew of Preskenises...  My mom and dad were there, of course, as was my younger brother and my Deadhead older brother.  But best of all, my 94-year-old Aunt Alice made an appearance.  Apparently, even the old and wise were afraid to RSVP "no" to Jesus.

 

Some people tell me I'm being disrespectful when I describe Aunt Alice, but I contend that I'm simply being accurate and she's simply doing exactly what you're supposed to do after NINE decades of life.  Namely, saying whatever the hell is on your mind.  At age ninety-four, you've put up with eight decades of bullshit, I'm sure.  People telling you to be polite, watch out for this guy or mind your temper.  But by the time you've beaten the odds, I'm totally convinced you're allowed to be as much of an asshole as you want to be.

 

Aunt Alice, God bless her soul, was all about this.

 

It started the second the car started rolling.

 

"Well, he picked a fine time to re-include us in his life, huh?  When his daughter decided to get married?!?" she laughed, then turned to mocking my uncle.  "Oh, I'd like to patch things up, and if you could bring money for my daughter, that would be great..."

 

My older brother, who had been up for the past three days turned to me and said, "this is going to be good."  It took a second to register, as I'd been up for two days, but I finally nodded after a few minutes.  I'm not sure he noticed.

 

---

 

After a ninety minute drive, deep into the scariest parts of Western Mass, we arrived at the church.  Call me a traditionalist, but by that point in my life, I'd had it beaten into my head that churches were supposed to be spooky stone buildings that still bore the bloodstains of the Faithful who dared to think, "I can lift this stone by myself!"

 

Instead, we drove up to a steel--yes, Pittsburgh football-team Steel--building with a cross on it.  No gargoyles, no crying saints, nothing.  Just a fresh coat of white paint. 

 

Aunt Alice said it best:  "Do they sell lawnmowers here, too?"

 

My older brother, Mark, was psyched.  "I'm sitting near her!"

 

Naturally, we fought for position in the church.  Somehow, my cousin Karen ended up next to Aunt Alice, so Mark and I ran around a row to make sure we were right in front of them.

 

We were just in time.  Before any of us could take in our surroundings, a stoned-looking woman with ankle-length hair began singing a Psalm.  Then, the all-too-cool-looking minister came sauntering in, clapping his tambourine.  Behind us, we heard Aunt Alice say, "what was wrong with Latin?!?"

 

After a brief benediction from the minister, who, apparently, would be standing-in for our host Jesus that afternoon, the groom entered.  He was nice enough, I guess, although he was obviously nervous.  Aunt Alice wondered aloud if he knew "what to do with a girl after he married her..."  My dad, a man of few words, noted that he was pretty sure the guy was going to faint.

 

My cousin entered next.  Don't get me wrong, all brides are great--just like all babies are beautiful.  And I know it's my cousin and all that.  But, still, it was pretty low-tech.  I mean, she had the white dress and all that, but something was missing...  The tambourine/guitar combo tried to make up for it.

 

"I could really do without the tambourine," Aunt Alice commented as my cousin walked down the aisle.  "What was wrong with the pipe organ?"

 

Our seats were already paying for themselves.

 

The ceremony was pretty straightforward.  I mean, there's only so much God-invoking you can do, right? 

 

Wrong. 

 

---

 

At the point where Mark and I figured the show was over, things were just getting started.  My cousin's friends took their moments to "proclaim," a woman in the congregation felt compelled to get up and play the guitar, and some guy my age wanted to read his favorite Psalm...

 

Psalm-less, I just stood there, dumbfounded.  Even Aunt Alice had nothing to say.  We just stared at all the God-loving proclaiming that was taking place before our eyes.  Finally, the minister stepped in and put a merciful end to the faith-driven improv.

 

"My brothers and sisters, we stand here joyous, as these two stand here, as Adam and Eve stood--naked before God!"

 

This was the breaking point for Aunt Alice, a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic from South Boston.  She grabbed my cousin Karen and said, loudly, "you know, in my day, we didn't talk about getting naked.  We didn't GET naked.  We didn't talk about other people getting naked.  Never mind in a church, or whatever this is!  For the record, I don't want to have to think of the bearded guy naked.  Is that wrong?"

 

The preacher didn't hear Aunt Alice.  He continued...

 

"These two come to us naked, as if before God, to begin their life together.  We, too are naked, in accepting them into our community..."

 

Aunt Alice wasn't about to let up.  She grabbed Karen again and asked, loudly, "what religion is this, anyway?"

 

---

 

I assume other things happened, but my brother and I were too busy laughing about it to notice.  By the time we'd wiped the tears of laughter from our eyes, the bride and groom were prancing out of the church, the congregation was clapping, and my mom was grabbing both of us painfully by the biceps to bring us back to Earth.  It was one of her signature moves, but it barely worked.  We were laughing again as soon as the blood returned to our forearms.

 

"Jesus, stop it!" my mom hissed.

 

"Jesus sent my invite!" my older brother, correctly, observed.

 

---

 

The pre-reception scene in the "church" parking lot was appropriately confused.  After all, Mark and I were obviously still feeling the effects of the ceremony, Aunt Alice's commentary and the after-affects of whatever we had been on the night before.  My younger brother, Jim, on the other hand, was clearly hung over, because that was the right way to live at age 20.  All-in-all, we were jones-ing for a few beverages. 

 

Meanwhile, my parents felt compelled to "socialize," despite the fact that the congregation wanted precious little to do with us.  My mom actually held out her hand to a few people who avoided her completely. 

 

Finally, she took the point. 

 

Minutes later, we were headed to some generic restaurant for the reception.

 

We arrived and sat where Fate sat us--in the middle of a long table, surrounded by my uncle's new-found church-friends.  I sat directly across from my older brother, with my younger brother on my left.  My parents, ever the suspicious once, sat right next to me and my older brother.  Naturally, my younger brother elbowed me in the ribs as soon as the coast was clear.

 

It was already an odd scene.  We were the only five-some elbowing and pushing and commenting across the table.  Everyone else sat with an eerie order and silence.  We were lucky none of us ended up with a black eye.

 

While we got settled, the waitress sped down the table, taking orders, before she got to us.  In a world of frilly dresses, Psalm-proclaiming, and tambourine-playing, she was a welcome vacation, a totally hot Masshole in a fake-leather miniskirt.  My older brother practically grabbed her as she sped by.

 

"Excuse us, but we'd like three Buds."

 

"Three Buds?"

 

"Yep.  Three Buds, please."

 

The waitress looked at us, and we nodded enthusiastically.  She sped down the rest of the table, and seconds later we had our drinks.

 

The first drink went down easy.  After all, we'd spent a day in the car, in a steel building that was supposed to be a church, and surrounded by overly enthusiastic Psalm-proclaimers.  We needed a drink.

 

We finished them simultaneously.  In a way, it's always been heartening that my brothers and I have shared our ferocious alcohol consumption...  And Jesus really was there, because the waitress was right behind Mark as he slammed his down on the table.

 

"Another round?"

 

"Fuck yeah!" Mark said, as my mom glared at him.

 

The waitress was back within seconds.

 

"Holy crap, you're fast.  Are you always this fast?" 

 

Apparently, this was Mark's verision of "the moves."  As I shook my head in my hands, the waitress laughed.

 

"No.  I'm never this fast, but I should be now.  You're the only three drinking!"

 

We paused, mid-sip, to note that we were the only three people at the twenty-foot-long table drinking anything, never mind beer.  One kid finally sat down with a 7-UP, but other than that guy, it was a table full of thirsty folks who were convinced that the Lord didn't want them to taint their gullets with befouling drink.

 

As if on cue, we pounded our beers, and the waitress was back.

 

"Another round?"

 

"Fuck yeah," my younger brother laughed.

 

We all had a chuckle at that one and pushed our beers into the middle of the table for the waitress to take.  Before we were done, she had already left and come back with our beers.

 

We set right into them.  After all, it was getting kind of uncomfortable.

 

Like a Swiss train, Ms. Mini-Skirt was back when we finished those beers, with fresh beers in hand.

 

"I like you guys..."

 

Those beers didn't last very long, either.  And, for those of you wondering, the bride and groom hadn't even arrived by that point...

 

My mom had been glaring at our conspicuous consumption since we sat down.  The last round was her limit.  She grabbed Mark and me by that little piece of skin between the thumb and index finger and shout-whispered...

 

"What the HELL do you think you're doing?"

 

Mark laughed.  He'd done a lot worse.

 

"We're having a few beers..."

 

Mom jammed her fingernail into our hand-skin.

 

"In case you haven't noticed... NO ONE ELSE is drinking...."

 

We stared at her.  For me, this was a welcome rebound from the mushrooms from the day before, and I knew Mark was recovering from something a bit stronger.  We were going to drink, to take the edge off, even if it meant leaving the wedding.  Jim finally got our back by shouting "What?!?" and pounding his beer.

 

At the sight of her twenty-year-old baby slamming his Bud, Mom simply threw her hands in the air with her trademark dramatic flourish.  Mark and I laughed and finished ours, at which point our waitress, Ms. Masshole, arrived again, this time with another unbuttoned button in her shirt.

 

My dad looked at us enviously, obviously uncomfortable, but also obviously in need of a beer or two. 

 

My mom shook her head until the lady next to us patted her on the shoulder.

 

"It's not your fault..."

 

Mom looked up, incredulous.

 

"What?!?"

 

The woman continued...

 

"It's not your fault.  It is not your fault--you can raise a child only so well.  You can do only so much.  But if they want to send themselves to hell, to damn themselves with liquor, then you can go to heaven, knowing you did your best to stop them.  But they did their best to go to hell."

 

"Excuse me?" my mom said as she glared at the woman.

 

"It is not your fault your boys are going to hell!"

 

My mom didn't even justify her comment with a response.  Instead, she reached in her pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill and pushed it towards us.

 

In her classic half-whisper, where she'd speak at normal volume but keep her teeth together, she told us, "Screw these people.  As far as I'm concerned, we're never going to see any of them again in our life.  Get as drunk as you can.  I'm buying..."

 

My dad stared at her for a moment to make sure she was serious. 

 

Seconds later, he gave a half-nod at the fifty.  After all, it was his Bonneville, his brother's daughter getting married and his encouragement that got us out there... but he hated socializing.

 

"Go for it, Bob.  I'm driving," my mom declared.

 

"Four beers, please!" my older brother said as the waitress swung by to pick up our empties.  She just laughed.

 

After a few more beers, the afternoon was a blur.  I mean, we remember some shit, like the DJ getting in trouble for playing YMCA, because the Village People were sinners.  And my younger brother doing the Russian Hat Dance surprisingly well, even after the music was killed.  And my older brother convincing the waitress to line himself, my younger brother and me up with shots of Jaegermeister.  But most of all, we remember Aunt Alice's ongoing commentary, and her observation that "at least the Preskenis boys know how to have a good time."  As she said this, Mark took the waitress' phone number and gave a big thumbs-up.

 

Needless to say, there wasn't much of a farewell as we left.  In fact, we all kind of wandered off to the car in rambling paths, finally corralled by Mom, who was adamant about "getting the hell out of [there] before we ever have to speak with another one of these people again."

 

We were quiet in the car as she sped off.  Well, we were quiet for about ten seconds before the stories started coming.  The "naked" story.  The "what kind of chuch is this?" story.  The "those Preskenis boys know how to have a good time" story.  Basically, my brothers, my dad and I, shitfaced as we were, had a good time, repeating the same three stories to my mom between piss-stops on the Mass Turnpike.

 

Finally, we neared my parents' house.  As scary as it was, my brothers and I were gearing up for our nights on the town, and I even somehow convinced my parents to let me borrow their car for a few days.  Even after my dad did a shot of Jack Daniels with me hours before...  But before we left, my dad had something important to tell us all.

 

He called us all in the kitchen.  Mark had to excuse himself for a moment, and he returned drinking a beer.  We stood there, all a bit uneasy, except for mom, who had chain-smoked her way out of The Country back to Massachussetts' South Shore.

 

My dad spoke slowly...

 

"I want you all to know.  No matter what you take out of today.  No matter what happened.  We're all a family...

 

"But more importantly, I want you all to know...  I believe you have a choice in these sorts of matters, and I've made my choice a long time ago....

 

"I am going to be exactly like Aunt Alice when I get old.  People can say that I'm crazy, but I want you all to know that I'm simply saying what I think, OK?  I don't want to spend the last ten years of my life worrying about others.  I'm going to offend everyone.  Everyone, OK?"

 

We listened and watched my dad as he spoke.  When he was done, we all raised our glasses and toasted his noble goal.  My mom just shook her head.  And I got in the car and sped to Cape Cod to see my friends.  After all, I had one hell of a story to tell, and I had Jesus to thank for it all.