There would be the expected fuss
from the usual quarters, but this was the 21st century, and after
all, she was living in California. It wasn’t as though she wanted to marry a
dangerous or wild animal or a close family member. Boots was just an ordinary
cat.
What she hadn’t expected was the
explosion of outrage because Boots was a bitch.
Somehow, a “Women Against Lesbian
Bestiality” group had materialized within 48 hours of the announcement being
posted on LookAtMe. What Angela had thought would be a few dozen friends
meeting for the ceremony and picnic in Golden Gate Park now looked like
attracting a hundred thousand people. Her page was already covered with
messages from city officials regarding permits, applications and fees required
for policing, traffic management, parking, portable restrooms, and barriers for
crowd control and management, along with indemnity policies.
Angela also received a hard lesson
in online privacy, as her supposedly anonymous identity “PussyGalore-_4752”
turned out not to be anonymous at all when the telephone started to ring.
Wedding planners, caterers, photographers, dress designers, hair stylists,
make-up artists, printers, contract seating hire companies and other
parasitical “service providers” seemed to circle like vultures.
She hoped this would die down
quickly as all these offers of “taking away the worry” were preventing her from
the business of organizing the wedding herself.
Before the calls from suppliers had
stopped, the bloggers, freelancers, local newspapers and radio stations called
for comments and interviews. One “proper” radio station invited Angela for an
interview, but they didn’t want to pay anything. There were also calls from
City Hall reminding her of more regulations.
What was intended to be a simple ceremony
had exploded, and if the media turned out to be against her, she felt she’d
need to go into something like witness protection.
Things looked up a day later when one
of the few calls she got was from LGB-TV. Surely they would stick up for her,
but they were really only interested in learning why she had chosen a bitch and
not a tom. Had she been gay long? What other experiences had she had, and what
prejudice and discrimination had she faced?
They weren’t prepared to pay,
either.
She had briefly considered calling
off the wedding altogether, but that would make it look like the bigots had
won.
Later that afternoon, she got a call
from an animal rights organization. She hadn’t expected trouble from this
quarter, either.
Was Boots consenting to this arrangement?
What evidence was there? By what means had Boots given her consent?
Over the next few days, the barrage
of calls, brochures and door-stopping continued.
“Could we have a picture of you with
Boots?”
“When were you first attracted to cats?”
“Does she sleep on your bed, or in
it?”
“Do you think you can communicate
better with a cat than a man? Or a woman?”
The next phase was when the
relatively mild protests evolved into denunciations and hate speech. Animal
rights had not advanced enough to have animal hate-speech declared illegal.
“Animal Rights Activists Are Barking,”
bumper stickers appeared. They even showed up on online pop-ups which showed
there was some serious money behind the campaign to thwart her happiness.
A week after her fun announcement,
Angela was a virtual recluse. Her telephone was permanently off the hook; she
hadn’t dared check her email in four days; and, she had sealed the letter-slot
in her door with a board. As she fixed it into place, a picture of the demented
Vernon Dursley flashed through her mind as she banged in the nails. Still, her
efforts enjoyed more success than his had.
Three days after cutting herself off
from the real and virtual worlds, Angela had to venture out to the supermarket
for supplies. She should have realized that she would be hijacked in the pet
food aisle, but was by then oblivious to the media storm that had continued to
surround her forthcoming marriage.
“You’re the cat lady!” an eager
journalist with a microphone exclaimed, waving for her colleague with the
camera who was following some tight yoga pants into the dessert section.
Angela threw some tins of chicken,
fish and faux rabbit cat food into her trolley and rolled away.
“I see you have ‘White Rabbit’ brand
faux rabbit,” the journalist called. “Don’t you think that’s racist? And isn’t
Boots worth real rabbit?”
Keeping her mouth shut while waiting
in the check out line, having every item in her trolley photographed and
live-streamed to electronic devices worldwide, proved nearly impossible. The check-out
girl showed signs of suffering from stage fright as she appeared to forget how
to scan groceries and smiled vacuously at the battery of cameras and cell
phones.
Taking what precautions she could to
protect her debit card and PI number, Angela collected her receipt and trundled
away into the car park. Ten minutes later, she remembered where she left her
car, all the while composing the headlines that would even now be appearing.
“Racist lesbian buys future mate
fake meat,” was one of the kindest she came up with.
Her entourage had drifted away after
heading down the third lane of parking spaces, so Angela was able to drive away
uninterrupted.
Word had got out that she would be
heading home, and the police had cordoned off her section of the street. She
drove into her driveway and carried her shopping to the front door, only to be
approached by a determined city functionary who delivered an envelope and
requested a signature.
Angela had a momentary victory when
she insisted he hold her shopping while she opened the front door and went in.
“Come in if you want your receipt,”
she called to him on the doorstep. “The shopping can go on the counter in
there.”
The functionary was used to
following instructions (otherwise he would not have been sent to Angela’s) and dutifully
went into the kitchen and deposited the bags.
Angela scribbled on the receipt and
handed it to him.
“That will be all,” she added,
imperiously, and closed the door behind him.
After putting her shopping away,
Angela fell into her sofa and opened the envelope. She was not surprised by its
contents: for reasons of public order, she and Boots would not be able to have
their wedding in Golden Gate Park, or, indeed, in any other park in the city,
or on the beach, pier, rocks, pavement or in the street.
Clearly, she and Boots would have to
make alternative arrangements.
Angela went to her desk and turned
on her laptop for the first time in several days. She did not open her email,
but launched her browser and went to her once wholly ignored webpages.
“My wedding to Boots will not now
take place in Golden Gate Park. An alternative venue is being arranged for a
small, private ceremony,” she typed, then reached for the gin.
Two days later, Angela dared to put
her telephone back on the hook. She didn’t know if it would connect or not, but
she didn’t really care. When she dared to look at her LookAtMe site again,
there were several hundred messages of
support and only a few that said, “Die Bitch” or “Cats are for Curry.” Many
messages were sympathetic, expressing disbelief that someone could be treated
like this in the 21st century. (All right, they had said 20th
century, but the thought was there.)
She had considered adding her latest
thoughts about her wedding, but, in fact, she had had none. No solution was
presenting itself, so she wrote, “Thank you for sharing your kind thoughts,”
and left it at that.
Angela and Boots had a quiet supper
and watched a DVD of Amelie. She
loved its feel-good optimism, the hint of mystery, gentle humor and Parisian
setting. When it finished, she double-checked the doors and went to bed.
The next morning, she awoke with her
problem solved.
At least she thought she had solved
it until there was a persistent knocking on her door shortly after eleven.
“This is the police officer watching
your house,” the voice shouted. “There’s a man here with a lawful reason to
speak with you. Open up!”
She complied.
A man in a cheap suit stood there
with a briefcase.
“My name is Tyler Karshian and I
represent the interests of Brandon and Cody Kristos,” he said, pompously.
She doubted Tyler was his given
name. His mother’s maiden name in a pinch; or her first name; but, Brandon and
Cody she knew about and had wondered when they’d crawl out of the woodwork.
“May I come in?”
“No,” she replied, simply and
without hostility.
She’d dealt with the Kristos’
lawyers before. This was a new one.
“I am instructed to tell you that a
preliminary injunction has been taken out preventing your proposed nuptials
until the court has had the opportunity to rule on its validity. Failure to comply
may result in being held in contempt of court,” he said, handing her the
document.
She looked at it.
“This injunction is against me,” she
said.
“That is correct.”
“Where is the one against Boots?”
Karshian looked confused.
“I understand that I am prevented
from marrying, but if there is no other injunction, Boots is not,” she said
with feigned confidence. “According to this, there is nothing to prevent Boots
from marrying me.”
This should cost the Kristos sibling
a few hundred dollars more.
Karshian sighed.
“Miss Romano,” he began wearily. “We
both know what this is about. Athena Kristos left her fortune to her cat, and
you were named as the cat’s primary guardian and carer. Mrs. Kristos was
grateful to you for looking after her for so long and wanted a way of giving
you a stipend.”
“And I remain grateful,” Angela
said. “I pray for her soul and light a candle for her every month.”
“I am sure everyone is grateful,”
Karshian sighed. “However, everyone also knows that if you marry the cat, half
the fortune becomes immediately yours, and when it dies, you will, without
impediment, inherit the balance.”
“Are there people who are so
cynical?” she asked, sweetly. “That’s very sad. I shall pray for them, too.”
Karshian almost audibly counted to
ten.
“You may pray for them all you want,
but you will not succeed in your scheme.”
“I’m not sure what you’re
suggesting, Mr. Karshian,” Angela said, and looked towards the police officer
who had returned to the pavement. “Officer! Could you please come here. I believe
I am being threatened and would like a witness to what Mr. Tyler Karshian has
just said to me. Would you repeat it, please. For the officer.”
Karshian didn’t make it to ten this
time.
“Good-bye, Miss Romano.”
She tossed the injunction with her
junk mail, resolving to always write the word as injunktion.
In the kitchen, Angela had another
cup of coffee and smiled to herself. The injunktion would not affect her plans
at all.
In the afternoon, she cleaned Boots’
travel carrier and unwrapped and cleaned the travel water bottle she had bought
from Limpopo a few weeks earlier. She cut a section of spare carpet for the
floor of the carrier and fitted it snugly.
“Boots!” she called, and the cat
looked up sleepily.
Angela took one of Boots’ favorite
toys, laced with catnip, and bounced it into the carrier, which was followed
without hesitation by Boots after only the fifth attempt. However, she seemed
to like the feel of the new carpet as well as the smell of the toy and settle
down inside the carrier.
This was going well, Angela thought.
Two days later, Angela and Boots
boarded a Shoshone Air Services (SAS-US) flight from San Francisco’s Richard
Nixon International Airport and flew to Las Vegas.
There were no problems, except they
would only sell her two gin and tonics during the ninety-minute flight. She had
only carry-on luggage and Boots so was able to make her way to the Trump
International Hotel with minimal fuss.
That evening, she’d given herself a
strict limit to the amount she’d let herself gamble. This was a happy and lucky
time for her, and she managed to win just under five hundred dollars playing
blackjack before a few more drinks and bed.
After all, it was a big day
tomorrow.
Boots looked terrific: brushed and
fresh, she was ready for her big day, and so was Angela. What made things even
better was that no one had let the cat out of the bag, and she and Boots went
unaccosted.
When the taxi pulled up to the Blue
Moon Wedding Chapel with a dream in her heart, her denim skirt, tall boots with
four-inch heels, fringed waistcoat, embroidered shirt, tooled leather belt with
turquoise and silver accessories, Angela’s childhood wedding-day dreams were
realized.
Sitting at the back of the chapel
with other couples awaiting the services of the Officiating Colonel, Angela had the chance to reflect on
how well things had gone. The venue was perfect; she looked perfect, and the
injunction only covered California.
She saw two sweet weddings in the
fifteen minutes she waited, and before her wedding was announced. She had paid
the fee and signed the documents. She had given Boots to the clerk who pressed
her paws on an ink pad and placed on the document. There would be no
accusations of deception or coercion.
She walked up the aisle proudly,
carrying Boots who was clearly agreeable, lulled by the tones of the King crooning
“I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.”
There were the basic questions. No
one objected, and Boots meow-ed as if on cue.
The King sang a few bars (the
maximum allowed without violating copyright, or delaying the awaiting couples)
of “Love Me Tender” as the final bits of bureaucracy were carried out.
And they were married, and everyone
clapped and smiled.
Having been lulled by the King’s
velvet tones, the blast of the final number startled Boots who leapt from
Angela’s arms and darted down the aisle, out the door and into the street to
accompanying sounds of rubber violently sliding on asphalt; metal meeting
metal; glass encountering a variety of hard objects, and gasps from the
congregation.
Perhaps “Hound Dog” wasn’t the best
choice for a recessional, but it had always been one of her favorites, and this
was the happiest day of her life, wasn’t it?
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