Green Card #3

So we got married.

In Las Vegas City Hall or the Clark County Courthouse — I don’t remember which — we got married. During the ceremony I began to cry, but I said “Yes” at the right place and the justice of the peace pronounced us man and wife.

Afterward, Christos was very concerned. “What’s wrong?” he asked as we walked out into the corridor.

“I remembered a promise I made to myself a long time ago,” I said, still sniffling. “I promised that next time I’d do it right. I would marry a man who loved me, in a church, with friends and family around me.” I looked at Christos and erupted into more tears. “I broke my promise.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, taking my arm and leading me to the car. “Everything okay. Don’t worry.”

I remembered my first wedding in a Minnesota courthouse in 11 years earlier. When I looked from my future husband to the judge back then, I thought that it was the most absurd thing that had ever happened to me. So I giggled through the rest of the ceremony.

At least that time I was in love. Five months pregnant, but in love. This time, what reason did I have for going through with it? Not love, although I was definitely attracted to the handsome Greek.

No money had ever been mentioned by either one of us. It had seemed too tacky to bring up the subject of $300. I had done it because I said I would, because I had gone this far and didn’t have the nerve to back out, because he wanted me to do it.

After we got on the freeway back to L.A., it occurred to me that the man next to me was now my husband, and that there was nothing wrong with a wife touching her husband wherever she chose to touch him. So I leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and began to let my left hand wander.

I don’t know who was more surprised, Christos or me, but we both were quite pleased with this new development. I was deliciously shocked at my own brazen behavior, and he stopped speaking English for a long time. I didn’t have any trouble understanding him, though.

We didn’t have much time left for the drive back to L.A. I had to be at Langer’s Deli for my shift by 4 p.m. The speedometer hovered between 90 and 100 most of the way. There was no time to stop for a honeymoon.

We arrived at my place with 30 minutes to spare. I raced to shower and dress in the bathroom. I may have been brazen in the car, but I was feeling suddenly shy again. When I rushed out fully dressed in my black waitress uniform, pinning the white lace Langer’s doily into my hair and adjusting my white collar, Christos was waiting.

“That uniform!” he said.

“What’s wrong with it?!” I thought it might be torn or stained.

“I love black uniforms!”

He grabbed me and pushed me against the wall, and we had our honeymoon. Then I went to work. I got there on time, with my doily slightly askew and a smile on my face.

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