“I was a liberal Jew from Los Angeles going out of his element and attending a Catholic wedding in Minocqua, Wisconsin.”
Minawkward
A Midwestern Odyssey.
Labor day weekend, 2009. Gunning it through the pastures of Northern Wisco, I could tell that I was far from home. After a while, the monotonous landscape of American farmland was seriously starting to become overwhelming. This was the definition of God’s Country. And I was horrified, especially when the plains gave way to the majestic, rural underworld of the North Woods. Never before had I been surrounded by so many towering firs. The whole thing was directly out of Deliverance, minus the fact that Burt Reynolds was not there to save me from the horrific atrocities that lay ahead.
I knew that agreeing to go to this wedding would potentially lead to an evening of uncomfortable situations. Even as a seasoned veteran of uncomfortable situations, I knew this was going to be different. I was a liberal Jew from Los Angeles going out of his element and attending a Catholic wedding in Minocqua, Wisconsin. Sitting shotgun in the Mercury La Sabel was the putz responsible for that cursed weekend: my old roommate from the University of Wisconsin, Rick. Technically, he wasn’t my roommate per se. Rick just crashed on the couch nightly without having to pay the landlord. I charged him a personal rent by having him do a bi-monthly bathroom clean up. Rick moved his PS3 over too, sweetening the deal.
In my drunken stupor of the previous evening, Rick managed to get me to come along on this journey. He was amidst a nasty breakup with his wacky klepto ex-girlfriend and could have really just used a boozy getaway with his best bro. Las Vegas, our ideal post-breakup destination, was obviously out of the question. There was no money for that. So, the Midwestern backwoods would have to suffice. I never had been to that part of Wisconsin before, and up to that point in my college career I had only really experienced Milwaukee and Madison. So I figured that the wedding would, at the very least, make for an interesting getaway. And Rick always had his way of convincing me:
“Believe me, Jake, they don’t do weddings like this back in LA.”
“I don’t know, dude.”
“It’ll be worth your while. Think about it: free booze, free food, and, best of all, horny North Woods babes.”
Cha-Ching! I was sold. Flash forward to nine the next morning, and I wake up with one helluva hangover. At four AM, Irish Car Bombs had seemed like a delightful nightcap, but now I was feeling the consequences. Digging through the medicine cabinet, I couldn’t find anything to quell my throbbing headache. Every last Ibuprofen was gone, as was all the Aspirin.
“Jake! Let’s fuckin’ move it. I’m not waiting for you!”
Our driver, my date for the wedding, was calling up to me from the street. His name was Stephen. Rick’s older brother, Stephen, was about as out of the closet at they come, and the only way I was going to gain entry to this wedding was if I was listed as his date. His boyfriend, Jorge, bailed at the last minute, so I was to be his replacement. Whatever, I was down. We hopped into Stephen’s ride and headed for the belt line. In California, we do not have “belt lines.” Anyway, KoRn was blasting on the radio, and though I am a closeted KoRn fan, I really could have just used some silence to quell my throbbing cranium.
“Oh fuck yeah, ‘Freak on a Leash!’ That shit’s my jam. Rick, grab the wheel.”
Stephen needed a break from driving so he could pour some Jameson into his McCafe. I looked at my watch: 10:30 AM. In Dairyland, I suppose it’s never too early to start drinking.
After three and a half hours of nonstop KoRn and Limp Bizkit, we pulled into the outskirts of town. You really couldn’t help but notice the Adopt-A-Highway sign on the side of the road: “Donated by the Oneida County Chapter of the NRA.” I broke into a cold sweat and began to feel queasy. Now, I’ve been to a fair share of rural areas in my lifetime, places where it’s very difficult to meet someone who has a full set of teeth and doesn’t believe that Obama is a Muslim. But there was something just plain eerie about Minocqua. Pulling into the commercial district, it seemed as if there were only four types of establishments: (1) tackle and bait shops, (2) gun stores, (3) churches and (4) the diviest of dive bars. This wasn’t the hippie-Birkenstock version of Wisconsin that I was accustomed to in Madison. Rick tried giving me a pep talk.
“Jake, pull yourself together. I know that you’re nervous, but you really need to be aware of one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Your favorite baseball team isn’t the Dodgers anymore. It’s the Brewers. Because if you say you don’t like the Brewers to the locals, they won’t take kindly to it.”
“Fine.”
“And I know you don’t really care about pro-football. But for tonight, you love the Packers. You live and bleed the Packers, okay? Oh, and if anyone asks, you think that Brett Favre should be crucified for treason against the state of Wisconsin.”
“Fuck Favre. Got it.”
“No, it’s not just ‘Fuck Favre.’ Favre should be fuckin’ castrated.”
We pulled into the church parking lot and my anxieties reach their zenith. I started to feel very concerned about looking far too casual for the whole affair. My wedding outfit consisted of a dirty old pair of Levis, a Tommy Bahama (hey, I think Hawaiian shirts are cool,) and my Dad’s twelve-year old sports jacket from Burlington Coat Factory. Rick and Stephen, on the other hand, both had on a nice pair of slacks and a collared shirt. To make matters worse, I was pitting out completely.
To my relief, it turned out that I was actually overdressed. Way overdressed. The groom, along with every other male in the wedding party, was sporting a baby blue trucker hat and cowboy boots. I felt like I had just walked into a Toby Keith concert. Where I’m from, you usually don a suit to a wedding. But really, I actually thought the whole casual Friday vibe was kind of cool and slightly endearing.
Before the procession got underway, the sky opened up with a brilliant lightning strike. At once, there was a collective sigh from the crowd. Things were beginning to look really soggy outside. You had to feel some sympathy for the newlyweds, as nobody deserves a torrential downpour on their day of matrimony.
“The weather definitely isn’t a good omen for these two,” I joked to Rick and Stephen. They tried their best to stifle their laughter. An ancient church lady sitting one row up turned around and shot me a dirty look. She had also clearly mouthed something to me. You could say I’m a paranoid, but it looked like she was calling me “Jewface.” How could she tell? Was I really that obvious? I tapped Rick on the shoulder.
“Rick, I think that old maid sitting in front of us just made an epithet towards me.”
“What’s an epithet?”
The groom didn’t look very enthusiastic at all about the whole thing, their wedding kiss was probably the single most dispassionate peck I’ve ever witnessed. It was obvious that both of them wanted to get the hell out of there and start downing Schlitz en masse. Looking around at the rest of the congregation members, it was obvious that they were itching to do the same. By the time the “I Do’s” came around, I realized that I could have used a Schlitz or seven myself.
The reception was held in a tent at a country club just a short drive away in “historic” downtown Minocqua. Hard liquor cost $5, a price that I wasn’t willing to pay, being your typical frugal college student. Beer, as Rick had promised, didn’t cost a dime. Neither did the wine, a fine-bodied Franzia, and that’s what Stephen stuck to. The parents of the lovely bride paid for a mobile trailer with a Miller Lite tap. It was being manned by a little boy who really couldn’t have been any older than six. The tyke was surrounded by a group of young women who were gushing all over him.
“Aww, he’s so adorable!”
“How cute!”
My stomach lurched. After the little bartender handed me my first brew of the evening, I stuck a dollar bill in his coat pocket.
“Go buy a stick of gum, kid.”
He just smiled at me and proceeded to fill up a frosty one for the next person in line.
Before dinner, Rick asked his Uncle Rocky if we could take one of his golf carts out for a spin. He’s always been the daredevil type, and if it were up to me, I wouldn’t let him anywhere near a damned bicycle, let alone a golf cart. Surely, Uncle Rocky would say no to the ridiculous request, we were hammered. But to my surprise, Rick somehow wound up with the keys to the E-Z-GO 2007. There wasn’t even much convincing required on his part, Uncle Rocky was too blasted to say no. For the next forty-five minutes, we were doing burnouts and donuts out on the green. Stephen was leisurely sipping wine in a red solo cup, smoking a cigarette through the whole ride. Rick and I switched off on the wheel every few minutes, trying to out-Dale Earnhardt each other. Eventually, the sheer adrenaline got to be too much. I wound up hopping train.
“See you boys back in the tent. I’m gonna go on and get myself another drank.”
An hour or so later, the floor had started to spin slightly. My stomach was full of Texas style barbecue (à la Wisconsin), and I was ready to go back to the buffet for thirds. First, however, I needed to bum a cigarette. People were lighting up Menthols left and right, so I figured it would be a courteous gesture to have a puff with the locals. After stepping into the unbearable August humidity, I ran into an older fellow who was far beyond intoxicated. He had a gray mane of hair, specs, and a debilitating hunchback. He was playing with his grandson.
“Ey homeslice, ya think you could hook it up with a cig?”
The old man gazed at me, confused. He probably didn’t pick up on my slang, and honestly, I was too fucked up to realize that I shouldn’t be talking to him as if he was just another college kid. I rephrased my request:
“I mean, uh, may I have a cigarette…sir?”
“Yah, you betcha.”
What was this, fucking Fargo? We lit up and began to chat, I gave him the regular shpiel: I go to school in Madison, came out to the Midwest from LA…
“You’re from California? Why in the hell did you come up ‘ere?”
“I dunno. Part of it is the Packers. I really love the Packers. Favre though, he’s a total asshole. Should be castrated.”
“Hrmph. I can see it in your eyes, smell it on your stinking breath. You ain’t a true fan.”
“Honestly, a big part of coming here was all of Wisconsin’s nature. I’ve always loved hiking. I hear Door County has a lot of good spots. Should I go there?”
“Well, depends what you’re into I guess. Really only two kindsa people like Der County. Women! And fairy-types.”
He laughed so hard that he started wheezing, and then gave me a friendly slap on the shoulder. I ashamedly laughed as well, just to humor the old fucker and avoid any conflict.
“I gotta take a piss. Enjoy the rest of that cigarette, young man.”
I watched him stagger off to the porta-potty, only to fall down and eat shit in the mud halfway there. I headed towards him to give him a hand. What I really wanted to do, though, was dropkick him. This would have been the vigilante, Charles Bronson thing to do. Too bad I never got beyond a white belt in Karate.
“Thank ya for liftin’ me. The lord’s gotta great plan for you.”
I can assure you that this was the final time I ever assisted an elderly Klansman to the restroom.
En route to the tent, I caught glimpse of a smokin’ hot young blonde lighting up. In my drunken frame of mind, I decided to approach this Rust Belt beauty. It was game time. Everyone knows that weddings are the best place to meet women. It’s purely a fact of nature. Who hasn’t seen Wedding Crashers? I asked the gal if I could bum a smoke, and she obliged. I didn’t really need another cigarette, my throat was already on fire from the last one, but I was much too shlammed at the time to come up with another way of striking up a conversation. Low and behold, the flirt bombs started dropping at the consistency of a WWII air raid. She told me her name was Doris.
“Dor-is? Were you born during the Depression or something? Just kidding, I think it’s a great name. So what’s your major?”
“I’m 28. I’m not in school anymore — I was a Badger, though. Now I’m working as a nurse up in Eagle River. Hey, do you like to dance?”
“Hell yea-uh.”
She grabbed my hand and we hit the floor. The lead singer of the house band was this pseudo-Kenny Rogers type. He was rocking the stage, and I took part in what would be the first — and, God help me, the last — line-dancing session of my life. I’m no good at country-western dancing (in LA, all we do is bump and grind to House music and G-Funk.) Doris though, she was a pro. Prior to coming to Minocqua, I had dismissed line dancing as merely a hick pastime. But the way Doris moved made it look sexy and alluring. I made eye contact with Rick, who was chilling on the sidelines. He was making hand gestures at me that insinuated fellatio. I gave him a subtle one-finger salute.
“You’re really great. Guys don’t usually talk me,” she explained.
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m a single mom. Got a Kindergartner.”
Red flag. I was, without question, going to abandon this endeavor. It didn’t matter how ridiculously beautiful she was. It was against my principles at the time to hook up with a single mother.
“I didn’t peg you for a mom. Wow.”
Her eyes slowly sank. It looked as if the waterworks were about to commence. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. Having only just met me, Doris knew exactly how to hit my softest spot.
“So then you don’t want to come back to my place tonight?”
“Of course I’ll come back to your place tonight!”
She grabbed her child from the kids’ table — it was the little bartender from earlier — and we took off. I didn’t waste time trying to find Rick, so I just texted him that I’d meet him back at the motel in the morning and not to worry. Admittedly, the drive to her place was pretty weird with the little kid sitting in the back of her Dodge Ram (the fact that she drove the most American of pick-ups made her all the more exotic.) I turned around and tried talking to him because I didn’t want him to think that I was just some creeper that was about to rail his mother.
“You really know how to serve a mean drink there, kiddo!”
He rolled his eyes at me and promptly looked away. Doris just laughed.
“He doesn’t like talking to strangers. Maybe he can tell that you’re not from around here!”
It took about a half hour to get to her cabin in Eagle River, which was apparently her family’s former vacation pad. Upon pulling into the driveway, I began to feel guilty in assuming she resided in a trailer.
“Go to sleep, Douggie,” she said to her son. He gave me one last disdainful stare and then scurried to his room. As soon as he left the scene, Doris tackled me and we started making out.
“Let’s take this to my waterbed, cowboy.”
The next morning, we woke up on opposite sides of the mattress. Normally, after binge drinking marathons, I have trouble recalling the events of the previous evening. But I had no problem remembering what had transpired in bed between Doris and I, as it was by far the best sex that I’d ever had (regardless of the fact that I tested positive for Chlamydia shortly thereafter, but antibiotics quickly solved that problem — shit happens when you party naked.)
It was 8:30. Rick had mentioned that he wanted be on the road back to Madison in the late morning, so there was a little time to kill. I tapped Doris on the back.
“Heya, Doris. Wanna go again and then maybe grab some breakfast? There a Perkins or Cracker Barrel around here?”
“No thanks.”
“Well, will you still drive me back to my motel?”
She did, but she wasn’t happy about it. We dropped Douggie off at his Dad’s place on the way. I could tell by his grin that he was happy that I was leaving. Doris and I didn’t really talk much during drive from Eagle River back to Minocqua. I was getting the coldest of vibes. Although Doris had made me splooge like Ron Jeremy at his career’s zenith, I had evidently failed to reciprocate. We got to the Motel Six pretty much right on time, with Rick and Stephen waiting in the lot with the car all packed up.
“Last night was really great. Maybe we can exchange phone numbers and you can hit me up whenever you’re in Madison. I could even come up north and visit you once in a while.”
“In your dreams, junior.”
“Fair enough.”
I love a woman who speaks her mind. She unlocked the car doors and I hopped out. Before I could begin to wave goodbye, she sped off.
The ride back to Madison was uneventful for the most part. More KoRn, this time with some snippets of Ozzy here and there. I could have actually used some country music. It had started to grow on me during the previous evening’s festivities.
Rick turned around from the passenger seat when we were about 25 miles away from home.
“So, stud, you gonna return to Minocqua any time soon?”
