Run, bride, run!
Oh, Jennifer, with your new haircut and your startled-looking eyes. I was so hoping you had run off to Vegas to become a showgirl.
As the nation seems to be going through a nasty spate of wife-chopping and wife-drowning, it was a delight to learn that runaway bride Jennifer Wilbanks of Duluth, Ga., she of the 600-invitee wedding and the startled-looking eyes, had not been chopped to pieces by a devout but deranged husband-to-be but had merely succumbed to the ancient lure of the Greyhound bus and gone to Vegas for some alone time. You figure it was some kind of spiritual emergency. Otherwise she would have left a note, no?
Most such stories pass this observer unremarked, but there was something about this one. I was standing on a cliff overlooking the Pacific as the sun was setting, and I overheard two hang gliders talking. One hang glider told the other hang glider that if he were the groom he’d just as soon she stayed on that bus and kept on going. Those eyes, he said. Did you see those eyes? Like a deer in the headlights.
Indeed, in the absence of detail, it was the pictures we seized on first. In fact, the first thing that struck me wasn’t Wilbanks herself but the remarkable resemblance between Albuquerque public information officer Trish Ahrensfield and Deputy Clementine Johnson of Comedy Central’s “Reno 911.” Did that mean anything? Is a busty blond in a police uniform with one little wisp of hair brushing across her forehead some kind of comedic meme peculiar to our time or to our vision of the West and the sorts of liberation it offers women?
But we wondered mostly about Jennifer, that startled expression on her half-starved face: Was it fear? Ebullience? Derangement?
Depending on who you asked (I asked the staff at Salon, who happened to be nearby; you could also ask the Table Talk people at Bridezillahead Revisited 6.0), Wilbanks’ eyes said many things. They said, “I had some pre-nuptial botox!” or “I haven’t had a full meal for six months! I’m very, very hungry! Please feed me!” or “I’m in a stunned fugue state that imitates a ‘vivacious Southern belle’ and may be completely out of my gourd, possibly permanently,” or “I think that last line of speed was JUST RIGHT,” or “I had a premonition last night that I am going to become a national joke” or possibly even, “If you start talking to me, you’re going to wake up alone, 14 hours from now, in a bathtub full of cold water in a room you don’t recognize with no clothes, no wallet, an empty bottle of Cuervo and an entire store display of Devil Dogs.”
Drawn to underdogs and misfits, I was naturally on the side of Ms. Wilbanks, regardless of what her spooky eyes were saying. Surely, I thought, she must be seeking liberation, even if she doesn’t have a name for it! Perhaps all she knew was that whatever she was seeking looked a lot like Las Vegas in the movies, so that’s where she headed with her bus ticket and her new haircut and her striped blanket that later Ms. Ahrensfield, in a gesture of absurd modesty, would drape over her head as she guided her through the Albuquerque airport to a waiting plane home.
So while the groom stewed, the media speculated and indignant townspeople knit their brows in censorious disapprobation, I secretly wished that the Runaway Bride had gone off to become a showgirl. Just for the thrill of it, I wanted to see her go as far as she could. Go, go, go, Runaway Bride! Go as far as you can from Georgia, beyond Las Vegas to California, Oregon, Alaska, across the Bering Strait to Siberia and over the Steppes into Mongolia, China, Tibet! Go, frightened bride of the South! Run from that Bible-toting paramour with the square head, flee the harsh whisky-soaked legacy of slavery and politely simmering women, flee the pecan groves and peanut farms, flee all those Southern belles who never ring and all those good old boys who are neither all that good nor all that old! Flee! Go! Run away!
But the closest thing to liberation she could think of was Vegas, which probably means that in any meaningful sense her quest for liberation is doomed. And how, if Vegas was as far as she could imagine, would she ever explain to her Bible-thumping soon-to-be-betrothed precisely what poetic murmur in her heart had set her going on that bus, what shimmering Mirage rose out of the desert sands to haunt her still-single dreams? In short, her prospects for lucid and lasting reconciliation did not seem unalterably bright. Like Lucy Ricardo after yet another failed scheme, Jennifer Wilbanks was going to have some ‘splaining to do.
Yet for four days she kept at bay the fearsome tide of custom. She made one last gesture of freedom toward the open road. Who knows what life unlived now lies stillborn on the floor of that Greyhound bus? It’s not for us to say; but she made a break for it, feeble and doomed as it was.
You wonder what she’ll tell her kids years from now, when those startled eyes have narrowed with the narrowing of life’s possibilities and the kids dig up the clippings on the Internet and ask her what she was doing running off on a Greyhound bus when she was supposed to be getting married to daddy. Let’s hope she won’t just hush them up but take a moment to explain how before you do anything permanent in life you first have to stay up all night brooding in a pool hall or drinking coffee with a girlfriend or driving aimlessly about the countryside waiting for sunrise or a sign from God, whichever comes first. And if no sign appears, well, there’s always that Greyhound bus leaving for Las Vegas every day at 3:23. Maybe she’ll describe to them the peculiar sound of a bus at 3 in the morning crossing Kansas on the way to Nevada with a baby sleeping in the seat behind and an old man with a cardboard suitcase snoring across the aisle. Maybe she’ll remember sitting there in the dark feeling like if she could just keep on riding that Greyhound bus that everything will work out in the end. Let’s hope she tells them something they can use. Let’s hope when they ask why she did it she puts on the Guy Clark song “Baby Took a Limo to Memphis,” and shouts out the chorus along with the kids: “She did it ’cause she wanted to!”
Anyway, I hope they work things out and go ahead with the wedding. And after the wedding, if this were my movie, this is what would happen: Recognizing that people are not perfect and that spiritual emergencies occur in the best of families, he buys his new wife a present. The present is a round-trip bus ticket to Las Vegas, open-ended, good any time from now until doomsday. He puts the ticket in a glass box and hangs the box on the wall. Next to the box he mounts a tiny red hammer. Under the box he hangs a sign that says, “In case of no fire, break glass.”
My sister’s stalker
He accosted her on the street and forced her into his car. She went to the police and they did nothing
(Credit: Zach Trenholm/Salon) Dear Cary,
My younger sister is a 21-year-old college student who is “trapped” in an abusive relationship with her ex-boyfriend, who is 35 years old. She first met him when she was 19, fell in love with him and eventually moved in with him. After they started living together, she discovered that he was emotionally and verbally abusive, to the point that after six months, she had had enough, broke it off and moved out. The problem now is that for over a year, he refuses to accept that their relationship is over. Although he has not physically abused her, he has “forced” her into his car, screamed at her in public, in front of her professors and classmates, snatched her cellphone out of her hand to see if she has been talking to/texting other guys. He stalks her, physically, following her around town, staking out her apartment, and electronically, constantly checking her cellphone, email, Facebook, Amazon accounts, etc. (During the time that they were living together, he managed to get access to these accounts, and somehow manipulate the password access such that he continues to have access, despite my sister’s attempts to change passwords, etc.)
Continue Reading CloseStop the wedding!
She's wrong for him! She'll ruin his life! What can we do?
(Credit: Zach Trenholm/Salon) Cary,
My dear friend is about to marry the wrong person. He is a brilliant, outgoing man, always willing to put others first, and in this case to a fault. His fiancée has pursued him since high school. He avoided her romantic advances for years, knowing he could do better, but she is a very smart and manipulative person and succeeded in landing him as a boyfriend. In the early years, he occasionally expressed a desire to break up with her, but could not build the nerve to do so. Since then, almost a decade has passed, and they are still the only partners either has ever had. I know that if he could press a button and wake up tomorrow with her happy and living in another city, and him happy and single, he would do it. However, a number of factors have kept him from leaving her. Their best friends from childhood are very close-knit (for example, his older brother is best friends with her older brother), and their families are close friends as well. Understandably, he feels like to break up with her would shatter this group of people he cares so much about, not to mention the emotional impact it would have on her.
Continue Reading CloseMy friend calls Obama a monkey
What am I supposed to say to this dude? What's his problem?
(Credit: Zach Trenholm/Salon) Dear Cary,
I have a friend that cannot speak about the president of the United States without using the word “monkey” or “chimpanzee.”
There have been presidents I was not thrilled about, but certainly I would not stoop to this.
This individual is well-off, has a degree and is considerate about most other topics.
What the HELL is his problem?
Thanks Cary,
Bewildered
Continue Reading CloseMy secretly bisexual husband
He's been with four men he met on Craigslist. Do I stick with him for our teenage daughters?
(Credit: Zach Trenholm/Salon) Dear Cary,
Recently my husband of 18 years has explored his sexuality with other men. He admitted having four sexual encounters with random men he solicited from Craigslist. After a week of hell, and many a shouting match, he begged me to take him back, claiming that his experimentation is not worth losing his family. As in a textbook scenario, he, somehow, convinced himself that I, being very liberal and supportive of gay community, would understand, and maybe even approve, his urges. Having two teenage daughters and being a stay-at-home mom, I have initially agreed to let him back into the family fold, after all his STD tests came back clean.
Continue Reading CloseWe were breast-fed really late
My mother continued to let us touch her for years after feeding stopped, and now it feels creepy and revolting
(Credit: Zach Trenholm/Salon) Dear Cary,
I don’t know how to put this any way but bluntly, so here goes. My mom let me and my brother breast-feed really, really late– until we were 4 or 5. She let us touch and play with her breasts for years after that. She never told us what sex was, and later when I found out for myself, my body changing on its own, I felt revulsion at the all-too-recent memories of how I touched, and wanted to touch, my own mother. I hated that she hadn’t stopped me.
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