The best man

These people were perfectly ordinary. They really were. And something resembling love had transpired between them so they thought it would be a good idea to cement the whole mess. Through the conventional channels. So, as you can imagine, it all started off in a fairly predictable way. They booked me online. Through the website. A month later and I'm in my car. Taking a pleasant drive down south. Through a very pretty rural corridor. Me being customarily early to avoid any unforeseen complications. Scope out the venue. To get set up. In my all-purpose dark blue function suit. The equipment charged and ready to go. In the boot. With spare batteries. And a tripod.

I spent the morning with the bridal party while my assistant worked with the groomsmen. Which was by far the easier of the two jobs. Believe me. And the ceremony was fine. A fairly low key affair. 'Humble' you might say. And the reception went to plan as well. Fine. It was completely fine. Drinks, speeches, dancing and food. Until the best man freaked out.

All this took place on rented vineyard land. Oak wine barrels and gravel roads and rolling hills lacking the conviction to become real mountains. Orderly hills. Combed into vineyard rows. As usual, my assistant and I were required to be background characters. Extras. To hang onto the edge of the proceedings with our cameras. So, after the main event, we caught what we could. Fragments. As it unfolded. On high definition video. The best man starting to go ballistic. Isn’t that what people always say? 'Ballistic'. Like a missile?

To me, being an objective viewer, it became apparent he was unbalanced. Sure it did. Well, first of all, he hadn’t showered in days. He stunk like an animal pelt. During the reception, his speech became awkward and aggressive. People laughed. Muttered. At first. Then they all got very edgy. There was a complicated history with this guy. A backstory. There always is. In my experience. I've been to enough of these things. I know. Believe you me. There is always a history. Some grudge that bubbles to the surface. Anyway....four, five, six drinks later...things got fairly weird. By then, the best man was shambling around. Frankenstein in a rented tux. Muttering in an unintelligible way. Bumping into people. Knocking things over. At one point he came looming into the lens of my camera. A yeti. A Sasquatch. His face raw. Distorted with hostility. His mouth yanked open and his eyes blank. Failing to read the emotional terrain. A mask. Exuding evil signals.

And then it was dark. And we were into the fire and music. Rock music mainly. But also danceable tracks. Sound pounding out of large speakers set up on a flatbed truck. Coolers full of beer and wine. Bottles. Bobbing in melted ice. The guests becoming increasingly dishevelled in their formal wear. Things getting looser. More off centre. More unhinged. I just kept shooting video. The memory card filling up. Handheld. Framing scenes. Following people. As they came spilling out of the dark. Drunk and happy.

I didn't see what happened first hand. I heard about it. The best man punched out two of the groomsmen. He KO’ed the first one. Goodnight Irene. Little tweety birds like in an old cartoon above the unconscious man's head. Basically, from that point on, the whole thing turned into a Viking wedding. And from what I understand, this assault came out of nowhere. And when the other groomsman tried to intervene, well, that's when he got laid out. A woman screamed. His wife maybe. The loud music made everything that little bit more disorientating. People were confused. Men were shouting. Trying to figure out what the hell was happening. A good time gone bad. Violence visited upon them out of the blue.

Then the cops showed up. Their siren lights whipping through the dark. Splashing colours across the side of the winery buildings. Across the gravel. Moving in on our position. And right away, the cops began searching for the best man. All told, his rampage included molesting several bridesmaids, the two assaulted groomsmen, numerous insults and threats of violence aimed at the other guests. Trampled tents and a broken fence. And he stole someone’s truck. Which he crashed into a tree two kilometres down the road. He went right off the side of the road and sent the vehicle careering into a gully. Into a tangle of ferns and ropy branches. Spiderwebbing the windshield. Wrapped it around a tree. Steam and coolant leaking out of the radiator.

I was detained to give a statement. I had no choice. Hence all the sitting around. Hence the bottle of red. After I'd given my statement. Hence sleeping in the back of my car. And waking up painfully in the cold light of day. Dehydrated. Sleep deprived. Still pissed. The sun weak behind a bank fog. My head pounding. I turned the key. To get the heater going. And leaned my head against the steering wheel. Just for a moment. Getting ready for what followed. A crow cawed from the next field over. The winery was a desolate place at that time of day. Freshly unveiled in all its dumb, raw splendour. I opened my eye to the whole painful scene. I noticed someone was sleeping in the tray back of their truck. In the next vehicle over. Their feet sticking out from under a blanket. I could tell. This was going to be a persistent little hangover. A headache like a whine of feedback. An echo. My brain caught in a vice. Slowly being squeezed. Tighter and tighter. I started the engine and drove through the property. Through the main gate. Turned left. Hugged the centre line. The land begins to roll and pitching around me. Green and fertile. And really, I was in no condition to drive.

Twenty minutes later I saw the best man. He was shambling through the little town to the north. Still in monster form. Still raging. The look on his face said, this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. The town's main street was totally deserted. Agricultural vehicles parked perpendicular to the curb. The pie shop was closed. The petrol station something from the 1950's. The Federation pub near the park. The best man was walked down the middle of the street. His back to me. His shadow stretched out on the concrete. Dragging along in his wake. And then: his head rolled around as he heard me approach. The sound of my engine rising up out of the near perfect silence. Leaves and shit in his hair. A smear of blood on his chin and around his nose. I couldn’t very well run him down. I had to stop. So there I was. Pinned behind my steering wheel. My head pounding. Clinging to the edge of something. How was it that the cops had missed him? That's what I wanted to know. How?

As soon as he lumbered around to the driver's side door I took off. Hit the gas. My car veering wildly before finding it's line. Metal slipping through the best man's hands. Like liquid. Then I was gone. And he was shrinking. In the rearview mirror. Getting smaller and smaller. Until he blinked out of existence. Gone. Completely.