Why I Should Be a Groomsman (Even Though I Am Already): A Semantic Appeal for the Aforementioned Distinction

My buddy is getting married and had the audacity to request that we submit essays as to why we should be considered as groomsman. This is mine:

The friendship between Monticello Gelatini and myself dates back to the fall of 1999—seven years ago—which was, by all rights, a very foul and damnable autumn plagued with scholastic annoyances and a general sense of pubescent ennui. If I remember correctly, our relationship was forged in French II, and it was an odd sort of pairing to be sure. He a cocky, self-assured braggart and me a reserved, introverted sociopath, I found our mutual respect for one another unexplainable. In retrospect, we exist as compatriots for no other reason than that high school is an invariably confusing forum in which to operate and one that begs an individual’s avoidances and prejudices to be balanced with unlikely admissions and acceptances where neither would normally exist.

Nonetheless, we “hit it off,” as the kids say and became quick partners in crime, terrorizing the other French students with a barrage of wit, insincerity, and broken pencils. Some students wept at our cruelty. Some dismissed us as petty rabble-rousers or hopeless dickheads. We simply laughed at their consternation and attempted to associate only with those few individuals who respected our particular brand of humor. Needless to say, we were forced to operate under the radar of our good teacher, Madame Femmeforte, and CIA operatives and Marines alike will attest to the following: once you go into battle with someone, the bond is never broken. Indeed. If Monty and I were never to speak again, if he were to move to Beirut and I to Okinawa, we would always share a connection comparable to those harbored by infantrymen across the globe. Our friendship itself began as a mutant zygote—a truly contemptible alliance between two individuals hellbent on destroying anyone whose constitution did not agree with their own.

The preceding paragraph is not meant to connote in any way that we were heartless in our castigation, nor were we unduly cruel in our methods, but it stood to reason that if we were to suffer the halls of St. Francis High School, we were going to have at least little Fun doing it. The French Trip in the summer of 2000 provided a more than ample forum for these sorts of activities. The memories are well-documented enough, however, that I will not go into detail about that trip to the Land Across the Pond suffice to say we had ourselves a high-voltage frolic, a balls out rampage that impregnated our budding sense of adventure with the Will to Act. France taught us both invaluable lessons, and if I had been allowed to accompany him on the second trip, I have little doubt that Paris would have been left a pile of rubble, and at least one or two newspapers would have run pictures of Monticello and I pissing on the smoldering remains of a city suffering too many cancers to list in one short essay.

And so the years progressed. Junior year led into Senior year. The seasons changed, and we were all subjected to the sort of clichéd high school experience we had been trying to avoid…for the most part, anyway. Trips to the Warren Dunes were coupled with vicious attacks on Bones Malarkey’s penile extremity. We all flung Gatorade bottles, rocks, baseballs, anything we could find at the poor kid’s genitals, and perhaps that is where his own appeal for groomsmanship actually lies, for many of his sustained injuries were caused by my good, marriage-bound comrade. I doubt Mr. Malarkey will mention any of it, and the full force of our reasonless teenage vendetta against him will not be recognized until he fosters a child with four legs, three faces, and a lemon-flavored blood stream.

But the adventures Monty and I had are not the point. They serve, of course, to add context and nostalgic reverie to the mix, which is both essential and appreciated. I certainly do not intend to undermine the sanctity of those things with what I am about to say.

Here it is the, though, the Meat of this thing, if you will. In the tenure of our friendship, in the seven long years since Mr. Gelatini and I first romped together, I have been forced to endure more arrogant blathering, pseudo-nationalistic rhetoric, and personal castigations than I am prepared to fully admit. Furthermore (and perhaps this is another reason I should be a groomsman in and of itself), I have always had a very public hatred for Italian-Americans and Italianism in general. I regard both characteristics as diseases that are incurable until the host decides, once and for all, that any genetic presence of the motherland is overruled by place of birth. Monticello Gelatini, despite what he might tell you, is not Italian.

That’s correct. He is an American through and through.

He is a Yank. I cannot tell you fully how many times I have had to remind him of this fact, yet I did so specifically because I did not want one of my best friends growing up with delusions of international flavor. I am not one to butter his balls. Such things would not serve him well in the future, and besides, he butters them well enough himself. There is only so much I can do for him nowadays, proximity (or lack thereof) being what it is. However, in the olden days, there was never an action of my own related to Monticello that did not in some way attempt to act in favor of his best interests. According to my recollection, this is entirely true, and might I simply reiterate that I did so in spite of his heritage. If you look through my history of friendships and companions, you will find that Mr. Gelatini is the only predominantly “Italian” person with which I have kept company.

I would also like to state briefly that Monticello Gelatini sexually harassed me numerous times, and the scars that bled then continue to bleed to this very day.

So really, I am owed this honor, if not for the mental anguish in question then because of my sincerity as a friend. I believe Monty has faith enough in this sincerity to let his interpretation of it go unmarred despite what good-natured insults I might throw his way, and besides, gentle ribbing has always been a practice we held in high regard. It keeps a man on his toes and thickens the skin. We will have much need of it as we tear our respective paths into adulthood.

When all is said and done, despite our general aloofness and regardless of the mutual neglect of a promise we made to one another during a basketball scrimmage at God's House, I have never called Monty anything but “friend.” Believe me when I say this is a courtesy I have extended to very few individuals from days past, but it is one I will not hesitate to apply to our soon-to-be groom now or ever. O, how I would like to be involved in his union as the groomsman. At the very least, perhaps it will provide me with the chance to warn Ms. Miller who, when I saw her last, appeared to be under the influence of one of Monticello’s hypnotic spells and, quite possibly, a mild dose of sedative.