Marlon Brando steps in at my engagement

Note: This is the first in a five part series I’m doing to celebrate five years of marriage with my wife, Deedee. These stories are to the best of my recollection. I’m sure she’ll correct me if they’re wrong.

The sun scalded us sitting six inches from the sun for seven hours and  I got lost for six innings during an Atlanta Braves home game. That night, dinner would be Moroccan, and at a place that will forever be etched in my brain, I’d also planned to ask Deedee to marry me.

Popping the question would not be a surprise to either of us. We’d already planned to get married (about 20 seconds after we met, I’m told). We both knew I’d planned to slip the ring on that night. The engagement ceremony stood as something of a formality; a ceremonial first pitch. It gave me a chance to drop to a knee, present the New York City Diamond District engagement ring and close the loop.

Little did I know that loop closing had a potential injury and do-over clause.

We arrived for dinner at about 6 O’Clock. We waited about 20 minutes before we were “seated.” As we walked into be seated, the first alarm bells went off. See, I’ve had three surgeries on my right knee. It’s also got some arthritis and has the flexibility of a baked pretzel. My other knee isn’t so hot, either.

So, when it came time to sit on the floor with legs crossed in the traditional style, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it when I took Kendo/Iaido lessons either. So, I had to create some artificial pose that looked like a cross of Eastern European torture and the worst slide into home plate that ever occurred. Soft as the pillows were, they didn’t deaden the idea that eventually, I’d have to get off the floor without the use of a winch.

We got past the ordering. I figure it’s time. So, I sidle up close, pull the ring out of my coat and get ready to ask the question. Now, remember, we’d been over this a million times. In my head, this was nothing more than a ribbon cutting, a ground breaking or signing the paperwork (which was, of course, the greatest flawed thinking since someone at ABC television said, “We’re gonna pass on this C.S.I. thing.”)

So, the moment feeling right, I popped about half of the expected question before the whole thing went off the rails.

“Whoa whoa whoa mister,” she said. “We’re getting engaged! That’s not the right way! You need to try harder than that.”

Crap.

So, I swung around to one knee, but she stopped me. “Not yet!” she said. “Too quick. Wait a few minutes!”

So I did. Then I tried again. And screwed that one up. After three tries, I eventually got it right. She said yes. We kissed. And then she said something I can’t reveal here that is both funny, alarming and would have put the frosting on that whole cake.

Had it not been for Marlon Brando.

See, we ate our meal, enjoyed the evening (music, great food and atmosphere) and, save the couple next to us melting down and eventually fighting right there (she was also jealous of Deedee’s ring – win!), the night was saved. We were making plans. We were talking about who we’d invite to Vegas for the event (it eventually got moved to Macon). It was then time to head home.

We paid the check. As we moved toward the door, a large man in a flowing robe stopped us. He held out his hands and said, “You must say for a few more minutes.” We said we’d rather not, but he insisted that we stay. So, I figure one of the wait staff heard about our engagement. Then there’d be some hummus with a candle in it or something. Maybe I left my wallet behind,

No. Instead, the man (who turned out to be the owner) stops the music, calls everyone’s attention to him and begins, perhaps, the single greatest monologue of unintentional comedy I’d heard in five years.

He begins to eulogize Brando.

After all, Brando died just two days prior and apparently we, as patrons, had not paid our due respect to him. So, channeling as both Calvary Preacher and a Jules Winfield, our friend expounded on Brando’s every virtue, even managing to add passages on Ronald Reagan.

I thought for sure he would roll our engagement as a parable for “On the Waterfront,” or nullify it somehow because the proper mourning period for Brando had not passed. Ten minutes later, we prayed. Then, we were [ahem] allowed to leave.

Needless to say, Deedee and I were engaged July 3, 2004.

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