Proposing marriage is a perilous affair. You put your heart, soul, and future on the line, throw dice in the air.
For years, he’d been dodging the idea, foolishly thinking he still remained a catch, though very few ladies had, as of late, cast him a glance — until she came along and they began tossing their hearts back and forth, like eggs, careful not to drop one.
Then came a morning when just as the sun was clearing the trees, it dawned on him what to do. Cut to the chase, dude, he said to himself. Now’s the time. She is waaay cool and you’ll never find a better wife. Come on son, step up.
A marriage proposal should be done in person he knew, but this was not possible. She had moved 1,300 miles away to care for her brother who had broken his back in a motorcycle accident. Absence definitely makes the heart grow fonder, he thought. Does absinthe make the heart grow fonder as well he joked to himself? He didn’t have any.
It would have to be done by telephone. He felt calmly lucid as he called her that spring morn. Before she could utter a word beyond hello he cut her off — “Listen, I’ve thought it over, a lot, and I got an idea — you may want to sit down. Here it is, ready? Will you marry me?” A silent, pregnant pause. He filled the space and spoke again, “Did ya hear me? Will. You. Marry. Me?” He was so giddy he giggled. Still she said nothing. He asked again, “Seriously. Want to get married? To me, I mean?”
Then came a quivering response, “What did you … say? Have you been drinking?”
“Ha! No, I have not been drinking,” he said.
“What are you doing?”
And he said it again. “Will ya marry me … sweetie?”
A gasp led to a sharp tongue, “My God, you are unbelievable. What a terrible thing to do. How could you, Virgil? Is this your idea of a joke? I should’ve known. Anything for a laugh. I’m not sure I want to see you anymore.” She hung up.
He was dumbstruck. Bamboozled. He immediately called her back. It rang. Rang. Rang. He hung up and called again. Again. Again. She would not answer.
Stunned, crippled, devastated, he downed the two beers he had in the fridge and polished off what was left of the vodka. Then started in on the tequila. All the while torturing himself. Why’d she get so mad? What in the hell did he do? What did she mean by joke? Are they really through? He couldn’t fathom it.
Two hours later, the tequila half gone, he leaned on the kitchen counter, ready to hurl in the sink. He saw the calendar on the wall. It was Tuesday, March 31st. A day that will live in infamy he thought. Bile began to rise in his throat.
Then he thought, wait, today wasn’t Tuesday, it was Wednesday. He stumbled over to the wall, turned the page on the calendar. The picture showed a beautiful rainbow. No rainbow for him. No pot of gold, not today.
All the sudden he was struck like a slap to the face. It was April Fool’s Day. And then he puked.
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