The sushi prank

Terry and I flew back to Los Angeles for our wedding day in the Temple. I was about to meet Terry’s family and friends all at once, the people who had known him in earlier chapters, when his hair was darker and his stories had fewer footnotes. I remember thinking, quietly: Just breathe. Just listen. Let the day unfold.

One night, Art Laboe invited us to the Rainbow. He was exactly as advertised. Warm, funny, generous with stories, the kind of man who makes you feel instantly included, like you have been sitting at his table for years. At some point, between laughter and clinking glasses, he told me a story about Terry. I listened closely. I always did.

Years earlier, Terry and a couple of friends used to haunt a little place on Melrose called California Sushi. Vodka. Sushi. Practical jokes. The holy trinity of poor decisions. One night, the room was festive, loose, glowing. There was a beautiful cashier at the front desk, standing tall, smiling easily. Terry wandered over to talk to her.

From their table, Art and Steve watched the whole thing unfold like a silent movie. Terry leaning in. The cashier laughing. Sparks, clearly visible even from across the room. It was all going very well.

Too well.

That is when Art came up with a plan.

He and Steve stood up, pretending to get ready to leave. Steve wandered over and, in the most casual voice imaginable, said, “Oh, Terry, by the way, your wife called. She said to pick up some milk and Pampers for the baby on your way home.”

The effect was immediate. The cashier’s smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed. She leaned forward and hissed, “You pig!”

Terry tried to recover. He pleaded. He explained. He swore it was a joke. But the spell was broken. She stomped away, dignity intact, fury blazing. Terry turned back to his friends and said, with feeling, “You bastards.”

Art laughed when he finished the story. I laughed too. Then I thanked him.

"Thank you," I said, "for keeping Terry single all those years, for me."

Some things take timing. Some things require patience. Like seasons shifting. Like the right person arriving only after all the wrong jokes have been played.

That night at the Rainbow, surrounded by people who loved him, I felt strangely calm. The past had done its work.

And somehow, through vodka, sushi, and bad jokes, Terry had found his way home.

Shall we call that divine timing, with a sense of humor?