After handling three or four weddings, he suddenly informed me, “I'm going to introduce you to a veteran in our industry. He was my mentor when I first started out.” And so, in a daze, I was brought to Rick's company. After that, my former mentor all but disappeared. He no longer invited me to accompany him to weddings, nor did he book any more for me. Perhaps he deemed me too inept to teach, or perhaps I had unwittingly offended him. Even after a decade, I still haven't unraveled the mystery.

Fortunately, Rick proved to be an exemplary mentor. Although he never instructed me in a classroom setting, whenever issues arose during client meetings, wedding planning, or hosting, he would patiently point them out and offer guidance.

Under his tutelage, I made rapid progress. When I first joined the company, there were six or seven established planners, and I was the youngest and most recent recruit. Yet, five or six years ago, I had already ascended to the position of the company's lead planner.

So whenever someone asked who had introduced me to this profession and who my mentor was, I invariably named Rick. In my eyes, he would always be my teacher.

Our profession has a high turnover rate. The cooperation between the company and planners is essentially based on gentleman's agreements, with no fixed contracts or salaries. When new clients arrive, the company recommends a selection of planners. Once the clients choose, the company liaises with the selected planner. Payment is made per wedding. Thus, the cooperative relationship hinges entirely on personal integrity. It's not uncommon for individuals to switch companies or establish their own ventures.

Over the past decade, only two or three individuals, including myself, have remained at Rick's company for more than ten years. While new recruits frequently join, they often come and go like the tide.

Naturally, numerous companies have approached me with offers. Yet, while I’m open to occasional collaborations, my long-term commitment remains with Rick's company, *Happy Times*.

After a short while, the couple returned, carrying several bottles of drinks. They distributed one to each of us, and I accompanied them upstairs to the meeting room.

“Truly,” I swiveled my office chair to face the couple from Indiana, the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the studio, casting geometric patterns on the walnut floor, “the pranks Ryan's fraternity brothers have in store for your wedding will surely astonish you.”

The groom, Ryan, scratched his short, sandy-blond hair. “Remember that wedding in Miami last year? The groomsmen dressed the groom in a pink tutu and sprayed him with shaving cream until he looked like a snowman.” The spurs on his cowboy boots clinked against the floor. “This time, they're threatening to paint my vintage Ford pickup in rainbow colors.”

The bride, Emily, clutched her Starbucks cup, her New York accent sharpening. “You never mentioned anything about paintball!” She tapped her iPad screen with champagne-colored fingernails. “Look at clause 27 of this proposal—what does *‘Suggest preparing a waterproof wedding dress’* mean?”

I caught Alen's eye, and he understood my cue. He switched on the projector, and a video sprang to life on the wall: a wedding scene in Texas, where the groomsmen had transformed the groom's white suit into an abstract painting with fluorescent paint. A drunken reveler then knocked over the champagne tower while brandishing a fire extinguisher.

“Last year in Missouri,” I paused the video, “the bride's Versace dress was ruined.” I advanced the clip. “And in Florida, they used an industrial-grade streamer gun...” On the screen, the groom looked like a Christmas present wrapped in candy paper.

Emily's Gucci loafers tapped impatiently. “This is what you call a *country wedding*?” She tore off her pearl earrings and flung them onto the teak conference table. “When we were trying on dresses in Brooklyn last week, you didn’t mention *body painting* during the exchange of vows!”

“Baby, it’s an old fraternity tradition...” Ryan’s Indiana accent grew thicker, like melting cheese. “My senior year, I painted the president's Harley pink with Hello Kitty motifs. They've been waiting seven years for payback.”

“Then let them wed your Harley!” Emily snatched up her Fendi Peekaboo handbag. “I’ll book the tickets to Las Vegas right away and head to the Grand Canyon for our honeymoon after tying the knot at the Little White Chapel.”

In the echo of the oak door slamming shut, Ryan cast a wry smile at us. “When she first came to our barn party on the farm, she thought tossing glow sticks into the beer keg was rather romantic.” The silver buttons on his cowboy shirt glimmered in the sunset. “Times have changed, Jack.”

As Alen stepped over to sort out the documents, he murmured, “Ever since that wedding in Colorado—where someone used dry ice to create smoke and triggered the fire alarm—whenever I see ‘rustic style’ on an order, my heart skips a beat.”

“Think you’re hot stuff now and can be picky?” Rick’s voice drifted from the pantry. The veteran wedding planner, with forty years in the business, strolled in, cradling a mug emblazoned with the faded gold letters “World’s Greatest Father-in-law.” “Remember that mud-wrestling wedding we organized in Oklahoma in the eighties?”

I exchanged a glance with Alen. Indeed, there was a legendary video in our archive: the bride, clad in a mud-splattered wedding gown, tossed the groomsmen into the mud pit one by one and finally kissed the groom when the referee counted to ten.

“These modern couples…” Rick shook his head as he sipped his coffee. “Last week, that couple insisted on setting off drone fireworks during the ring exchange—and it ended up burning the bridesmaid’s wig.”

Suddenly, the vintage phone in the studio rang. After answering it, Alen said, “Mr. Ryan left a message saying they’ve decided to have an elopement ceremony in Aspen, in the Rocky Mountains. All they need is a photographer and…” He stifled a chuckle. “…a team of guides armed with bear spray.”

I gazed out of the window at the sightseeing boats cruising along the river. The neon lights were beginning to twinkle in the twilight. On the top floor of a hotel across the river, the wedding lights flickered like crystal pendants suspended in the air. Perhaps I should suggest to Emily that she choose a waterproof mountaineering wedding dress—who knows if the brown bears in the Rocky Mountains might want to crash the party?

We chatted for a while longer, and then Rick said, “Don’t go home for dinner tonight. Let’s have a get-together at my place!”

Since I often dropped by Rick’s place for a meal after dealing with clients or weddings, I didn’t hesitate to agree.

When Rick parked his vintage Buick in the driveway, the setting sun was painting the wooden villa a honeyed hue. Ten years had passed, and he still lived in the “Redwood Street Old House” he had mentioned when teaching me to decorate my first wedding—except now there was a Dyson spherical bird feeder beside the porch swing.

“Uncle Sam!” Della dashed down from the porch, barefoot. The newly dyed purple tips of her hair fluttered in the evening breeze like neon jellyfish. This girl, studying visual arts in New York, always managed to give her Gucci outfits a street-graffiti vibe. “My TikTok followers surpassed 100,000 last week!” She waved her phone case with its blinking LED lights. “All thanks to the zombie bride look you designed for last year’s Halloween wedding.”

I took the chilled beer she handed me. Droplets on the aluminum can dripped onto the redwood floor. The aroma of garlic bread wafted from the kitchen, mingling with the sizzling of the steak and Aunt Lorraine’s voice. “Sam, remember to remind your boss to change his blood pressure medicine—he picked out the broccoli again last week and fed it to Bruce!”

Rick grumbled as he loosened his tie. “That stupid dog even ate my golf ball.” His baggy khaki pants were still smeared with the confetti from the morning wedding. As we sat on the backyard patio, Bruce chased the sprinkler in circles, and the lemon scent of Corona beer bottles hung in the water mist.

As the charcoal fire grew hotter, the conversation drifted to the past. “Remember when you first decorated the flower arch?” Old Rick jabbed at his ribs with his barbecue tongs. “You replaced all the roses with cacti, claiming that the Texan couple would love it.” His laughter startled the blue jays on the oak branches. “And the bride’s bouquet ended up pricking the groom’s hands all over.”

Della, chewing on a roasted corn cob, chimed in, “If you ask me, we should have used neon resin flowers. There was an art installation at MoMA last year…” Her phone screen lit up in fluorescent hues in the twilight, and the lock screen displayed Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe.

“Speaking of art,” Aunt Lorraine emerged with the potato salad, her apron stamped with the pink lip print “Kiss the Cook.” “The daughter of the new pastor at the church graduated from Parsons…” The frequency of her winking reminded me of the disco ball light I helped Della adjust last month.

Rick poured beer into my glass, wiping the foam off the rim with his thumb. “Last week, when I was planning the wedding for Kate’s daughter, there was a great female doctor in the bridesmaid’s group…”

Suddenly, Della held up her phone. “Look! Ryan and Emily just updated their Instagram!” In the video, the eloping couple was rowing a raft in the rapids of Colorado. The bride’s waterproof wedding dress shimmered with a pearl luster in the sunlight. Then the camera shook violently—their guide was aiming bear spray at a shadow on the shore.

“That’s what I call a wedding!” Della smeared the last piece of roasted pumpkin with maple syrup. “I want to have my ceremony in a volcano crater and wear a liquid metal wedding dress…” Her fingers traced a meteor trail in the air, and the Chrome Hearts bracelet on her wrist jingled.

Old Rick’s Apple Watch suddenly vibrated. He glanced at the message and muttered, “The couple in the North District changed their minds again. They want to release fireflies from a hot air balloon.” Bruce seized the opportunity to snatch the roasted sausage off his plate, knocking over a stack of sauce-smeared napkins.

As Della began to explain her holographic projection wedding plan, I gazed at the solar-powered night lights twinkling on the terrace railing. The warehouse where Rick taught me to tie my first bow ten years ago was now filled with vintage wedding props he couldn’t bear to part with: a rusty bell carriage, a faded Millennium balloon arch, and that dry ice machine that nearly caused a fire.

When Aunt Lorraine brought out the homemade cherry pie, the evening breeze carried cheers from a high school football game in the distance. Rick dozed off in the lounge chair, and Bruce lay beside his scuffed work boots. Della projected the drone-captured night view onto the garage door. The skyline, thirty miles away, twinkled like scattered diamond fragments on a bridal veil...