"The documentary's amazing," Steph said. "You should hear Ali speak. It's pretty intense. He's like a prophet."

"Is he the one with the grill?"

"No. That's George Foreman," Ted explained, patting his hair. "It's a pretty fantastic item. He also just came out with a panini press. You want to talk sandwiches, I'll give you a sandwich. George is a great guy. Known him for years." Then he looked at the helipad's windsock. "If this wind hits thirty knots, I'm gonna need access to a hairbrush. I may have to go down and get our bags."

People were starting to file in, and it looked as if the event was getting started. I tried to avoid eye contact with all the usual suspects, since I knew I would have plenty of opportunities in the next couple of hours to reminisce about the days when Ecstasy and Vicodin took up most of my mornings and early afternoons.

Instead I opted to interrogate Steph about the documentary and find out as much as I could about why anyone would have the desire to get hit in the face for a living.

"The Tyson documentary is pretty amazing, too," she added. "Have you seen that?"

"No, but I would be more interested in seeing one on Muhammad Ali," I told her.

"The Tyson documentary is very telling, Chelsea," Ted argued. "You see a side of him you didn't expect to see."

"Did you see it?" Steph asked Ted.

"Of course he didn't see it," I told her.

"You don't know if I saw it, Chelsea." Then he turned to Steph. "I have not seen it, but that's what everyone's saying."

"It's true," she agreed. "You do see a different side that I didn't know he had."

"Well," I informed then both, "I'll tell you what I do know. I know that Mike Tyson has a tattoo on his eye, and that's a pretty good indicator that all cylinders are not firing."

Ted had lost interest in the conversation and had moved on to his BlackBerry. "Do you think I have time to run to the market for some chips and salsa to have on the chopper?" he whispered.

"No. The wedding is about to start and we're on the roof of a hotel. And please don't refer to it as a chopper. You're not Al Roker, and I'm not a Doppler radar."

I looked back to see all the groomsmen lined up at the perimeter of the roof, ready for their walk. When the music started, Ted was still on his BlackBerry, so I elbowed him in the ribs.

"I'm just ordering the chips and salsa."

Lydia was bawling before she even hit the aisle and her soon-to-be-husband looked like he was going to vomit. Ted made a half-assed attempt to cover his mouth and leaned in.

"Is he okay?"

"Shut up."

"That's the groom, right?" he asked, pointing to the only man in a tuxedo standing next to the justice of the peace, whose hand he had shaken five minutes earlier. "He looks sick."

The justice of the peace was clearly on sabbatical from his duties as a Carnival Cruise director. The enthusiasm with which he was conducting himself was about as believable as a three-legged alligator that also does magic. He obviously had no history with Lydia and her fiance but was acting like he had rescued them both from orphanages and raised them for thirty years. He looked like John Ritter if John Ritter had been an asshole. I had to assume that his name was Tito, and not the black kind. He was white and the type of person who announces "I love meat" every time he's in an Outback Steakhouse.

I imagined that Lydia had likely hired this guy after a friend of hers had promised to get an online marriage license and then forgot to.

After Tito said that Lydia's love for Joey was something that could only be found in a Shakespearean play, I watched as Joey's face twitched. It was pretty windy, so some of the stuff I couldn't hear, but luckily the wind died down for this: "Joey, the passion you feel for Lydia is something only you and Lydia can know about, and you are agreeing today to never allow your passion to flee from the sanctity of this day, or from Lydia…" I looked at Ted. His head was cranked so far away from me, as he was trying not to laugh, that my only recourse was to bite down on one of my knuckles. Then came two knuckles, and then, before long, my entire fist was in my mouth. "Love is like a Ferris wheel. Round and round it goes, and sometimes it will get stuck right at the top, and sometimes it will skip past the spot at the bottom where ticketholders are supposed to get on and off. No pun intended."

"Oh, my God," Ted groaned.

I removed my fist, wiped the slobber onto my dress, and whispered to Ted, "And sometimes, if you're Chuy, you can't even get on the Ferris wheel."

"… Remember, the world is a place where two lovers…" and then a thundering noise came from the sky. Thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap. It was growing louder and louder, and it sounded like someone had gotten a flat tire. I looked up and saw a helicopter.

"Oh, my God."

"No," said Ted.

"This better not be our ride," I said through gritted teeth.

He lowered his sunglasses on his nose in order to be clear about what he saw. "That can't be ours, it's too early." The helicopter was getting closer and didn't look like it was turning around. I closed my eyes and imagined a world with only dolphins and Abigail Breslin.

"Ted."

"What? No, that's someone else's."

"No one else ordered a helicopter. I can guarantee that."

"You don't know that, Chelsea."

"Yes I do. You are the only person who would do that. You and the coast guard."

The helicopter was headed straight for us, but I believed in my state of panic and horror that if I stared the helicopter straight in the eye the way people suggest you do when coming into contact with a bear, it would eventually lose interest and head in the other direction.

"Oh, my God, is that going to land here?" Steph asked as softly as was permissible in the current hailstorm of conditions.

I had one of Ted's balls in my grip. "You are the worst."

"No, no, no, no," he repeated as he released my hold on his testicle while keeping both eyes on the incoming aircraft. He was now squeezing my hand and saying, "I'm so sorry. I really don't think anyone can even hear it with the wind."

I didn't look around to see if this was true for fear of finding out that it wasn't. Taking the wind into consideration, it was plausible that depending on where you were seated, you might be oblivious to the fact that a helicopter was about to land on our heads. I looked down at my toes to try to come up with some believable explanation as to why a helicopter pilot was about to get out of a helicopter on the roof of a hotel, in the middle of my friend's wedding, and most likely say our names.

"They can't land. It's a total safety hazard. They're not going to land in the middle of a wedding," Ted assured me. The thwap-thwap-thwap was getting closer, and more heads were turning. It was definitely only the seats on our side that could hear it; the other side seemed lost in Tito's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs comparison. Finally Ted threw his hands violently up in the air with a wave that would only be necessary if he was directing a Hannah Montana video. Nonetheless, it turned out to be an effective movement, because within thirty seconds the helicopter made a hard right and was veering away from the building, back toward the marina.

"Oh, thank God," I said, with my hands in prayer position. Then I attempted to do the sign of the cross, but me being a half Jew, my hands crossed signals and I ended up slapping Ted's earlobe. Right then I saw Ivory for the first time that afternoon; she had the very familiar look on her face that implied she had no intention of making eye contact with me. I hadn't told her about the helicopter, but it was clear she was one of the people who'd heard it. We had vowed a long time ago to never again sit next to each other at weddings, funerals, or quinceaneras, because of my inability to be serious at important events. I tried to get her attention, but she insisted on respecting the fact that we were at a wedding and locking eyes with the gazebo under which Lydia and Joey were getting married. This wasn't the first time Ivory had disappointed me, and it surely wouldn't be the last.