Ken Hogarty
The Cana Wedding: What Really Went Down
“Jesus Christ, this tastes like camel dung,” the wedding guest fumes, spitting his sip of wine. “Not fit for a leper.” He nearly hits the sandals of the groom, who thinks to respond, but turns his cheek to walk away.
Tommy, one of the wine snob’s companions who’s seen this act before, snorts before turning, exasperated, to Phil: “I doubt any vintage, region, or vineyard could satisfy him. Hill Country, Sea, Valley—all wine’s rotgut, unless from overseas. What a snob.”
“And,” Phil concurs, “always the same act. He has a bigger nose than his ideal wine and uses it to sniff like a dog in a just-decanted jug. Measures a taste into his earthenware goblet. Swirls it around. Stares at it as if looking for a miracle. Talks about whether it has legs or not as if it’s a begging cripple. And then takes a tiny sip as if he’s a Mary.”
“But no Mary, yet alone a Martha, ever blisters the air with the invectives he then invariably tosses off. You’d think he were Jimmy and Johnny, J.C.’s “Sons of Thunder,” when it’s about the fruit of the vine. Never satisfied.” He mimics: “Too much tannin. Not decanted right. No finish. Not balanced. No body.”
“Maybe he should change his palate-cleansing routine. Instead of munching dried, unleavened bread and fried locust, he should just sniff his armpits.
Tommy agrees: “Doubt there’s a worse smell in this world or next. He makes old Jordan John with his camelhair clothes smell like milk and honey. The contrast with his pits would make any wine smell good.”
The wedding guest, oblivious to this criticism, bellows, “Why don’t they just serve curdled goat’s milk? This swill is as cloudy as the black storm in Kings.”
Pete hears his companion and immediately butts in to shush him after Tommy and Phil gesture him over. He looks as if his world’s been rocked: “Izzy! Lay off. We’re guests. I’ll crucify you upside down if you upset J.C., whose mom knows the bride’s family well. The embarrassed steward just told me they’re running out of wine, and this was the last.”
“So, what do we drink? Probably Dead Sea water in the six pots over there. Some party,” he harumphs. “You’d think this was our last supper. Bad enough with the pairings they served. And I can say that to you since you and Andy, like Jimmy and Johnny, are womb pairings. Can you imagine this cloven pig juice paired with roasted goat, olives and figs?”
Meanwhile, two others in J.C.’s inner circle, James, a real son of an A, and Simon, Mr. Zealous, at Pete’s bidding, deflect their leader across the room from witnessing his follower’s outburst by introducing him to strangers.
“Lord knows,” Pete whispers to Tommy, “J.C. always puts up with Izzy’s outbursts as if he’s connected to his destiny, but this might set him off. Like that story when he was a kid and upset the moneychanger tables.”
As if drawn by money talk, Matt, with J.C.’s mom in tow, draws near. She, who like J.C. thinks of Johnny as her favorite, nevertheless listens to Pete, uncouth but a leader, though he’d thrice deny he wants any part of leading.
Pete pulls her aside to whisper the wine is gone, much to the chagrin of the steward who sobbed to Bart, a.k.a. Nate, another of J.C.’s dirty dozen, that the bride and groom will be mortified when they find out. “Can you get your son to do something?”
“Has any son ever refused his Jewish mother?” But, when Pete snakes after her when she crosses back to speak to J.C. near the dance floor, he hears his intrepid leader almost scold her: “Don’t whine about the wine; it’s not yet my time,” or something to that effect.
“That girl from Magdala,” Mary confesses to Pete as he puts his arm around her, “isn’t here. The feminist who amazingly owns her own businesses -- dried fish provider and cloth dyer. You’re no doubt aware Matt says she funds both the male and female groups following my son separately. I think he’d do anything for her if she were here to ask.”
“Fear not,” Pete replies “You interrupted his storytelling about a mustard seed or a prodigal son or fig tree or something, his schtick probably new to his Arimathea listener. Praise be, he’ll probably respond after he’s done with his parables.”
Faster than you can say “Miracle,” pond water turns to six pots of wine.
Judas, skeptical the last shall be first and the first last, pushes forward to taste. All other eleven of J.C.’s followers gather to watch, fearful hell will break loose, and they’ll have to wash feet seeking forgiveness.
“The bouquet is exquisite,” Judas soothes. “Acid, alcohol, and sweetness in perfect balance. A classic. Crisp. Earthy, with hints of black currant and fig. I can savor God’s breath in it.”
J.C., back after ascending to the roof to ponder the disappointing words of his Jewish mom upon telling her he wasn’t going to marry, sees his followers gathered. “Hey, Jude,” he sings out to his late-arriving disciple others call Thaddeus, not to be confused with Judas, his tempestuous disciple so important to his mission, again centered in the lamplight he loves.
J.C. offers up the last word: “For thirty pieces of silver you could buy or sell the vineyard producing this wine.”
“God, I’d be remembered forever,” Judas thinks, as his stare pierces J.C.
Doctor KEN HOGARTY, who lives in SF’s East Bay with his wife Sally, retired after a 46-year career as a high school teacher/principal. He also taught graduate classes collegiately. Since, he has had many stories, essays, short plays, memoirs, and comedy pieces published in Underwood, Sport Literate, Sequoia Speaks, LYRA, Cobalt, Woman’s Way, Purpled Nails, the S.F. Chronicle, MacQueen’s, Bridge Eight, the Under Review, Word’s Faire, In Parentheses, Doubleback Review, Wingless Dreamer, The Kelp Review, Good Old Days, Robot Butt, the Satirist, and Points in Case, among other publications. His novel Recruiting Blue Chip Prospects received good reviews. You can find more about it, as well as viewing other published works, at Kenhogarty.net.