The oranges were coming in nice. Everyone said so, it was the first thing they mentioned. Lippy sat on a farm stool just under one of the trees in a crumpled rental tux, the pocket square missing or crammed into a different pocket.

He thought that maybe he could swing this one back around. Talk his way out of trouble, that was his schtick. Then he remembered that talking got him into this mess. The goddamn catholic priest and his little minion. That’s what really got him screwed.

“Hey, hey,” he had said to the groom, “all I’m saying is, who’s the real homophobe, here!”

Lippy didn’t think he would be invited to be a Best Man again.