Someone's locked BJ's head in a vice and turned the screw. Not literally. Not in a sexy way, either, though, like, is there even a sexy way to get locked in a vice? Probably. Don't Google it. But no, he's just super hungover. The last thing he remembers is hitting the Luxor with Mindy, where they made asses of themselves in the casino. There's a blurry flash of someone quoting Arrested Development when they'd passed a Blue Man Group sign and then, nothing.
Mindy's draped over him, still in her clothes from last night, which is interesting from an academic standpoint. They'd definitely started off last night in separate hotel rooms because even if they are best friends, they're also exes, and shit occasionally gets weird when you mix the two. Plus, double minibars. But hey, double minibars are also part of the reason BJ doesn't remember anything.
The last thing he remembers clearly is Mindy sitting on his lap and playing the Wheel of Fortune machine. Mindy is a dork and can't even play proper slot machines when in Vegas, for Christ's sake. This is how BJ always gets stuck drinking comped vodka tonics while Mindy yells at a computerized Pat Sajak and makes couples who've been married for sixty years sit separately because Earl of Earl-and-Edna is sitting at her lucky machine.
She's perfect in every way.
She's also wearing his Harvard ring on her middle finger. Why? Who knows? But that's also interesting from an academic standpoint.
"Get up, Min," BJ says, pushing her off and away. "If we get moving now, we can still hit the Bellagio's breakfast buffet. I require all the grease."
"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," Mindy mumbles. He isn't sure if that's directed at him or if she's still asleep, but then she adds, "Fuck all your horses, BJ Novak."
And just like that, he has a title for his next book.
BJ climbs out of bed and notes still further weirdness in his room: a bouquet of blue silk flowers that look like they were stolen from a hotel lobby, a commemorative Elvis plate, a garter that might have been Mindy's, but Mindy's wearing jeans, so he doesn't know where she put that. Then on the table, thrown over half-eaten bacon cheeseburgers from room service (he's such a bad Jew), is a marriage certificate with his and Mindy's names written on it.
"Huh," BJ says. There's not enough grease in the Bellagio for this. There's not enough grease in a rendering plant for this. "Mindy," he says urgently, "Mindy, wake up."
"I don't want any damn bacon. I want to be the next Rip Van Winkle," Mindy says into the pillow. "Go to the buffet without me."
"Mindy, I think we got married last night."
"What?!" Mindy sits bolt upright at this, her hair sticking out in sixteen different directions and the eyeliner she'd described last night as 'on point enough to kill a man' is now making her look like a raccoon. "No, we didn't. Fuck off; no one wants Bellagio pancakes that badly."
BJ shakes the certificate urgently and shoves it under nose. "No, we did. We totally did. We got drunk married in Vegas like we're people in a goddamn Katy Perry song," he tells her, his voice growing louder and more hysterical with every word.
"Oh." Mindy looks at him with a strange expression on her face. He can't blame her; she probably has ten different emotions going on at once. What's happened is an awful lot to process even without a hangover. After a minute, she tells him, "You have a dick on your face."
BJ runs to the mirror. He does indeed have a dick drawn on his face. Great.
An hour later, BJ has washed the dick off his face and calmed down a little, and Mindy finally gets out of bed. She grabs her iPhone first thing, of course, and starts checking Twitter, Instagram, Yik Yak, her email, her texts, and whatever other forty things are in her first thing in the morning internet catch-up.
"My phone is dying," she says mournfully after a few minutes, and unplugs BJ's phone from his charger to plug her own in.
"Gee, I wonder why that is?" BJ asks sarcastically. "Anyway, while you were looking at 50 Dogs That Look Uncannily Like Ryan Gosling on Buzzfeed, I was solving our problem."
BJ's head is about to explode. "The one where we're married, Min. Please try to catch up."
Mindy tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and fixes him with a death stare. It's incredibly cute. Kittens trying and failing to catch birds aren't as cute as Mindy Kaling's death stare.
"Anyway, we're still in Vegas, right?" BJ continues. "It's not only the land of the quickie marriage, but the quickie divorce. We go up to a drive-through window, get this done with, and we're both single and freewheeling again and the Internet never finds out about our drunk marriage. Problem solved."
"That's a great plan," Mindy says, but something about her tone makes BJ think that she doesn't actually think so. "Have you checked your phone yet, dingus?"
He hasn't. BJ runs over to the nightstand where Mindy unplugged his phone and scoops it up. There are hundreds of notifications from Twitter and about as many panicked texts from his agent and publicist. It seems they both tweeted about getting married within two minutes of each other, and now BJ's poor people have spent the whole morning running interference.
"Well, shit," BJ says.
"Yep," Mindy agrees. "Did you look at Instagram yet?"
BJ looks at Instagram. Right after his tweet, he'd posted a picture of himself, sloppy drunk and kissing Mindy's cheek, while she laughs and holds up their marriage certificate. It has thousands and thousands of comments. There's a dick drawn on BJ's face.
BJ takes a shower because he doesn't know what else to do. He'd switched his phone from silent to vibrate, which had been a mistake. The thing had gone off so often it could have doubled as a sex toy. Stop calling me, he finally texts to his publicist, and turns his phone off.
Ten minutes later, he's drying his hair with a towel when he wanders back into the hotel room. Mindy's on the phone now, too, and she sounds annoyed. It's good she's finally worked up some emotions over this because it throws him off like crazy when he freaks out over something more than she does.
"Dad, get over it," Mindy shouts, throwing her free arm up in the air. His Harvard ring glints on her hand. "No, Mom isn't rolling over in her grave. That's a stupid thing to say. I got married, I didn't overthrow a small government."
BJ creeps into the room to grab his pants, trying not to be seen. This is pretty difficult, considering the size of the room, but Mindy's sufficiently distracted.
"Mom loved BJ, you doof. If she could have thrown you out of the family and put him in your place, she would have. But then he'd be my stepdad and that's just weird. The only thing that sucks about this is Mom didn't live to see her sweet Benjamin become part of the Kaling family."
He manages to get dressed silently enough. Socks and shoes can wait. They're over in the corner and BJ thinks there's a creaky spot over there. He sits in an armchair instead.
"Anyway, he wants us to get a quickie divorce today anyway, so I'll stop shaming the family." Mindy pauses. "No, I'm not sad. I don't know." She sighs. "Yeah, he is a good guy. I love you, too. I'll call you tonight, okay? Bye." Mindy hangs up and turns around, stopping suddenly when she sees BJ sitting there. If she's flustered over him overhearing this conversation, she doesn't show it. "Dads, am I right?"
"Dads," BJ agrees.
When Mindy goes to take her shower, BJ cleans up some and finds a Graceland-Vegas Commemorative Wedding DVD underneath the cold cheeseburgers. He cues it up on his laptop, out of curiosity and nothing more. Mindy and BJ are holding hands in front of Fat Elvis. This apparently had happened before Mindy drew a dick on his face because they're both swaying a bit, but they both look smiley and like their best selves.
"Mindy and BJ have written their own vows," Fat Elvis intones reverently. Then he does a windmill with his arm, goes down on one knee, and throws his scarf toward the cameraperson. "Thank you very much."
"No, thank you, Elvis your honor," wedding-BJ says, saluting. "Mindy, I'm so glad we're in Las Vegas and getting married, even if you didn't want to see any topless showgirls. You're my best friend and so smart and pretty and talented and also my best friend. Sure, you're a little lazy in the sack, but it's in a cute way, and it just makes me work harder which is probably good for my abs. Let's drink a lot of tequila right after this."
"I want fries, too," Mindy says. "Put it in the prenup."
"Deal," BJ says. He fumbles for a moment while pulling off his class ring, sticking it on Mindy's hand. "Okay, go already, I have to pee."
Mindy nods. "Benjamin Joseph Novak, I'm really happy we met a long time ago and had this brilliant idea today. You are my soupsnake. And now when you die, I'm entitled to half your money. Please stop bringing up that time I autographed your book. Yeah, it was funny at the time and I am hilarious, but it was months ago and you have to let it go. Amen. Can we leave now?" she asks Elvis.
"One more minute," Elvis says, and launches into the typical by-the-power-vested-in-Graceland-I-now-pronounce-you spiel. A minute later, they're married, running down the aisle and tripping over each other. And they're so freaking happy. BJ looks like he's about to burst.
Back in the hotel room, Mindy puts her hand on BJ's shoulder and squeezes. "That was nice," Mindy says. "I wish I could remember it."
BJ puts his hand over hers and squeezes back. "Well, maybe we can do it again. You know, with less alcohol this time around."
"What about the quickie divorce?"
"I've thought it over and our breakups are too clichéd," BJ says. "Let's try a happily ever after instead."
Mindy thinks about this for a moment. "Can I still draw dicks on your face?"
"Happy dicks only," BJ says.