Here Comes The Bride

 

Wise men say only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you.

Shall I stay...would it be a sin

If I can’t help falling in love with you?

 

There are all kinds of weddings.  Some people get married in the county clerk’s office without a single witness, others in a festooned cathedral filled with hundreds.  Some people get married in the chilly mountains of Katmandu, others on the florid beaches of Maui.  People get married at sunrise and sunset, on boats and airplanes, under the sea, even in gondolas at the Venetian Hotel.  People get married by priests and rabbis and government officials and ship’s captains and Elvises and the ubiquitous ministers of the Universalist Life Church.  And every year, 115,000 couples get married in Las Vegas.  How come?

Well, for one thing, it’s easy.  You just go downtown to the marriage bureau, plunk down your $77 (cash, please), fill out a simple form and wait for Froggy to plunk his Magic Twanger.  No blood tests.  No waiting.  No fuss.  No muss.  There are about 50 wedding chapels in town—exclusive of churches—and most hotels will also accomodate you.  A happy couple can get married for as little as $75.  In a hurry?  Try our expeditious drive-thru wedding.  We’ll tie the cans on your bumper while you spit out your vows.

There are two preeminent chapels in Las Vegas, the Church of the West, across from the Mandalay Bay hotel near the airport and the vintage Chapel of the Flowers in the old part of town not far from the Stratosphere Tower.  The latter has three different chapels, each with a different seating capacity.  Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra were married there, but let’s not hold that against the place.  I checked out both venues and the latter was the more accomodating, allowing us the time and date we needed.  From the day the marriage appointment was scheduled, chapel rep Robin faithfully called me every thirty days to impart advice and get updates on the number of guests, dinner arrangements, etc.  Also, it being Vegas, Robin usually tried to sell me something, most of which I turned down.  One thing I did not turn down, and thankfully so, was a wedding-day visit by the Glam Squad, a representative of which arrives at your hotel room three hours before the wedding to either invent or repair the bride.  They choreograph hair, they airbrush makeup, they apply eyelashes, then they wave a magic wand and a girl is as dazzling as she’s ever going to be.  Our white witch was Nicia, and we were only one of ten clients she would see that Saturday.  The whole intervention took a mere 45 minutes, pretty good when you consider it took God six whole days to create the world.

 

The Wedding Crashers

This whole affair was supposed to consist of myself and Siobhan, a quick marriage stop on the way to a mule ride at the Grand Canyon.  But you know how these things go.  First, I told my sister Kathy in New Hampshire, and she instantly decided she’d be going.  She had missed my first two weddings, having had little warning of either, and, well, after all, it was Vegas.  Since Kathy was going, my other sister Alice (the Republican) decided she’d just motor over from Camarillo, California, and join the party.  If all this was happening, I might as well have a best man, so I called my old pal Jack Gordon in Laguna and he promised to perform the duties.  And finally, two weeks before the grand affair, Siobhan’s niece, Ashleigh, found out she could make it and instantly became the maid of honor.  We were up to nine and counting.  Just before we left, Siobhan’s brother, Stuart and his wife, Mary, asked us which we’d like more—12 days of house care or their presence at the wedding.  We opted for the former or it would have been eleven.

Back in tiny Fairfield, Florida, however, the plot was thickening.  Our aviator friend, Richard Helms, who will use any excuse for a romp in his jet, was conspiring with Stuart and another friend, Greg Poe, to fly to Vegas the day of the ceremony, take in the nuptials and fly back later that afternoon.  You can do these things if you’re a wealthy bon vivant with your own air fleet and time on your hands.  When we got to the chapel, there they were—Richard, Greg, Stuart and Mary—delivered as if by magic carpet ride.  There are friends and there are friends.  It’s not your average buddy who foots the bill for a round-trip’s worth of fuel and takes the time and trouble to fly 4400 miles to your wedding, so I don’t know what we did to deserve that.  Once upon a time, we did Richard a minuscule favor and he told us, “I owe you.”   I think we’ll call that one paid off in spades with a gallon of credit left on the account.

Limo photos by Ashleigh Ellison

 

Get Me To The Church On Time

Everyone who knows me realizes that I’m a maniac for punctuality.  I am never late and I will sometimes leave if you are.  When I operated the Subterranean Circus, the first time an employee was late I sent him or her home to think about how much they wanted the job.  The second time, I sent them home permanently.  Okay, except for Debbie Adelman, who was really cute and kept it within three minutes.  I can’t even remember the last time I was late for anything.  So you’d think I’d make it to my own wedding extremely early, especially with the aid of the chapel limo.  That vehicle arrives only 30 minutes before the ceremony, however, and takes twenty minutes to get there, allowing time for pre-wedding instructions from the chapel crew.  I foolishly decided to take our own rental car and follow the limo since we were going directly from the chapel to the Valley of Fire for post-wedding photos.  BAD idea!  The valet parkers at the Palazzo got in a terrible muddle and took about twelve extra minutes to deliver my car.  Then, with no time to spare, I zipped out on to Las Vegas Boulevard and went the wrong way.  Yeah.  Really.  When I didn’’t see the Stratosphere Tower two blocks later, I made a spiffy U-turn and hauled ass in the other direction, but it was too late.  I called Siobhan, who was amazingly calm, and told her the cold, hard facts.  The chapel nabobs were apoplectic, suggesting the whole affair might have to be postponed until nine that night.  Siobhan reminded them we had purchased our half-hour and nobody was going anywhere.  Meanwhile, back at the dragstrip, I was ripping down the boulevard at mind-numbing speeds, zipping from lane to lane, scaring the bejeezuz out of everybody.  Ashleigh called me at 12:55 and asked me where I  was.  When she told the chapel crew, they moaned, groaned and told Siobhan I had until 1:05 to make it.  Ashleigh dispatched her husband, Flo to the parking lot to grab the baton when I wheeled in.  I made it at 1:03, swerved into the full lot and saw a tall man running beside me.  It was Flo, come to park the car.  I ran inside at 1:04 and the day was saved.  Siobhan never batted an eye.  “I knew you’d make it,” she said.  “And if not, there’s always the drive-thru.” 

 

Jack and Ashleigh lead the parade.

 

The White Dress

I asked Siobhan to marry me at a Valentine’s Day dinner in Cedar Key in 2015 after 29 years of living in sin.  I’m not sure why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Unlike some girls, she did not do cartwheels in the dining room.  There were no “whoopees!” or teary-eyed acceptances.  She merely said “Sure.”  With three failed marriages between us, two for me, there had never been any talk of weddings.  I just thought it might be a nice starting point to this year’s vacation, which would start in Las Vegas anyway.

As time went by, however, Siobhan became more enthusiastic about the whole affair.  When it came time to order her ring, she gathered up her parents’ two wedding rings and had the jeweler melt them down to be integrated into her own.  When a sparkly cocktail dress we had bought in December was finally deemed unweddingworthy, she ordered a traditional white gown from China ($99) and complementary shoes ($70) from the same place, then had the dress slit up the front by a seamstress.

I had reservations.  A wedding dress from China, of all places?  China, the defective merchandise capital of the universe.  Maybe the thing would be full of….oh, I dunnow, asbestos!  Maybe it would disintegrate during the ceremony.  Maybe it would give her hives or beriberi or Jumping Frenchman Disorder, you never know.  But nope, none of this happened.  The dress retained its good manners and performed perfectly, providing the first white dress ceremony for either of us.  I guess every girl wants one of those in her lifetime, and now, thanks to our Asian brethren, Siobhan has hers.

Here Comes The Bride

When Jack Gordon and I were kids back in Lawrence, we spent many a night on his front porch listening to rock ’n’ roll on the radio, pulling in deejays Arnie Ginsburg from Boston and Allan Freed from New York.  Elvis was a big hero, of course, and who better to lead off the parade in Las Vegas?  Still, the singer was just a happy coincidence—it was the song that counted.  “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” is a lovely number and a perfect way to start a wedding ceremony.  I tapped Jack on the shoulder as he stood with Ashleigh, ready to lead the small procession.  “When Elvis sings,” I said, “you’re on.”

If a person were to hold Best Man tryouts all across the country, he would not come up with a better candidate than Jack Gordon, eminently distinguished, dressed to kill, ultimately competent.  Siobhan’s Maid of Honor, Ashleigh Ellison, recently married herself, is Serenity in the face of the storm, a warm and gracious being, always handy with a positive remark and a smile.  These two marched in like they owned the place and took their respective positions.

I had expected Jack and I would be standing at the altar waiting for Ashleigh and Siobhan, but the Chapel of the Flowers has its own way of doing things, and that’s fine.  When we rounded the corner into the chapel together and saw our collection of family and friends where once not a soul was expected, it was heartwarming.  The minister, a robust African-American fellow, was warm, thoughtful and well-spoken.  “I thought it was going to be corny,” said friend Harry Edwards later, “but it was a real wedding.” 

A couple of friends thought I looked nervous during the vows.  I am seldom nervous, but I am often emotional.  This time, it was unexpected.  As I looked at this woman, however, glorious, palpably happy and excited in this element, I thought of all the time we had spent together, the storms we’d weathered, the kindnesses bestowed, the remarkable character and strength and compassion she unfailingly displayed, and I was grateful that I could give her this moment.  I momentarily faltered reciting the vows and was grateful there was little for me to say.  Fortunately, the kiss came soon after and I am pretty good at that part.  We turned, acknowledged the crowd and meandered out to the traditional recessional.  It was done, but it would never be done.  The inside of Siobhan’s ring held the promise: “Always.”  

Who needs superheroes when you’ve got your own Justice League of America?

 

That’s not all, folks.  Next week, we head out to the Valley of Fire for more shenanigans.  Thanks for all the cards and good wishes, and a special bravo to Richard Helms and the Wedding Crashers.

bill.killeen094@gmail.com