The Wedding Crashers
No one
crashes weddings anymore. I believe that particular art form has gone the way
of the typewriter; which incidentally, is the era we’re talking about in this
story and long predates the movie Wedding Crashers with Owen Wilson and Vince
Vaughn. Many years ago, my fellow crashers and I would scan the weekend
newspaper for a large wedding with an appropriately large reception we could
invade. Such an invasion had to be done as inconspicuously as possible to avoid
detection by the hosts. Meticulous plans had to be drawn, much like the
invasion of a Japanese held island during World War II. With pad and pencil in
hand, we set about perusing the marriage section of the morning newspaper,
striking those nuptials who were most likely to discover several uninvited
guests were noshing at their table, and have security toss them out on their
ears.
I guess I
should explain why we were crashing weddings. We had no money. We were in
college or graduate school and all of our limited funds went toward survival.
In undergraduate school, we had athletic scholarships or we never could have
afforded the tuition, room, or board at our expensive private university. In
graduate school, all money was allocated for rent, utilities, cigarettes, and
the rare date, so there was nothing left for food and booze. Summers were
dedicated to jobs that allowed us to save enough to go to school. Generally, we
all held jobs during the school year to supplement the funds we earned during
the summer.
We had this La Bohème existence, where we got up,
went to class, studied, hung out, had discussions, and went to bed. We couldn't help notice the better endowed (money-wise) students, were throwing about their
parent’s cash, like it flowed from an endless stream. Possibly their stream was
endless, but our little pool of funds had to be defended to the last penny.
So, when
things got particularly tight, and our ration of food and booze slowed to a
trickle, we crashed a wedding reception. If we possessed a modicum of
intelligence, we would have gone to the marriage service first to establish our
bona fides. One can easily gain acceptance if, at the service, one mingles with
all of those who had actually possessed a valid invitation. But it was simply
too onerous for us. Our eyes were focused solely on the reception’s bar and
buffet lines.
In
retrospect, it would have been so easy to attend the service at the church,
synagogue, mosque, or temple, shuffle around with the crowds leaving the
service, chat them up, and promise to see them again at the reception. But no.
Our heroes eschewed the nuptials and dove directly into the champagne fountain.
This was followed by copious quantities of canapés, little meatballs with
toothpicks stuck through them, and crustless, white-bread finger sandwiches
with chicken salad oozing out from all sides that had to be wiped off with a
“Congratulations Brittney and Todd” wedding napkin.
The most
important part of the wedding crash is the vetting. Since our little white
faces would stick out like sheet-wearing KKK members at an NAACP convention, we
were forced to eliminate all black services from consideration. We knew our
black brothers threw the best receptions in town, (rated first in music and
booze), but we just couldn’t get past our pasty color to gain acceptance.
The Jews
hosted the second best receptions in town (rated first in food and ice
sculptures), but since all the Jews in our city knew each other, again we would
have stuck out like an inexperienced mohel at a circumcision brit milah.
So we were
left with the white Catholics and Protestants who were tying the knot that
particular weekend. In our town, the Catholics were subdivided into the
Italians, the Irish, and the others. For sheer quantity, the Italians win the
blue ribbon, hands down. Heaping trays of Sicilian delicacies were spread over
multiple tables, while the obese patrons wolfed down plate after plate of
spaghetti with Italian sausage, anti-pasta, and desserts from heaven. There was
one major caveat to crashing an Italian wedding reception. The Mafia ruled over
our city like Henry the Eighth, and if we were discovered partaking of their
delectables at their beloved child’s reception, our fate would have been
similar to most of Henry’s wives. Discretion was always used in the final
selection. If we were in doubt or we felt uneasy, we opted out for less violent
venues.
The
Protestants were easy. You eliminate all the Baptists and Born-agains (no
booze), most Methodists (ugly women) and Presbyterians (limited booze and limited good looking women), and
you are left with the Episcopalians. Since one of my fellow crashers belonged
to this particular sect and couldn’t go to that sect’s reception, I was left
with a red-necked ex-Baptist boy, who had fallen from grace faster than Adam
after eating the apple. He sucked down the proffered liquor like it was the
last brewed batch on earth. It was a tricky proposition when he was
along. Not only did he drink great quantities, but when he became sated, he got
mean, generally insulting the bride and groom, both sets of parents, and about
half the invited guests. We only stayed a short time at an Episcopal reception
when I was with him.
However, on
a fateful morning, when the final choices had dwindled to the one target
wedding, I would brush off my only suit, polish my only pair of dress shoes,
comb my tangled hair, and head for the door with my fellow crasher in tow. It should
be pointed out here, wedding crashers hunt only in pairs. One, or
three-or-more, is way too conspicuous; so two becomes the proper crasher
amount.
In order to
get enough food, and more importantly, drink, one had to look the part and had
to adopt an air of belonging. Laughter was key. Pats on the back were
acceptable, particularly after everyone at the reception had gained their sea
legs. I once danced with the bride twice and was told by the groom, if I
continued to dance with her, he was going to break every bone in my body. You
see, I had this hunchy dance move I though was real cute. Needless-to-say, I
beat a hasty exit from the room since the groom made Lucca Brazzi look a little
like Hannah Montana.
Most humans
embarrass easily; wedding crashers, less so. Lying in bed one Saturday morning,
after a night of debauchery, I was shaken awake by a fellow crasher. “I got a
good one,” he said, flinging the morning newspaper onto my bed. “Check out the
one that’s circled.”
Through bleary
eyes I viewed the circled wedding announcement. “So what?”
“So what!
This is gold. Get up. We’re going.”
And go we
did. On arrival at the reception, which was held at one of our favorite haunts,
we noticed the bride’s mother had strategically placed the bridal party so anyone
entering the reception had to interface with the entire string of bride, groom,
bridesmaids, groomsmen, and parents of both parties. It was the only way to get
into the salon with the goodies, so my partner and I either queued up with the
others, or returned to our dormitory rooms, hungry and thirsty.
Many times
we were forced to greet one or another of the participants in the play, but
this time, we had to greet the entire cast. I figured we had already dressed
for the occasion, plus my stomach was growling like a star-struck coyote, so
into the queue we stepped. Things went well until I reached for the first hand
in line. She was a girl I had dated for a while in high school and I noticed
she still harbored a modicum of resentment against me. Probably arising from
the time I passed out on her sofa and awoke the next morning with her father
shaking me like a rag-doll and accusing me of soiling his daughter’s impeccable
reputation. One that had been previously soiled by every other boy in my class.
Since I grew
up in a small community located on the wrong side of the Mississippi River from
New Orleans, most weddings and receptions of people from our area were held
within a fifteen block radius from my house.
This time,
the social climbing bride’s mommy wanted to hold her daughter’s affair, “where
proper city folks hold their events.” Naturally, I intimately knew everyone,
and do mean everyone, in the lineup. As I was passed from one to the other, I
kissed all of the girls, most of whom I had kissed previously, until I reached
the bride. I had dated the bride a few times, and like most of the girls I
dated, she was not overjoyed to see me again.
I gathered
my courage, kissed her cheek and congratulated her in my sincerest voice, which
went well until I heard the maid-of-honor mumble, “What’s he doing here?” I was
hastily passed along to the groom, who also resented me, and to the other
groomsmen, who did not, and all began laughing and slapping me on the back. My
fellow crasher, Cameron Gamble, realized before I did, this was not a good
thing that I knew all the participants, particularly when the bride’s mother
began scowling at us and demanding, much louder than was necessary, we be
removed from the event. It did not end well. We were escorted from the
premises, post haste, tail between our legs, sans food and drink.
When I
returned to my room, my mother had called to tell me she had disowned me for at
least the tenth time, since the bride’s mother had already called her to report
our minor indiscretion. My mother was so embarrassed, “She could never leave
the house again.”
Well, she
did leave the house again. This time for my first wedding several years later.
As fate would have it, my new mother-in-law came up to me at the reception and
pointed to several youths she described as “gate crashers.” I immediately saw they
were not gate crashers at all, but merely two hungry and thirsty youths who had
balls enough to crash the reception and hope to hell they weren't discovered
before they were sated.
“I invited them,” I lied to her. A
simple wink over at the two youths told them, “Everything was okay. Eat and
drink your fill boys.” I often wonder how many times one of the grooms covered
for me?
Occasionally,
someone I don’t know will sidle up to me in a bar and say, “Don’t I know you
from the ‘so-in-so’ wedding?”
My stock
answer is, “Yes you do. Hell of a service, wasn’t it?”
