The Wedding Crashers

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?”