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PERSONAL ESSAYS

posted 5/16/2001

     The Shamrock Wedding chapel was located in the lobby of the Howard Johnson Hotel, just past the nickel slot machines. I went in alone, while my fiancée stayed in the van to find some clean underwear and pick out a dress.
     I had my vintage periwinkle blue suit with the velvet lapels slung over my forearm. The chapel was tiny, with a little office on the left, a couch, and a big screen TV in a little alcove on the right. Slumped on the couch was our reverend, his white collar half undone and his leftover belly arguing with the buttons on his black shirt. "You must be my eight o'clock." His voice boomed bass notes, but his eyes never left the television, where a naked blond writhed and moaned on top of a guy half-wrapped in red satin sheets.
     I stared at the television, somewhat disturbed. He pressed the mute on the remote to appease me, and looked up. "Tell your fiancée she can get dressed in that little room across the lobby. The one marked 'private'.

You can wash up in that little room right there. Greg'll get you a towel."
     His eyes went back to the TV. The blond was now on her hands and knees, throwing her head back soundlessly.
     "My name is Ivan." I extended my hand.
     His was dry, and hot, and swallowed mine. "Yeah, sure, I'm Reverend Cotton. I'll see you at eight sharp. I got a 9:45 coming in. You're lucky we could fit you in."
     I left so he could turn the volume back up.
     She stole my breath as I watched her glide across the hotel lobby. She smelled like vanilla. "You clean up pretty good," she said, smiling at me. She was almost a foot taller than me in heels. "You ready?"
     I nodded, and took her hand. "Wait till you get a load of Reverend Cotton."
     But only Greg was in the office, looking apologetic. He was sunburned and balding, and his jeans were too tight. "I told the reverend you were two women, and he took off. Says he's morally opposed to that kind of thing. Sorry girls." He shrugged and swallowed.
     "You mean the guy who was watching pornos in the chapel was morally opposed to marrying us?" My voice was still calm, but my stomach felt loaded with lead.
     "Yeah, I guess so. He said he could lose his license. He said he could do it for five hundred cash, but I didn't know if you had that kind of money on you. He left me his pager number, I can call him if you want." Greg stood on one leg, then the other.
     "So . . . he is morally opposed, unless we have five hundred dollars." I spoke slowly, and with reason. "Greg, you understand that five hundred dollars American is like . . . two million Canadian? Come on, you can get married at midnight by a man dressed as Bette Midler in this town, are you telling me nobody will marry us?"
     Greg shook his head sympathetically, and then looked pensive for a moment.
     "Tell you what, I've seen a million of these things, I set up the video and work the CD player all the time, I could marry you. I mean, it wouldn't be legal whichever way, since you don't have a license, and all. I'll give you a real nice ceremony." His voice got more confident as he continued. "I got no problem marrying you, you seem like nice enough folks, I had a girlfriend once, left me for an esthetician named Alice, no hard feelings, we're still friends, whatever makes her happy, right?"
     We both nodded. That settled it. He shook my hand, and kissed hers.
     "Just let me go put on a clean shirt."
     Greg looked heartbreakingly sincere as he stumbled through our vows. He had combed his hair, too, and put on a tie. I was crying, I always do at weddings; she was laughing like Christmas morning. "Do you take this . . .

Ivan to be your lawfully wedded . . . life partner . . . " I loved her, and I loved Greg, and I loved this tiny chapel transformed by that moment and by the three of us, all there in a magic place where things ended happily ever after and then . . . he stopped.
     "Fuck." Both of his hands slammed onto the pulpit with a tinny echo. We looked up, startled to find carpet under our feet again. "I'm sorry, you guys, I forgot to turn the camera on. We have to do it again. Video comes with the cost of the ceremony."
     My lovely almost bride spoke first. "Okay, Greg, but can we take a smoke break before we try it again?"
     Greg joined us for a smoke, put his feet up on his desk, in the office, puffed on a Lucky Strike. Turns out he was a roofer, from Death Valley. "Hot work, hot place, had to get out," he explained. "Tried a few things, ended up here, I like it just fine. Meet lotsa people, I get to take pictures. I'm a pretty good amateur photographer, if I do say so myself."
     I believed him. He was, at that moment, my hero.
     "Well, let's get this show on the road before Reverend Cotton comes back for his 9:45. You ready?"
     We were, by now, most definitely ready. On our way back into the chapel, I took him aside.
     "Greg, now don't get me wrong, I think you're doing a great job, but since we've got a second chance here, can I ask you a favor? Can we just drop the life partner stuff and go with the man and wife thing? I appreciate what you're trying to do for us here, but just go ahead and marry us like you would anyone else, okay, my friend?"
     He nodded.
     "Okay Ivan, whatever you want, you know, I'm just trying to make it special for you both, and some of you ladies who come in from L.A. and stuff would get real . . . well, you know, offended by that kind of thing."
     I put my hand on his shoulder. "Well, Greg . . . we aren't those kind of ladies."
     We made it to Death Valley just before dawn. As a dusty orange sun rose over the salt flats and a honeymoon wind blew tumbleweeds under our tires, I kissed my wife and my wife kissed her bride.

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