Daniels Wedding Blues Chapter 3: A Reception to Forget

Fun would be had of course, but in the back of my mind was that primal urge all lonely man babies suffer; to have someone to drunkenly mumble flirts to at the end of the night. While that alcoholic werewolf bit me years ago, the creature from the lonely depressive lagoon had taken that opportunity to scratch my heart and genitals at the same time in what would lead me to concur as “the worst STD someone could ever have.” My mind was racing to engage both my lust for good time drinking and quest to kiss something other than the floor by the end of the night. Upon the bus finally, my eyes wandered upon a bus driver who fit the bill for my type of woman. Inquires however produced a negative answer of “she just got married.” The draft pick by the Cedar Falls Lonely Gingers had been a bust, and now the clock was officially ticking for some kind of starring role or else we find ourselves texting women hundreds of miles away throughout the night.

 The groom passed out drinks and the cheers of an excited and relieved newly married couple soon were surrounded by the rest of us hooting and hollering. A cousin of ours had jumped onto the bus at the last minute and began her quest to get as fucked up as possible in her own special way. She was tough as a two dollar steak and must have had the liver of the god dammed Terminator the way she drank on a regular basis. The bachelor party she attended saw her enjoy shots, beers, mixed drinks, puffs on a magic pen and god knows what other shit behind doors that would have killed a normal man but somehow just put her right in that beautiful pocket of being out of it but in touch with the flashing lights around you.  Her presence on the bus caused me to have Nam style flash backs to a party bus filled with debauchery, an out of it bachelor, and my friend who proclaimed loud to the world after a drunk girl crashed into him that it was “fuck it o’clock.” Oh ho ho, I would love to tell you more but a drunkard never kisses and tells or something like that.

Each bar we traversed to held nothing more than rural folk annoyed by the mass of drunken youngsters that seemed to appear out of nowhere to disrupt a pleasant afternoon of hating the president for supposedly being Muslim and complains about the weather. Each time our group crammed into a dive bar we would have all eyes on us like we were wild animals stampeding through a chapel. I lacked cash as I didn’t know this was the game plan, and so I used a classic technique called “hey brother, we came out of the same womb and I am your best man, pay for this tall boy of Busch.” A nice buzz came over us all by the time the last bar had been visited and the ceremonies would be next.

We arrived at the local rec center to find it converted to a wedding reception, inside were people half happy to see us but just as much ready to eat something already. Because the story I would eventually write needed more metaphors to assuming a role in the production of wedding number 1,190,236, we were instructed that everyone would come in two by two and could do some kind of silly dance or walk if they felt like it. Poor bridesmaid had no idea what her date was up to when I said “I’m going to do the Ric Flair strut.” For the 4 and a half people who knew who I was emulating, it was pretty funny. To everyone else it looked like Tyler had been enjoying way too many shots and might have been going into diabetic shock.

 Finally in came the bride and the groom looking glowing with happiness: this was the moment they had worked for. Yes, the wedding itself was special but now was the time to be surrounded by friends and family together in celebration for the both of you coming together as one. What stress or worry festered and plagued so much of the buildup was gone if for a moment watching my brother come down the aisle with his wife, surrounded by friends and family who wanted nothing more than to see him happy. Between all the bemoaning over casino wastelands and drunken wedding blues are truly beautiful moments if you look hard enough.

Settling down amongst the wedding party in those seats that from far away make you think you are watching some festive version of the last supper, I watched a strange and comical event unfold: my roommate Laura had made the hour drive to attend, her presence was more or less to spend time with me. A number of friends who while coming to give congratulations to Justin had also driven so that they could see me and engage in the whirlwind of hijinks that was to be this weekend. Laura had decided to test a theory that while never to be published in a scientific guide would shock and stun the majority of those who braved the giant scientific pages to read it.

Prepare yourself for this one because once you’ve read it, you’ll rush out to the closest five and dime so you can repocate it: small children and even some that should be old enough to know what the hell is going on, will chase a laser dot on the ground/wall. With my two eyes, I witnessed children the ages of 5 to 7 chasing after a red dot as it raced upon the ground and to the wall of the event center. Clawing, scratching, and other cat adjectives were in full force as Laura moved the dot up and down a wall in the back of the dinning center to the delight and anger of the children. Don’t think all hope for the future is lost thought, these children soon realized someone was using a laser pointer to taunt and tease them like the cats they so could be compared to. Within a few minutes, the feline minded spawn had pinpointed Laura as the mastermind behind the great red dot mystery. Her joke ended eventually with the children either going to her as soon as the dot made its appearance or just ignoring it and walking away, but for at least thirty minutes one woman controlled a group of children with a laser pointer and scared the ever loving shit out of every teacher in the Midwest.

With a strong buzz swirling around my head in an ever expanding feeling; it was time to deliver my bread and butter to the proceedings: the best man’s speech. I’d taken the time to write out every word since I knew words were hard to pin down once beer and whiskey made their aquantice in the party. I treated this speech as my chance to shine, almost like how my grandfather had taken time out of the wedding to get attention only I had been asked to make my speech. All the good will and feelings I would build up would be transphered to the groom and bride in a creative and well natured show of affection. I was a showman in that moment; weaving a story that would have everyone patting me on the back while also thinking of how great this couple in front of them truly were. I stepped into the ring as I took the microphone and started throwing out jabs in the form of playful banter, snapping back the audiences head with a “I wrote my speech out since alcoholic takes the varnish off of more than wood” that covered my bases as well as acknowledging what we all knew: everyone was going to get hammered tonight.

Right hooks, rope a dope, all of it came out in the form of words and phrases including my uppercut to the bride’s father in which staring him in the eyes I informed the crowd (mostly just him) that I looked forward to seeing the bride and groom during holidays and my hopes that we would get to see them as much as the other family did. The bride’s father had been reaching his tentacles into all the holidays in an attempt to get my brother for both Christmas and Thanksgiving along with the bigger ones that followed, something I wasn’t going to let slide on my worst day.

This was unplanned; well, it was planned by the liquor some would say. Hell, the liquor had me instruct the crowd to give my parents thanks for producing two wonderful children, another move which gave praise to my stress induced parents while shading the bride’s over stepping father. My speech ended on a high note and the crowd laughed, cried, came in their collective jeans and I sat down knowing I had picked up a knock out in the wedding speech battle that took place over pasta and wine.

Progressing like a awkward prom night, the dance floor lit up slowly with a few children taking to the hardwood to dance like no one but a very cauous mother were watching. From this point, the night began to loosen up like the belt on a fat man. Outside the venue the majority of the wedding party sat outside with a few other close friends of Justin and I’s.  I took this opportunity to break out a few cigars to any man or ballsy woman who wanted to puff away in celebration while drinking beers and toasting to the groom and his newly acquired ball and chain.

Had I know at the time that before Justin left the venue, THE FUCKING GROOM WAS MADE TO HELP CLEAN UP, I would have done my part in picking up things as we went along instead of drunkenly leaving cigar wrappers and ends outside amidst the empty cups. Together myself, Laura and another close friend who had chosen to make the drive; all three of us together sat and discussed the ceremony. Playfully I asked what they thought of my speech, all the while knowing I had been awesome and I was just looking for someone to stroke my ego. Around the table, my ego was stroked and for at least a few hours I didn’t worry about finding someone at the end of the night or texting some girl till the sun came up.

Slowly but progressively the dancefloor began to feel more like a dance floor and less like a random space for children to wander in an out of while someone played music specially for weddings. I wish I could tell you every minute that happened but as the whiskey took me by the hand and lead me in its own dance, I could only remember those special moments that if anything make for a hell of a story. My father’s genes kicked in shortly and I made friends with the DJ for my own nefarious means: he was a nice kid that seemed to be on his own this night with no one he recognized.

 Unfortunately he was stuck with a fat drunkard that looked to butter him up like the rolls he so loved and occasionally throw him a curve ball. The trials and tribulations of the Daniels Rodgers DJ began soon after he met me, as I began suggesting some songs he should play. I told the DJ soon after the friendly introductions ended that he should play a song called “Return of the Mack” by Mark Morrison because it was catchy, fun and a podcast told me that every wedding should have it at least once. While it’s a great song, it wouldn’t have been my first sober pick for a room full of white people but our wonderful accommodating DJ threw the song on to my delight.

Thirty minutes pass and the DJ was once again haunted by a specter who again suggested another song, this one more appropriate: I asked him to play Paradise by the Dashboard Light by Meatloaf but this song was for the right reasons. My mom has always had an interesting dynamic with my uncle: almost shot him once when after leaving his children at our house decide to return late in the night with no notice. Cursing soon followed and an ass chapping so legendary that the story still gets told as if it was some mighty military feat that needs to be passed down child to child, country song by country song. Still, they had a weird friendship that included wanting to sing that particular song together. With no time table on her other son ever settling down, Mom was going to have to take this chance with a drink in hand.

My peer pressure upon the hapless DJ lead to the song hitting the speakers and much like a fat Meatloaf impersonator I found myself strutting on the dance floor singing the song as my mother and uncle sang beside me, belting out the classic tune. Somehow the group of middle aged and alcohol enabled made some kind of circle, almost in line with a football huddle, singing Paradise with an unsaid understanding that left the guys who sing the guy parts and the girls to sing the female parts. I regret being so drunk that when I didn’t know the words and mumbled them out loud in front of my mother. Taking comfort in the fact that it was a wedding and all cars on the race track were racing to a checkered flag of intoxication makes it feel a little better, but having a memory of stumbling over my words directly in front of my mother due to that sweet tasting whiskey tends to sting a little more than your average shot of bourbon.

A third spirit came to see Scrooge during the classic Christmas Carol fable and I decided to harass the lonesome DJ for a third time during the evening. Much like the specter of death that appeared in Charles Dicken’s novel, I raised the stakes during our third meeting and decided to raise the bar only this time I was playing with the bride and the groom with my shenanigans.  “Hey have you ever heard of the shoe game?” I slurred to our favorite under siege DJ. “Yeah, I gave the bride and groom a list of games some couples played and asked them what they wanted to do. They just wanted to do the traditional dollar dance, parent dance and that’s about it.” It took about ten seconds for me to the trains of thought inside my head to come to the station. “Yeah let’s do the shoe game. I am the best man; I’m saying we should do the shoe game. They complain, it’s on me.”

Let’s dip away from the action and look at “The Shoe Game.” The shoe game is a comical game in which a bride and groom sit back to back and answer questions via lifting their shoe or their partners. Example might be “who made the first move on the date” the bride lifting a loafer while the husband lifts a high heel. With that, we go back to your regularly scheduled programming. I took my shot with the DJ as I had seen the game at another wedding and loved it. Should I have over stepped my bounds and thrown my brother and sister in law under the bus? No. But I’d like to think we all had a role to play on stage that night and by doing that game, they entertained the masses who came to see them that night. Also it’s a fun harmless game, it could have been worse.

With his black rimmed glasses and Ira Glass voice, he asked the bride and groom to come to the dance floor while grabbing two chairs from a nearby table. I stood with my back to the wall closest to the DJ’s booth sipping on a beer, feeling like the cat who ate the canary as I watched my brother answer questions about his relationship to a wooing and awing crowd. I somehow pulled off a hail mary in my stupor in having our unwitting NPR looking DJ perform a silly crowd game. Truly I was the best of the best men, the king of tag team wedding partners and a damn fine buzzed party planner. Cementing all of the self-bestowed accolades was my time holding court as the keeper of dollar dance money and gatekeeper to the groom; putting dollars in a felt bag and more importantly shuffling in and out the women who wanted to have a dance with the big man one last time before it seemed to weird the next time they met.

All of our old friends got chance to awkwardly talk during a generic slow dance song like every wedding ever. A tradition well honored to this day. Needless to say some got more time than others and at least one older woman who had been the first real MILF in our puberty enriched minds had the most time of all. God willing when I get married, he’ll return the favor. Alas she might be dead before I tie the knot if this story is any indication.

Like so much whiskey passing through my liver, it was time to get flushed out of the reception into something much, much worse. It was time to return back to the casino. Katie and Laura by myside not just as friends but two poor fools convinced to help wrangle my drunken ass, I was ready to survive one last night at the blackjack table. Somewhere inside the sloshed seemingly stupefied parts of my brain suffering from the effects of bourbon, I told myself a small prayer that my rent money would stay within my bank account. Some prayers are too cringe worthy for God to even listen to.