My wingman got married on May 23, 1969. He celebrated his twenty-second birthday four days later, and I followed him on the 29th. That was fifty-one years ago.
That wasn’t the only thing that happened that summer. The biggies in my mind were 400,000 people attended the Woodstock Music Festival, a concert in a New York farmer’s field. Three men went to the moon. Two walked on its surface while the third remained in orbit. One guy, me, graduated from college and landed his first teaching job.
The summer launch kicked off with a bachelor party on May 22 and a wedding the following day. Mitch’s bachelor party was not well planned. If it was, we wouldn’t have held it the evening prior to the wedding. My first experience as a “best man” was equally ill conceived. Both affairs involved a trip to bars and heavy drinking. This was long before week-end trips to Vegas, girls popping out of cakes, and strippers shedding their clothes. We had two ingredients, comradery and booze.
I don’t recall all of the attendees, but the key players were: Mitch, Bill Graham, Dick Coatta (Mitch’s impending father-in-law) , my dad, his about to be brother-in-law, Lee, and me. We went to a local bar and that was it. One was all we needed.
The evening began with the usual banter about being married. Dick and my dad were the experts on the matter, so they led the discussion. They offered words of encouragement, issued warnings, and assorted tips. The single guys in the group hung on every word. We viewed this lecture as a once in a lifetime opportunity. A problem developed when by the end of the evening, their words were wiped clean by alcohol. The attentive listeners would have to learn the ropes through their own experience. We wasted the opportunity to learn from two veterans.
Everyone drank while the experts served their wisdom. It was the first time I saw Mitch drink. We weren’t drinkers in high school. Bill and I had a night or two together the prior summer, but this was a first with Mitch. He drank anything that anyone ordered. We started with a couple pitchers of beer and then he advanced. I told him about a girl I was dating at the time. Her favorite was a “grasshopper”. It’s a kind of fufu drink. “I’ll have one of those.” And so he did.
Shortly after knocking that off, Bill bought him a Singapore Sling. Mitch sucked it down like a glass of Kool-Aid. “That tastes good. I’ll have another.” At this point I marveled at how well Mitch was handling his liquor. He appeared to be unaffected. He spoke coherently, didn’t slur his words, and was just having a good time. The only logical explanation was that he had built his tolerance in the army.
And then, totally spontaneous, Mitch stuffed the fruit garnish from the second “Sling” into his mouth, reached under the table, pulled off his shoe, and threw it across the room hitting a tray of glasses sitting on the end of the bar. Dick jumped up and said, “I’ll pay for the glasses and get his shoe, you guys get him out of here.” The entire crew exited in unison. Bill took one of Mitch’s arms and I took the other. About the time we took hold, his legs went limp. We drug him out to my Mustang convertible, and put him in the back. Bill and I had paced ourselves so we were good to go.
Our plan was for Mitch to stay at Lee’s house that night, because we planned to decorate three cars for the wedding, and would do it there the next day.
I drove the three of us to the house, but when we arrived Mitch was out cold. We couldn’t wake him, so we decided to carry him in. Bill took hold of his shoulders, and I grabbed his feet. I had to walk through the backseat of the car to get him out. And then the fun began. Bill started to laugh and dropped Mitch. His head hit the cement sidewalk with a heavy thud. At first we thought he might be hurt, but he was still out cold, so we re-gripped and started up again. We were both laughing now, and the dropping continued. We dropped him at least three times, each time on his head, before we got him into the house.
As we put him on the couch, he woke up and said, “I have to pee.”
“Then go.”
“I can’t stand up.”
Bill grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other. We walked him into the bathroom, stood him in front of the toilet, and he said, “I can’t find my zipper.” Followed by, “I can’t move my arms.”
“Well you’re gonna piss your pants, because we’re done helping.”
Somehow he got the job done. We walked him back to the couch with an open fly and left him there.
Our final words that night were, “We’ll be back around noon tomorrow to wash and decorate the cars.”
Bill and I arrived shortly after noon the following day. We found Mitch still asleep. He was on the living room floor with his head wedged under the couch. How he managed to wedge it there is still a mystery.
My memory is foggy regarding the other guys in the wedding, but I believe his about to be brother-in-law, Lee, Sandy’s brother, Rick, and her cousin, Bobby, served along with Bill and I. We spent the better part of the afternoon washing three cars and decorating them with tissue paper flowers that the girls made. We had our fill of drink the night before so we just tended to the task at hand.
My Mustang was too small for the best man, maid of honor, and the wedding couple, so my mom let us borrow her new Chevy Malibu. It looked great all decked out.
About a couple of hours before we were required to be at the church, we started getting ready. We all showered and dressed and then sat around in our tuxes razzin Mitch.
The other guys had to assist with seating the guests so they left early. As we were jockeying cars, we couldn’t find the keys to the Malibu. I said, “No problem. We’ve got plenty of time. My mom has another set at home. I’ll call her and she’ll bring them over. You guys go on ahead. She’s ten minutes from here.”
So they did.
I called Mom, and panic set in when she said, “Your dad has the other set of keys and he’s not home from work yet.” The thing is, he should have been home. He worked long, irregular hours, but he wasn’t going to miss this day, so where the heck was he?
“If he’s not there in fifteen minutes, you’re going to have to drive over and pick us up. Otherwise, we’ll be late.”
About twenty minutes later, Mom showed up with the keys in hand. Dad was home cleaning up, and she saved the day. We drove to the church, entered through the side door, and as God is my witness, the first girl was walking down the aisle. We cut it that close.
If I told you I remember the exchanging of the vows and the “I do’s”, I’d be lying. I don’t recall much more about the evening. The wedding and reception went off without a hitch. The bride and groom made their exit at an appropriate hour, and the celebration continued.
I returned home in time to find Dick Coatta, his son, Rick, Bill Graham, my dad, and assorted “on lookers” gathered in the street in front of the fire hydrant. Dick had a miniature cannon that he set off on special occasions like Memorial Day, the Fourth of July and when his daughters got married. He always aimed it at Kenwood Park. It was a spectacular end to a spectacular day.
Dick lit the fuse and the evening ended with a BANG. Pun intended.
I found the keys to the Malibu the next day. They were with the wet car washing towels in the trunk. Our haste made waste.