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She did not want anyone botching these moments; not with so many guests, photographers, and the media in attendance capturing it for all posterity.
“Before we start serving the meal, in lieu of a toast, I’d like to say a few words of Grace.” I watch from the back as he bows his head.
“Dear Lord, we gather in this beautiful ballroom tonight in the spirit of celebration and gratitude. Thank you for the blessing of bringing Janelle and Evander together in marriage today. We ask you to bless their marriage, their future family, and all of their relationships with all of you.” He is speaking particularly and at an excellent pace. “Help them stay strong through adversity, and to treasure and protect the joy of marriage. May we, as their family and friends, commit to uphold and encourage them to the best of our ability.” I instruct him to have everyone raise their glass. “Janelle’s mother and I ask that you, Lord, please bless this food we are about to receive. Amen.”
The bride’s father shoulders visibly sag when he passes the microphone to the wedding coordinator, Liz, and scurries back to his seat, duty done.
Liz turns to find me and winks, nodding toward the Best Man.
Peter.
“Miriam to Peter; can you hear me?”
“Roger that, Mir Mir.” He hiccups. “Is it whiskey time to tango?”
Whiskey time to tango?
Jeezuz.
It’s not my problem if he’s sauced; I mean—the groomsman usually start drinking long before the reception, so I wouldn’t have been shocked if he’d been tipsy. But I’m being paid for him to repeat me so he doesn’t say anything embarrassing, implicate the groom in any past transgressions, or make jokes no one else will think are funny.
It won’t be easy if he’s drunk.
From my chat with Liz, it didn’t sound as if the bride, Janelle, was a Bridezilla—hallelujah—but she was clear about her expectations and wanted zero over the top wedding drama, some of which can begin and end with a groomsman toast.
It’s basic science.
Patiently I wait in my cozy little nook, watching as the servers come around, setting plates at the front table, then the round ones, neatly and efficiently—thank god. The last thing I want to do is hide here all night.
As soon as I’m done feeding Old Petey his speech, the rest of the evening is mine.
“Peter, Peter, Peter—I hope you’re ready to get through this. After everyone starts eating, I’ll give you the cue to stand and raise your glass, okay? It should only be a few short minutes before we can begin.”
A server walks by and catches my eye, see’s that I’m speaking to absolutely no one, and raises their brows.
What! Plenty of people walk around weddings talking into mini-microphones!
“Peter, you ready?”
“Ten-Four Merry Go Round.”
Oh lord. He’s given me yet another nickname…
You’re making one thousand dollars to be here, you’re making one thousand dollars to be here, you’re making one thousand dollars...
“Alright.” I am all business. “I’ll say the line and you repeat it. Understand?”
“I know dude, we’ve been over this.”
I had popped into the wedding’s rehearsal dinner last night and quickly prepped Peter and Mister Stadler on how this all works. Showed them the equipment, fitted them for the mic and ear piece, did a practice run.
“Can you stand up for me so Liz, the wedding planner, can bring you the microphone?”
Peter pops up from his seat a little too quickly; wobbles a bit but readily takes the microphone Liz offers him. Taps on the top of it even though last night I’d specifically told him not to.
As predicted, the mic produces a screeching sound, half the weddings guests in the room cringe from the feedback it causes. Particularly the older folks in the crowd.
Without me instructing him to, he raises the mic to his mouth.
