White Wedding

White Wedding – Billy Idol

'Ahem… Uhhhh… Well… Yeah… I guess… I mean, yes… I do. I do.' His dandelion mustache trembling, the boy strings the words together much in the manner his prospected spouse used to take her birth control pills: irregular, absentminded and strangely convinced that, if you just make sure to finish the strip at some point, all will be well. His fiancee is clutching the wedding bouquet her mother purchased from one of the smooth operators standing day in, day out, at the base of the steps outside the New York City Marriage Bureau, selling (and, on bad catch days, reselling) posies for fifteen bucks.
The will-be groom's suit itches. Any sudden movement might urge his imminent stepfather in law to seize him by the collar of his borrowed attire lest he make a run for it. So instead of scratching, he studies his immobile feet, cemented in the floor of the Marriage Bureau like a Mafioso about to sleep with the fishes.

The registrar wipes his brow, simultaneously glancing at his watch. He is sweating profusely; little streams of wet salt trickle down his chest and settle, for now, in the basin of his belly button. Somehow the conditioned air in the Marriage Bureau never seems to reach the little white alcove that is impersonating a small town wedding chapel. Just off the spacious main entrance hall, its dimmed lights, white curtains, candelabras and all the near-intimacy in the world can't hide the fact that The New York City Marriage Bureau churns out a fresh Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So roughly every 10 minutes. That's 42 wedding albums a day (210 a week; 10,920 a year) filled with pictures featuring the alcove and the outside steps and the Bureau's brick walls.
The registrar finds some relief in the triple mint gum he has been chewing since he directed his first ceremony of today. People never comment on the drudgery his jaws deliver with the vows uniting them till death do them part, he ponders. Couples getting married at the Marriage Bureau tend to be quite modest when it comes to expectations on the part of his performance. The registrar's main concern is not with them, but with the precious minutes leaking from each ceremony like the brackish drops that ooze from his pores. He looks out the alcove and into the Bureau lobby, at the next couple already waiting to be served; a blissful looking middle aged duo surrounded by boisterous friends, number 17 today. Better wrap things up.

My sweetheart and I are sitting in front of one of the computers in the center of Marriage Bureau entrance hall that are poking each other in the ribs like a huddle of wired bridesmaids bracing themselves for any incoming bouquets. We are applying for a marriage license, and vaguely consider the possibility of getting married right here, at the Bureau; all it takes is a 24 hour wait and an appointment. It's cheap (a total sum of $ 60: $ 35 to apply for a marriage license, another $ 25 for a ceremony, performed by an appointed official), quick, and painless – we remind ourselves that romance is dead, anyway. After we get a number to have our application certified and bonafide by one of the Office of the City Clerks, we take a quick look around.
If marriage is an institution, the New York City Marriage Bureau is its undisputed headquarters. From the first line you stumble into upon entering the neo renaissance hall (to state your affairs); via the line for the computers (to apply for your license); down to waiting your turn for the City Clerks (to complete your application), and the final queue for the actual institutionalization; along the way, everyone’s love story is minced in the meat grinder of bureaucracy. This morning, there is a hive of shotgun, tourist and drunken monkey weddings to be performed, already buzzing around the entrance hall, and peeping into the make-believe wedding chapel; as morning grinds to afternoon, they slowly make way for the low budgeters, third timers, and elopers who'll start bustling in around lunch time.

For a city where the pursuit of individual happiness reigns supreme, a whopping average of 182 marriages are performed every day, adding up to a solid 66,483 mutual 'I do's in 2007 alone. Promising enough, the state of New York can boast the country's third lowest divorce rates (with 8.1% in 2008, only in New Jersey and North Dakota do couples stick together better). We decide that romance isn't dead, after all. Not only is it very much alive; it is calling out our number. Next! (We decide to get married somewhere – anywhere! - else in the city, where there are bound to be fewer strangers, no lines and only one bride around. Well, anywhere but the Grand Prospect Hall in Brooklyn.)

'By the power invested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife,' the registrar brings the ceremony to a close. He slams his folder shut. The groom's wistful upper lip jumps to attention. He may kiss his bride. Should he use his tongue? Or just give her a quick peck? How does one go about these things? His girl looks at him, blushing. She tilts her head, expecting once more. Where does he put his hands? He should have thought this through! Too late now. He closes his eyes and lunges. The mother of the bride, too, shuts her eyes, in reluctant anticipation: the inevitable clatter of teeth will make for a clanking first toast to their happy ever after.