Gary Stella always had a penchant for law and order of a certain type. Uber-conservative in politics, though never lifestyle, no one was surprised when he went from stockboy at a Brooklyn Key Food to recruit of the New York Police Department. But his words following graduation from the academy, as the family gathered for a congratulatory meal at Buonocore’s on Avenue U—“I’m doin’ it for the authority, the money and the gun”—rang on through his tenure with the badge. Hard-drinking, hard-living, and hardly liberal were the cowboy elements that Gary thrived on. He’d be the first to tell you that. The lure was too great and the rewards generous. Until they weren’t.

Gary’s rise up the blue ladder was birthed by determination as much as adulation. “Ah, my kid’s out there chasin’ crooks ‘n’ broads,” his father, Eddie would state, hands aloft in anxious anticipation, lecturing his youngest through barely veiled glowing pride. But one day, years into being on The Job and after meeting Jean Moira O’Dwyer, a nurse from the far-reaches of Long Island, Gary decided to restrict his chasing to crooks. Soon, the luster of that, too, would fade. Reticent in voice but strong of stance, Jeannie was what Gary’s wild heart required in the taming.

And so, the messy local bachelor pad was traded for a stately home in Suffolk County. The couple spent much of their time planning the wedding, and as the big day loomed closer, dealings with family politics came to dominate the conversations. “You KNOW Uncle Iggy doesn’t talk to Leo and Pat anymore”, Gary’s mother Annie was wont to remind. Regularly. “Don’t seat them too close or there’ll be holy hell to pay”.

Variations on this discussion were frequent and probing. She also inquired regularly about the food (“Are we having macaroni? What do the Irish eat?”), the band (“Not toooo loud, right?”) and directions (“You know Daddy can’t get around those roads”), among other queries.

Gary asked elder brothers, Edward and Jack, to be ushers in the bridal party along with several buddies from the old neighborhood and, of course, The Job. Mama Annie was already messily emotional at the idea of her boys standing together in the house of god.

So, on an inordinately warm, terribly early Friday morning, Eddie, Annie, and seemingly the rest of Bensonhurst piled into the Stella Electrical Corp. van, heading to the Glen Cove Golden Shore Motel where “Each luxurious room overlooks the glorious Long Island Sound”. The family had booked a series of rooms together, in succession, commandeering the second floor, with an ersatz tailgate party planned for the hallway.

Eddie was only happy to play host. He and Annie brought along several boxes of wine, sleeves of Styrofoam cups, a couple of trays of Italian cookies, and a carton of Ritz crackers with some of the really nice cheese you get in the dairy case. The prized bounty, though, six bottles of aged whiskey, double malt scotch, good bourbon, a bottle of rye he’d only drank a bit of, imported vodka, and as a special gift to new in-laws, a fifth of Jameson. They were all carried pridefully in a red, plastic grocery basket. “When the Bohack went outta business, I grabbed this”, he’d explained, pointing downward to the supermarket conquest.

We got everythin’ here”, Eddie assured the burgeoning second floor, “even the mother-in-law who rode all the way in the trunk!” To this, Grandma Maria’s gaze morphed into what soldiers called the 2000-yard stare, her vacant eyes betraying a profound sneer.

One needed to move through the huddles, nod at the bits of conversation, taste the rush, and move on or risk being swept up. Relatives from all five boroughs and beyond, even Jersey, with cousins, “cousins,” and distant others all converging. A veritable reunion. Auntie Barb who kept referring to the Golden Shore as “Golden Showers,” and her latest squeeze (apparently, a model, only recently retired), Cousin Lina and her husband Jerry, who ran an ice cream truck, family hipsters Uncle Nick and Aunt Angela, plus Aunt Rose and Tim (manager of that Waldbaum’s) with Cousin Alf, naturally. Oh, and Great Auntie Sky, too, fresh from her blue rinse.

Auntie Barb’s room was closest to the elevators, so the party started there. The door, propped open, emitted an unlikely mix of Carole King and Public Enemy as Barb danced with a glass in each hand, complaining of not being able to get ready, her blue sparkly strapless hung above the spangly shoes waiting to be filled. Incense burned alongside a wine decanter, an espresso maker, and assorted pastry. Sweat beading across her forehead, Barb, wide-eyed, bolted to greet anyone stepping onto the floor with a buoyant, braless hug and wet kiss, whether they were aligned with the wedding or not.

Brooklyn inna house.

As the volume raised to a din, the groom’s brothers, Jack and Edward, needed to depart for Gary’s house, so all of the men could travel to the church together. Rushing down the stairs, Jack saw Edward standing impatiently in the lobby, brushing off the tuxedo jacket he grasped tightly in one hand. Jack rolled his eyes. “Uhhh, the cab’s already here, so it shouldn’t take long to get there”. Edward stared downward just above his glasses, focused intently on the black velveteen collar. “You’re 12 minutes late already”, he chided, snapping shut the small lint brush.

Following the tacit ride over, the cab finally pulled up to Gary’s house. It was one of those split- level capes on a cul-de-sac. All seemed pastoral except for the cars crammed into the driveway, some awkwardly hanging into the street or partly on the lawn.

As Jack and Edward walked up to the entrance, sounds of heavy rock vibrated through the front door. Black Sabbath. Jack laughed, “What—you expected to hear ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’?” He rang the doorbell knowing full well that no one inside would hear it, and then rang a few more times for good measure. The only answer came from Geezer Butler’s deepest bass rumble. 

Jack reached for the doorknob and turned. “Well, it’s not locked”, he said, opening the door. They stepped into the very loud vortex. “Gary—Gary! Where are you?” Edward shouted. “Goddamnit, where the hell is he?”

They walked further and found the small sunken parlor, stereo blaring for nobody. “Gary—hey, Gary!” Finally, Edward clicked the ‘stop’ button of the CD player, cutting the music abruptly. The reverberation of distorted guitar hung momentarily in the air. This room was Gary’s minimal holdover bachelor pad, complete with funky lighting, posters of sports figures, EC horror comics, and a girlie calendar. But just as the music silenced, the sounds of a televised ball game were audible from upstairs. They followed it to the living room, the heart of which boasted a large-screen television broadcasting a Mets game. Gary was stretched out on one part of the sectional, unshaven, hair asunder, wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt. Five similarly dressed guys sat around the room staring bleary-eyed at the TV with Gary’s old friend Chuck sleeping on the floor in a fetal position. An empty beer keg lay there, too, alongside numerous empty bottles of Budweiser and six or seven boxes of pizza marked pepperoni, sausage, meatball.

“Hey, Edward and Jack are here!” said Tony, the Best Man, from his post on the recliner, sipping a cold one. Gary pointed to the pile of pizza boxes: “Guys, grab a slice!”, he said, still lying down. “You want a beer? We still got a few lef… YEAH! YEAH!! TAKE THIRD! TAKE THIRD!!” Action had broken out at Shea.

Tony jumped up: “HE’S GOIN’ HOME!” and the room erupted into an array of howls. Even Chuck woke up to join in the cacophony. All were shouting in this bath of testosterone: Tony and Billy, from the force; Mitch, Chuck, and Severino (whom everyone just called Sev) from the old neighborhood.

“Uh, we need to get ready, don’t we?” Edward asked to the renewal of howls, this time, drenched in laughter. “Come on, Edwina”, Sev offered. “I jus’ got outta the pool. Relax. We got time. You oughtta take a dip”.

Jack reminded them that the limo was scheduled to be along soon, but he too was shouted down. “We’re gonna get goin’”, Gary said, looking over from the couch, “but we gotta see how the game turns out. Have a beer”. Chuck, a heavy-set young man often known as Chunk, reached for another piece of pizza. “Damn, no meatball left?” he asked annoyedly. Suddenly, his face derailed. “Oh, shit, I’m, I’m gonna throw-up—”, he exclaimed, hurriedly running to the bathroom. Sev laughed uncontrollably, falling off his chair, demonstrating why the guys also called him Siv. Mitch sat glassy-eyed. They’d been up all night, adding a new layer to the term bridal party.

After more pestering, the group finally began to get ready, taking turns in the two bathrooms to shower, shave, and don their tuxes. It was a slow go. Forty-five minutes later, Gary was walking around in his white shirt, tie, black socks, and boxer shorts, hunting for the last Bud. Billy had teased his hair till perfect but protested wearing the cummerbund he felt was “faggy”.

Tony struggled to slip his pants on over his shoes, complaining that “The tuxedo guy gave me the wrong size”. Chuck got fully dressed and then realized he hadn’t showered. Sev broke into the giggles while searching for the cable “naked channel”. Mitch sat glassy-eyed.

Edward went outside to greet the limo driver, assuring him that they’d be leaving soon. And then he went back to tell him the same thing a half-hour later. And twenty minutes more. Then another fifteen. And yet another. It was like herding cats. Jack looked out the window to make sure the driver didn’t leave. “No, he’s still there, leaning against the car, smoking another cigarette”, he assured.

Finally, finally, everyone was ready to go. They exited the house and filed into the shiny black stretch limo, immediately opening the sunroof and shouting rude things at people. Just as Jack and Edward felt a sense of relief that they were en route, Gary directed the driver to make a stop before heading to the church. “It’s just a few blocks this way”, he assured. “Yeah, go through Hook’s Landing, it’ll lead ya right there.” As the limo pulled into the parking lot of Al’s Beer Haven, it became clear that this was not a run to the florist for fresh carnations.

“Are you serious?” Jack asked, peering into his younger brother’s red eyes. “You’re stopping for beer on the way to your own wedding??” The party roared. Gary remained in the car with Mitch, Jack, and Edward as the others ran into Al’s. A few minutes later, Tony, Billy, Chuck, and Sev emerged carrying cases of Budweiser. “We got some cold ones, too”, Billy said proudly. The guys downed beer, merrily falling further into their shared stupor. Chuck regretted that he couldn’t position himself to moon drivers from the sunroof. They broke into strange chants, unrelated laughter, and raunchy jokes when not singing Led Zeppelin songs in near unison, complete with vocalized guitar solos. Mitch, barely awake thus far, came to life to trade lines from “This is Spinal Tap” before sliding back into catatonia.

Road construction slowed the journey even more. Edward peered through the tinted windows, feeling ill, as the man with the red flag held up traffic another ten minutes. Jack finally conceded and gulped down a Bud, the last of the cold ones. By the time the stretch drove up to the church, nearly two hours late, it was greeted by unrepentant hysterics. Bridesmaids, friends, and foes encircled the car. The door opened, and Mitch, somehow, was the first to step out. Suddenly, Jean’s Uncle Arch ran up, grabbing him by the rented lapels. “Where the hell have you been??!!” he shouted into Mitch’s dilated face. “Do you know what you’ve put us through??”

As the rest climbed out of the car, Annie could be heard yelling from some hundred feet away, announcing the arrival. The large, metal church doors opened, and a crowd spilled out. Auntie Barb was jumping up and down illicitly, and Uncle Iggy held head in hands as Eddie pushed his way through, frantic. “Jeeeees-us Cha-ristmas!”, he hollered from under the great crucifix.

Jack and Edward did their best to relay the lengthy road construction, the re-routing, and the stone-faced crew foreman halting their path, but the blood clouding Uncle Arch’s eyes displayed only rancor. Mitch straightened his lapels, and then everyone rushed back into the church. Somehow, Gary came out unscathed.

It ended up being a lovely wedding.