ONE DJ, LEGALLY BOUND

At the Bloomington Bridal Show, we had made contact with a DJ who seemed to have the right balance of organization and lack of preaching to make us feel comfortable. We had checked on our date, and it was open. We had given our name and number. They only booked two weddings on any given day to make sure they weren’t ever stretched too thin to perform admirably. We took home the info and had considered ourselves at least tentatively scheduled for that day.

At a later point, while doing vendor crosscheck number fifty-two, we decided to call the DJ back and discuss any details that needed to be covered that far in advance. I think we may have been two months out. We called, and they checked their calendar. They had one slot filled by someone else—and had promised the other to a wedding planner from parts unknown they had worked with before. A somewhat understated description of our reaction would be that this was not welcome news.

Through some discussion, I learned the DJ did have our name and number written down for our weekend, but he hadn’t heard from us, so he didn’t think anything of it. At least, not enough to call and see whether that name and number meant anything. By pressing the issue, I learned that the second slot was promised but not booked, so it was simply a matter of who got the deposit check there faster. They operated on a first-paid, first-served basis. I made him disclose his whereabouts for the next hour or so and said our local legal representation would be paying him a visit.

In hindsight, I am willing to acknowledge that this so-called wedding planner in Tiny Town, Indiana may have been fictitious. I understand vendors’ selling tool of artificially inflating demand for their services. But we, nevertheless, were in a foot race. I didn’t know if we were racing that day’s postal service, the wedding planner in her car, or the fickle hands of fate to the DJ’s door. But it was a race where second place not only received no medal, but also caused another small leak in the dam holding back the doomsday flood of wedding imperfection, caused by second-rate service providers.

After a few moments of speaking in a soothing voice to my beloved and laying out my plan for obtaining the coveted second slot, I got to work. We finally got to utilize some of the benefits of holding the event in Bloomington. A call was placed to my brother, the best man, as he toiled at work, trying to modernize the family law practice, situated conveniently a handful of blocks from the DJ’s office.

“Hey there, best man. Are you ready for your first task?” I asked.

“I guess so.” I sensed he was hoping this wouldn’t be an arduous task.

“This is a time-sensitive matter. Do you have thirty minutes to spare?” I tried to imply urgency.

“Sure. Right now?” He was still hoping for an escape clause.

“You’re racing a wedding planner, as we speak, and there’s no telling where she or her deposit might be. It may already be too late! This is not a drill!”

It is best to give the groomsmen competitions to invoke ardent participation, where the bride’s side can exist solely on favors and other feel-good stuff.

“OK, what am I doing? Where am I going?” I had established buy-in.

“Through personal or office resources, obtain one hundred dollars and head to this address. Find this person. Tell him this info, and then bind that bastard to it. Throw in any legal jargon you can to make him sweat, just for causing this momentary concern,” I rattled off with military precision.

“OK, I may have to call you once there.”

The hunt was clear. He verified that I’d be available for any unforeseen details, and off he went. Needless to say, we smoked that wedding planner; and if she were real, I’d go tell her all about it. Sadly, I realized that some other lovely bride and groom may have been stuck with rocking it Jesus style, but they had a wedding planner. Take the easy road, why don’t you.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival