The Renewlywed Game

Elvis was a $175 afterthought. After initially considering the King a wasteful bagatelle, we came to our senses and called the chapel.

"Is Elvis in the building? We really want to include him in our renewal ceremony," I told the receptionist. She'd heard the line before. "No, he's not. Who are you, anyway?"

Once word had gotten out that we'd be renewing our vows in Vegas, friends began a pilgrimage to the desert. My brothers Tim and Chris would be there, as would Patrick "Peewee" Presutto, who grew up next door to Janet. Dan Ewert, my buddy from ninth-grade algebra and eventual 1990 best man, booked a flight. Jenni Bryant O'Connell, a former workmate of Janet's, and her husband, Michael, climbed aboard.

Jenni, in particular, took to the renewal like a wolverine on roadkill. Not only would she lovingly film the events leading up to and following the vows, but she also promoted herself to the post of "maid of dishonor." On the big day, she spent 12 hours garbed in a flowing white prom dress, a feathery pink halo levitating above her head. Dan was my "beast man," an honor that included a set of flashing devil horns that he was required to wear from 5 p.m. until dawn the next day.

Only Tim seemed a bit out of sync with the proceedings. Perhaps expecting a more dignified affair, like those Willis-Moore vows, he would disappear at odd moments -- like any time we were all together. Upon viewing the wedding quartet in full regalia during a pre-nup cocktail party, Tim asked, a hint of desperation in his voice, "You're going to change, right?"

Yeah, right.

Elvis was late. A 10-minute ride to the Little White Chapel, in a pearly stretch limo with a twinkling ceiling and champagne glasses glued onto a dusty bar, was followed by word that the King was on his way.

As we waited, chapel employee Amber Lester went over the 7:30 p.m. ceremony details as several other, more tastefully attired wedding parties milled about the reception area. The room, which could have been a dentist's office in a previous life, featured a long counter and glass display cases jammed with matrimonial doodads, including a $15 pair of "Just Married" flip-flops.

Janet's sole concern involved our $175 invitee: Was he the young Elvis or the morbidly obese Elvis? Amber shrugged. "Sort of in-between."

We handed over our credit card, and Amber tossed us a wrinkled envelope labeled "Love Gift" that was imprinted with three unexpected amounts: $40, $60 and $100. "That's for the minister. Feel free to put in whatever you wish," she instructed. Zero didn't seem to be an option, so I fumbled for two twenties and gave the envelope back.

Behind the counter, a portly guy in a suit was leaning out a window creating husbands and wives in the Drive Thru Tunnel of Vows, apparently geared toward couples who want to spend the rest of their lives together but don't wish to stand. During our 40 minutes at the Little White, three couples -- including one on a motorcycle who answered "Hell, yeah!" when asked if they were there to get married -- took the plunge tunnel-style.

At about 7:40 p.m., Elvis (mercifully skewed toward the younger side) tapped me on the shoulder and told me we needed to proceed to the chapel. He was wearing a red jumpsuit with silver rhinestones and was sweating like he had a hunka hunka burnin' fever.