Kathy and I were married July 26th 1969, and I had asked Junior to be my best man. He accepted and drove up from West Virginia.
To set the stage for this story, I have to mention a few things here. Prior to our marriage, I had all kinds of difficulty trying to find an apartment. Anything decent and in a decent neighborhood, refused to rent to a single man. The fact that I was getting married in a few weeks meant nothing to them.
I finally found a one-bedroom fleabag apartment in a most undesirable part of town. It was located beside the funeral home and overlooking a used clothing store.
The big day had arrived. Junior and I were at the apartment getting ready. For some reason, he was as nervous as Jesse Jackson at a Klan rally. We both cleaned up quite nicely, if I do say so myself, and headed to the church. Wearing our Sunday Best, we headed to the church, which was about a 20-minute drive away.
We got there on time and were assembled in the foyer when the minister asked for the marriage license. It was only then that we realized that it was on the coffee table back at the apartment. Each of us assumed the other had picked it up.
We rushed out the door and grabbed the first automobile we came to. It was Lavaughn's 1965 Ford convertible. Through the city streets we tore toward the apartment. People were looking at us very strangely, but we didn't know why. They would beep their horns and blow us kisses. Everyone waved.
Later, we realized how we must have looked. Two grown men, all dressed up, speeding toward a fleabag apartment in a car with crepe paper puffballs all over it and a "JUST MARRIED" sign on the back.
We made the trip with about 30 seconds to spare. We entered the church thru the side door and darted in to the first restroom we came to. Hearing the ushers and bridesmaids assembling outside, we did out business and went out to join them. Wonder what the minister thought when he saw the groom and best man all sweaty and panting as the came out of the ladies rest room?