Philadelphia does not have a 24-hour wedding chapel. I know because I checked. Atlantic City doesn't either, surprisingly. I had suspected that AC might follow the wedding practices of its bigger, badder brother, Las Vegas -- but it doesn't, as far as I could tell.
I did find Yerkes Wedding Salon, which is not in Philadelphia or in Atlantic City; nor does it operate 24/7. It's in East Lansdowne and operates only on Fridays, Saturdays and some holidays, and then is only open long enough to perform all the scheduled ceremonies. On a light day, say five or six marriages, the salon will only be open for a few hours. They've had as many as 25 weddings in one day.
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"We're next to the Sunoco station," says Yerkes owner, Karen Terwilliger, over the phone, "you can't miss it."
She's right. Yerkes Wedding Salon is easy to find -- just a straight shot out Baltimore Ave., past 63rd Street, into the Philadelphia suburbs. There's a big sign out front: "Yerkes Wedding Salon/Civil Ceremonies Performed." The salon occupies the first floor of a duplex that faces Baltimore and stands, as owner Karen Terwilliger promised, adjacent to a Sunoco station. It's appropriate somehow. Getting married there is about as quick and easy as filling your tank with gas.
If you are married at Yerkes (rhymes with "perkies") there will be no time or words wasted. Marriage there is fast and hassle-free. All you need is an appointment and a marriage license, and you're qualified. No wedding gown or flower girls necessary. Pay $80 up front, and the Justice of the Peace would be more than happy to do the deed. By the power vested in him, any couple can be hitched and out of there in under 15 minutes.
Of course, you can bring all the traditional accoutrements if you've a mind to. Yerkes maintains a strict come-as-you-are policy that allows their couples to make what they want out of their big day. You can come alone, or in the company of your friends and family, (the venue seats twenty-four). You can come dressed in your Armani suit or in your bathing suit. One couple that got married on Halloween arrived in full costume. The bride dressed as a witch, the groom, a ghoul. Marriage law has nothing to say about the appearance of those walking down the aisle.
11:45 a.m., this past Saturday. The first couple descends on the salon in a flurry of thick Philadelphia accents. They know they are late and that Yerkes Wedding Salon keeps a tight schedule. Bride #1 stands in the reception area amid family and friends and yells over her shoulder to the owner, Karen. Something about bad directions. Karen, seated at her desk (she doubles as Yerkes' receptionist), is unfalteringly businesslike. She deflects the comment and Bride #1, one Stacy Bramstein, picks at her dress. Mom makes sure that someone has the rings. The convenience of the ceremonies here does not exclude them from the customary anxieties.
The wedding party files into the next room where the ceremony will take place. There are fold out chairs in short rows, and, at the far end, a trellis threaded with fake flowers under which the one-time mayor of Sharon Hill, Pa., Robert L. DeRosa, waits to officiate in his long black robe.
The next couple comes in the front door: hispanic, nearing middle age. Karen tells Stacy Bramstein to line up at the threshold. A taped recording of an organ playing "Here Comes the Bride" issues from some unseen speaker. At this moment, she could be any bride, anywhere, standing in her traditional floor-length gown, ready to march to the altar and nervous down to her white-shod feet. From the reception area, the lace-lined French doors close behind her, and she is obstructed from view.
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Couple #2 doesn't want to talk to me. I give them their space and listen in:
Karen: Would you like a video of the ceremony?
Groom #2: No.
Karen: Would you like our photographer to take pictures?
Groom #2: No.
Karen: Okay, that will be $80 please.
Flowers, video and pictures cost extra. Couple #2 brought friends with cameras for free. Bride #2 has long, (dyed) red hair and wears a white pantsuit and a gold bracelet around her ankle. Groom #2 wears an oxford and black pants. They hold hands while pictures are taken.
Little time passes before the French doors open, and the photographer comes out. The ceremony over, Wedding Party #1 has already moved into the garden for pictures. By the time I get out there, Bride #1, now Stacy Angelo, and the rest of the company are under another trellis posing and smiling. The "garden," is a small rectangle of criss-crossing sidewalk and cold-looking plants. When I poked my head out earlier, Karen's father and part owner, Bill Smyrl (rhymes with squirrel), assured me that in the summertime, the flowers are beautiful.
Mr. and Mrs. Angelo finish up:
"We didn't want a big traditional wedding and heard a lot of good things about this place," Stacy tells me. "Big weddings become about other people so fast," she goes on to say, "it's easier to lose yourself in them and not even enjoy yourself."
Couple #2, freshly hitched, peek their heads out of the door leading to the courtyard. It's their turn to take pictures, and the Angelos' time to leave. I congratulate the Angelos, and they, with the rest of their party, walk around the side of the building to their cars.
If you wanted to get married at Yerkes this Valentine's Day you could (they take walks-ins), but not without a marriage license. To get one you have to hike to City Hall or a County Courthouse and stand in line and fill out forms and pay up to $40. Then you get a license which grants you the privilege to get hitched.
Yerkes Wedding Salon asks that you bring in your marriage license one week before your wedding is scheduled, so they can verify that you have it and make sure that it isn't expired. Bride and Groom #3, an African-American couple in their twenties, are here for that purpose. Karen takes a look at their license and notices a problem. The license will expire before next weekend, when they plan to have the wedding. Without a valid license, the couple can't be married.
Karen lays it out for them: "Either you go to City Hall and fill out all the forms again, or you get married now."
Couple #3 look at one another and sit down to talk about it. They're in street clothes. They hadn't expected this snafu in their plans. Filling out the forms and paying the fee again is a hassle, but they have a reception set for next weekend. Bride #3's hair, shoes and purse are all the same deep shade of pink. The couple is hunched over in chairs, their heads together, speaking quietly. She says, "Let's just do it now."
A round girl comes in and looks around. "I'm here for the Cropper Wedding," she says. Karen tells her they aren't here yet. They are the last wedding of the day, scheduled for 12:30 p.m.
Some time during the last 10 minutes the young couple with the expired marriage license has slipped out. Karen tells me that they decided to go ahead with the ceremony today, and that they will then stage a ceremony next week for friends and family. No one will know the difference.
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All kinds of people decide to get married at Yerkes for all kinds of reasons. Convenience and expense seem to be the primary draws. But couples also opt for quick and cheap when they are remarrying, or when they don't want a religious service, or when they come from different religions. For instance, Catholics can't remarry in a church and have to find other options.
On the wall of the hallway leading to the bathroom hang pictures of marriages past: old ones, young ones, of every race, in every state of dress. The infamous Halloween couple is up there for all to see. Yerkes Wedding Salon is proud of its iconoclastic clients. Karen Terwilliger makes money when people think outside the box, when they don't feel the need to be married in a conventional way.
The phone rings. It's the Cropper wedding on the other line. Their limo has broken down, and they are running late. Karen was expecting them to be here by 12:30. On time. She waits for no wedding. "You need to be here in fifteen minutes," she warns, "or else we're not going to be here."
Steven Cropper bursts in at 12:35, wearing an off white three button suit, looking very dapper. He's flustered from rushing, and says, prematurely, "Let me get my wife."
Ella, not yet Cropper, is wide-hipped and round just about everywhere. She speaks loudly, well over her husband. It's clear who will wear the pants in this relationship:
Karen: Would you like a video of the ceremony? ($32)
Ella: Yes, we would.
Karen: Would you like our photographer to take pictures? ($25-$130)
Ella: Uh huh.
Karen: Would you like to purchase flowers for the ceremony? ($3-$32)
Ella would.
The flowers are silk and not exactly cheap. Ella opts for a "long stem bouquet" ($22). Karen and Ella discuss which color bouquet would be most appropriate for her ensemble while Steven settles the bill: "I'll take the long-stem white, no wait, what about the yellow?"
The rest of the boisterous Cropper clan comes and buzzes around the bride and groom. The father of the bride wears a fur-lined coat and gold chains. He makes jokes. Everyone laughs. Karen looks frustrated.
Ella: I need a mirror.
Karen: There's one behind you.
In fact, there's a whole wall of mirror behind her. Ella turns around and takes a look.
Her hair, dyed blond and relaxed, is bound up by a big shiny tiara. Her dress is strapless, sequined, heavy-looking. It's traditional bridal wear with the exception that nothing is the same shade of white. The dress is eggshell, the veil, the color of old paper. In one hand, she holds a muff.
A muff.
Ella turns side to side to see herself in the mirror. She likes what she sees: "Fat girls can be pretty too." She says she was going to diet for today, but she decided against it. "I like the finer things in life," she explains. "That's what causes all the weight: good living."
The 17 members of the Cropper party stand around and take pictures of the bride and groom. Ella smiles and laughs. The limo was a disaster, but it hasn't stopped her from having a good time. It's clear that she's letting the experience of getting married linger, drawing out what at Yerkes is supposed to be a lightning-quick event. She decides on the white flowers: good living.
It's 12:47 p.m. Karen Terwilliger is officially perturbed.
"Okay, everyone needs to sit down now. There will be lots of time for pictures later." Everyone goes and takes their seat. The music starts: "Here comes the bride/ All dressed in white." The door shuts behind Ella. The ceremony's begun.
With five weddings over and the final one all but done, Karen is visibly more relaxed. She moves paper around, answers the phone. Weddings are not about love and holy union for her. They are a matter of business. She was married two decades ago in a Methodist church, perhaps too long ago to remember what it was like to be in a wedding gown.
Karen tells me stories about memorable couples while laughter issues from behind the French doors. One couple that met in cab had the Justice of the Peace marry them in a taxi. Most of the stories are funny, or weird. Not too many tragedies. Only one girl was left at the altar. At the end of the day, Karen likes her job. She says she's "learned a lot about people and cultures" by working here.
"Some people take the ceremony really seriously," she says, "but others just get up there and laugh"
