E-Mail This Article to a Friend PROVINCETOWN Cowboy dogs, rainbow flags, and cameras galore BY CHRIS WRIGHT

It’s 7:30 on a Monday morning. The Pilgrim Monument is shrouded in mist, the ocean is slate gray. Normally a morning like this would leave Provincetown desolate, but this isn’t a normal morning. "They’re making such a big deal out of this shit," says a grumbly police officer as he shifts a barrier with a PRESS ONLY sign on it. "Jesus!" Nearby, Commercial Street hums with news-truck generators. Beyond this, outside Town Hall, two terriers wearing little cowboy hats are being yapped at by another tiny dog. "He’s got a case of hat envy," says the yapping dog’s apologetic owner.

Even though P-Town isn’t the first place in Massachusetts to give out same-sex marriage licenses — that honor went to Cambridge at midnight — for many soon-to-be-wed gay and lesbian couples, it’s the logical destination. But then maybe logical isn’t the right word. There’s nothing logical about a dog in a cowboy hat. And there’s certainly nothing logical about the fact that there seem to be many more cameras here than people. So what is the right word? "Mayhem" would be a start. As one woman says, "Is J.Lo here?"

There are 110 couples scheduled to get their licenses in Provincetown today. At 7:45, 15 minutes before the Town Hall doors swing open, there are possibly 10 applicants and 50 media people on hand. You can practically feel the breeze of notebook pages being flipped. "It’s really hard not to get a picture of ourselves," moans one cameraman to a colleague, who nods in solemn agreement. "Where does the line begin?" asks an elderly woman, her view of the early arrivals obscured by a TV camera crew. "In a word," says one onlooker, "ay-ay-ay!"

Many of the people gathered here seem bemused by the attention they’re receiving. "This is a historic event for us," says a woman into the mike that’s being wagged in her face. This, it turns out, is one of the more interesting observations of the day. Generally, people say things like "I’m excited" or "We’re thrilled." And it’s even worse for the television guys than it is for the print journalists. The thing is, the act of picking up a marriage license — even a historic one — does not make for a particularly dramatic visual. That’s the problem with history: it doesn’t always meet the broadcasting needs of a TV-news segment.

At eight sharp, a police officer standing in the midst of the gathering crowd speaks into his walkie-talkie: "Open the west-side doors!" The couples move toward the stairs. The press people stampede. What we’re stampeding toward, no one seems sure. Inside, there’s a door blocked by people in blue shirts, so we all head for that. Cameramen dodder atop chairs. "Stand back!" yells an unseen person. "You’ll get your interviews! You’ll get your photos!" A woman from New England Cable News gets her wiring snagged on the bag of a print journalist. On the wall, a large oil painting depicts a crew of dour-faced fishermen bearing a bucket of fish. If those fish were constantly being cracked on the head with the butts of TV cameras, they would provide a perfect visual metaphor for the scene here today.

What the reporters are interested in right now, the Holy Grail of gay-marriage coverage, is the first couple to acquire a license. "I haven’t seen them anywhere," yelps one TV anchor to her cameraman. "How does it feel?" says another reporter to a waiting couple. Had the reporter gotten a response, the answer would have most likely been something like, "Squashed." And then — is it? Is it? — the First Couple walks out of the room. "We’re very excited." As for the second couple: "They didn’t get any attention at all," says one of the blue shirts. "They just walked out."

Outside, the couples parade down the Town Hall steps to cheers, long-stemmed roses, cake, confetti, and more cameras. "How long have you been together?" Many reporters simply glom on to an interview already in progress and scribble down quotes. "We’re thrilled." One couple gets a two-pronged attack — one guy gives an interview over his shoulder while his partner talks to a reporter in front. Another simply stares like a startled squirrel. "I’m sorry," he says. "I guess I’m not very verbose." And then: "What would you like us to say?"

This is the way it goes all day: part Academy Awards pre-show, part small-town parade. Some couples rush through the throng, but most seem happy to stop and say a few words — after all, publicity-shy applicants would not necessarily have chosen this spot on this day to commit. For another thing, this is a uniquely happy occasion in Provincetown. These people have been waiting for years for this moment, decades. Even most of the police officers seem happy to be here. "Chief! Come and give us away!" yells a woman. The chief blows her a kiss: "Congratulations!"

This is not your average footloose P-Town crowd. The majority of the couples here are over 40. Some appear to be over 60. Governor Romney has expressed concern that this tiny seaside enclave will become the "Vegas" of gay marriage. Looking at the two elderly women with matching powder-blue Provincetown sweatshirts and jeans with crisply ironed seams, you feel he may have a point. Another couple, two guys with graying beards, sport T-shirts announcing SPOUSES FOR LIFE, and white baseball caps with the word GROOM on them. One of the guys wears a veil. Not once do they disentangle their fingers.

During an interview, a woman named Beth, who is 60, reveals that she’s been with her partner for only two years. "One of them must be pregnant," yells an onlooker. "It must be a shotgun marriage!" People laugh, but there is a serious point lurking behind this remark. People get married for dubious reasons all the time. It’s puzzling how anyone could look at Mary and Lori, two middle-aged schoolteachers who have been together for 20 years, and see what one right-wing talk-show host called "a tragedy." Here in P-Town, though, there is not a protester in sight — only rainbow flags and bubbles and smiling faces. As one guy says, tears in his eyes, "We have nothing to fear."

Actually, the people here do have something to fear: getting an eye taken out by a microphone boom, or camera-butt concussions. For the truly overwhelmed, respite can be found around the side of the building, where clusters of forlorn-looking reporters pore through their notes or chatter into cell phones. One listens to his tape recorder: "I’m excited" — rewind — "... cited" — rewind — "I’m ..." A reporter for the Associated Press scurries about pointing to a pair of names in his notebook: "Are these the first ones? Are these the first ones?"

A few moments later, a genuinely historic moment takes place, and the press people go nuts. In the midst of a literal scrum of bodies, John Goode, 51, and Cary Raymond, 52, exchange vows before a justice of the peace — one of the first gay couples in America to do so, and the very first in P-Town. "I do," they say as the cameras whir and the pens scribble. "I do." The justice is carrying a sheaf of notes, upon which she has written a list of reminders to herself. At the top of the list: "Bring a camera."

A block down Commercial Street, away from the banners and puppet shows and I DO T-shirts, things look like they always do at this time of year. A few gift shops have opened their doors to the stragglers. People walk their dogs, get coffee. The couple with the SPOUSES FOR LIFE shirts walk along, hand in hand, and are asked yet another question, this time by a pair of tourists walking in the opposite direction: "Do you know the history of this town?" Already, things are returning to normal.