Damn This Inn

The first Collingwood Inn wedding would have been perfect if the bride’s mother hadn’t worn a slutty red dress and if her escort hadn’t fallen asleep after he threw up on the dining room floor. The groom was a hardworking house painter, the bride his monosyllabic and seemingly gloomy partner of almost five years who was a legal secretary. Matron of honor and best man plus bride and groom were active in the town volunteer fire department. The wedding would be a simple ceremony with the town Congregationalist minister solemnizing in the front parlor. Innkeepers were pleased because members of the party, as far as the innkeepers recalled, had not spent a minute or a dime at the inn. “Our first wedding,” Deborah enthused misty-eyed with visions of almost weekly summer nuptials in the gazebo. Woodes shared her fervor for on-going ceremonies but noted the gazebo offered an intimate view of dumpster and outsized silver-painted propane tanks on concrete moorings. “We can fence them,” she responded. “How about a nice white picket fence for the front lawn and the inn industrial section?” “Let’s wait for a few more wedding ceremonies before committing to..” “I know, I know: minimum capital expenditures,” Deborah fretted. ”We’re not rich. Blah blah blah." She swallowed the term myopic stick in the mud. Wouldn’t know a good investment if it bit him in his wallet. She had been witness to bleeding personal savings and realized that her statement of annoyance would be impolitic and, more importantly, inaccurate. I’ll save the word financiochondriac for a later argument, she decided. Or maybe financiofascist. She grinned at her linguistic creativity. “At least you’re concerned with expenditures,” Woodes said, squeezing in the last word, unaware of Deborah‘s rebellious thoughts. “That’s good but let’s wait at least a few more months and weddings before thinking really big.” Set up time for the ceremony was minimal that morning. Ten chairs sat auditorium style in front of the white marble fireplace. Deborah opened the bar before guests arrived but prepared to close as the first guests entered. How many drinks will a Congregationalist minister swallow before noon on a Saturday, she wondered, already guessing the party would be on good behavior in his presence. Bride and groom arrived, he cheerful in an olive corduroy suit that showed a few years of wear, she somber in a surprisingly yellow but attractive dress. Innkeepers welcomed and congratulated the couple while showing off the wedding room. Richard grinned and made small talk, his bride nodded and remained mute with her gloomy appearance. Is she unwillingly preggers? Deborah wondered. Did she have a stroke that left her face perpetually miserable? How can she look so unhappy on her wedding day? Richard seems like a really nice guy. The familiar minister shook hands with Deborah and Woodes who served as greeters, guides, and official witnesses. A third couple walked up the porch steps and Woodes’s antennae alerted him This could be a problem. He smiled and welcomed them. The male interrupted him, not curtly but almost panicking, certainly breathlessly: “Where’sthebar?” The bar stayed open when the couple walked in and ordered. Deborah smiled and thought That scarlet dress doesn‘t fit. Why is she wearing it in public? Mom grabbed the frozen mug and sluiced down half the chilled pilsner with no sounds or other evidence of swallowing. Deborah stared amazed at the obvious span of her gullet. Then the innkeeper stared amazed at another part of mom’s anatomy. Braless Mom should have worn a bra. Red cocktail dress and her cleavage were “cut down to there,” in the words of a popular song from a few years earlier. She should have worn a bra, Deborah thought as garb architecture failed when mom leaned steeply to the left. Her tilt redistributed upper body components. Mom’s breasts relocated from behind thin vertical red dress supports. “Oops,“ she giggled at Deborah. Mr. Escort downed the clear liquid and chewed the olives. He seemed oblivious to his friend’s momentary aureolicular display. Amazing, Deborah thought, the guy is focused on his next drink. Maybe he’s not a breast man. I see London, I see France, I see mama’s…, Deborah thought. She also saw nipples astonishingly low on mom’s torso. She wondered if there was an innkeeper school where hoteliers could learn what to do if a customer bares her back and front when the town Congregationalist minister is in the next room preparing to perform her daughter’s wedding ceremony. Woodes walked to his wife and whispered that the service was to begin in maybe two minutes. He noticed Deborah’s distress and whispered “What’s afoot?” Deborah described Nipplegate and finished with a whispered threat: “Don’t you dare attempt to verify any of this or the next mammaries you ogle will be through your own black eyes.” The simple Congregationalist ceremony in front of the ornate Victorian fire place with sun slanting through two windows that reached from almost floor to ceiling inspired tears of joy to several of those watching. Woodes searched Deborah’s eyes for tears but saw none that would conceal any insubordinate glances. He continued staring forward, mind searching fruitlessly around the edges of his peripheral vision. A brief greeting and acknowledgement of the Creator’s presence in the dining room that morning preceded the entrance of bride, groom, and attendants. Groom and attendants smiled broadly, bride stared predictably, almost vacantly. Woodes silently compared the pomp and ceremony of Anglican weddings with the simple ritual descended from the Pilgrims. Deborah glanced sideways at her husband to assure that no errant glimpse searched the flimsy dress of the mother of the bride. That was when mom’s escort started shaking. Not inn-rattling but enough to startle Woodes and Deborah. Deborah suspected the man was an alcoholic who needed a drink and grabbed Woodes’s hand. He’s okay, she mouthed: don’t worry. Nobody else shared Woodes’s medical concern so he stopped worrying. Within a few minutes, the exchanges of vows and rings went smoothly and the innkeepers left to prepare lunch. “What’s wrong with that guy?” Woodes whispered in the kitchen. “He needs a drink,” Deborah explained. Woodes was impressed when his wife described the couple’s alcohol intake in a limited time. Innkeepers arranged appetizers on dining room tables and, more importantly, at the bar so the couple drinking alcohol would have food in their stomachs. Woodes returned to the temporary wedding hall when he heard applause after the proclamation of marriage. Mom and escort downed two quick drinks almost as promptly as Deborah poured and shook and poured again. Escort’s hand untrembled when the first gulp tumbled into his belly. Woodes was amazed, Deborah wasn’t. She noted that their bar bill now exceeded thirty dollars in rural Vermont 1981 prices. The couple paid as they slurped and left a five dollar bill as a tip that Deborah called generous. They were the last couple seated. Woodes held Mom’s chair for her and noted a back that was bare from neck to waist except for a few hundred freckles and a tan that reached down to at least there, he thought, paraphrasing the same popular song his wife remembered. Deborah squinted a warning as he noticed the loose knot behind the tanned neck and surmised the flimsy structure was inadequately supported. Escort asked if wine was being served, Woodes asked if he wanted a glass of red or white. “Red, please,” he responded hurriedly, probably thirstily. Escort consumed two glasses far too quickly to accompany far too little food. When the best man offered a toast to the bride and groom, Escort gulped the third glass and stared forward. He slowly placed the glass next to his empty plate and spun around to vomit over the back of his chair onto the parquet floor. His effort was like a train wreck: spell binding in the beginning but,