The Wardrobe Malfunction
From Chapter Three
DORIS is petite except in one way, well really two. She’s built like Dolly Parton without the wig.
It’s a fantastic summer day in Vermont, meaning it’s suddenly steamy, humid and sultry like the rest of the nation. Women friends coming to our porch dinner party will finally have a chance to wear that sexy number with spaghetti straps, or a colorful Indian print floorlength frock that might see the light of day twice a decade. And gay male hosts, unlike their husbands, will actually notice. And rave about.
Angela has seized upon the occasion to sport a violet sombrero like those outrageous chapeaus worn by the upper class ladies at Wimbleton and royal weddings. Meanwhile, her husband is in sandals, baggy shorts and a rumpled polo shirt – such a guy.
We’re all in manic good spirits but part-way through dinner the decibel level is noticeably lower. And then it comes to a halt. One half of Doris’s ample endowment (please, in au naturale Vermont, there is no Hollywood augmentation) has slipped out of her bodice. And there it hangs like an overripe melon.
This shuts up even our typically talkative guests. In stupefaction. In amazement. In shock. Whatever. All are lost for words except Carl exchanging prattle with Doris as if there has been no moon landing right here in our sequestered outback.
“It’s impossible to run out of recipes for breast of chicken,” says Nancy with a straight face. Before the table can crack up, Rich, bless his heart, abruptly and noisily stands to refill water goblets, slides to Doris and whispers into one ear of her need for adjustment.
Much to the credit of our good-hearted friends, the table erupts in resumed banter as Doris deftly does her business as if no one has noticed a thing.