Ribald

As in:

Because it had been so long in coming, Wally and Janine’s wedding had pulled in a parade of family, extended family, and clans of old friends, school friends, new friends and office friends. A polka band showed up. No one knew why. A western style barbecue outfit arrived to cater and perform a series of roping tricks. No one remembered placing that order either.

The merry chaos went on for hours. People kissed the bride until she felt she had no more of either cheek to offer. In his pockets Wally had collected three expensive cigars, a Mont Blanc pen, a St. Christopher’s medal, breath mints, two packs of gum, a small dessert spoon, a Swiss Army knife, and a ribald, pocket-sized sex manual, written in Japanese. The party was so exhausting they had no time or energy for each other until the evening of the following day, by which time they’d escaped to the ocean to be alone. After dinner they’d walked in starlight, a mile up and then down the beach, blissfully seeing no one else.

So, it was there, on the second morning after their wedding, that they began to wake up in their beach cabin, with its broad view of the Pacific Ocean. They hadn’t quite made it to bed. The wood stove was so toasty they’d simply wrapped themselves in a flannel sheet on top of a futon next to the stove.

Just because she could, Janine cackled and rolled Wally off the futon toward the door. She landed on top of him, her face next to the full-length window in the back door. Whereupon she immediately screamed. Overnight, hundreds of people had appeared on the beach and seemed to be walking zombie-like in the morning mists. Understandably, all Janine could think is that they’d followed her to the ocean, and were ready to burst in with the polka band.

“Oh no,” Wally finally said, when he realized what was happening. “Oh nooooo.”

“What?” she asked, still nearly hysterical.

“Low tide. Razor clams.”