“What the hell!”
I hooked the boat keys on the holder, retrieved an ice-cold peach tea from the little refrigerator and gulped a healthy swallow. The taste of peaches drowned my tongue in sweet nectar. I replaced the cap and applied the cold bottle to the back of my neck closing my eyes for a brief moment. “Nothing beats a Michigan summer.”
Silence. I cracked an eye. He looked upset.
“So, what’s got you riled up?”
Clearly agitated, he scrubbed his hands over his face. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees dangling his hands between his legs.
“Be straight with me. Did you know about those old biddies when you booked the charter?”
I searched my memory for a moment. “Oh, you mean The Mad Hatters. If I remember, they’re a naturalist club from Petoskey, right?”
His mouth dropped open, incredulous.
“Naturalists? That’s how they billed themselves?” His voice kicked up an octave. “They said they were a group of naturalists?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, so what’s the matter with that?”
He jumped up and paced the office. “There’s nothing the matter with that, Mandy except they aren’t naturalists.”
Puzzled by his mounting agitation, I shrugged. “So?”
“So? So?” he rounded on me. “Those old blue-hairs are naturists.”
“Naturists…” I repeated. Then it dawned on me. “You mean those women are nudists?” I burst into laughter. “Please don’t tell me they actually undressed while you were on board.
“Yes! Jesus!” He threw himself back onto the couch.
“As soon as we neared the private cove they threw off their muumuus and stripped to the skin. Their pasty-white, doughy, wrinkled skin.”
I couldn’t help it. Tears streamed down my face at his horrified expression.
“The only thing they kept on were those god-awful blue-sequined hats.”
He glared at me. “And what? And I tried not to lose my lunch—quit laughing it’s not funny.”
“No, it really is.”
“Christ on a cracker, I’ll never look at the color blue the same way again.”
“Or your gramma,” I added. I just couldn’t help myself.
“Fetch the bleach-” He rubbed the heel of his hand over an eyelid. “-I need to disinfect my eyeballs.”
I crossed the office and patted his head. “Well, at least it won’t be a surprise tomorrow.”
I winked at him and left.
Old School Italian
Born to Write
A picture tells a thousand stories!
"We make bitter better."
Irish History, Culture, Heritage, Language, Mythology
spare the crazy vocabulary, speak from your heart
Poetry, Prose, Photography
by Lize Bard
Natalie. Writer. Photographer. Etc.
Exploring land recently released by ice (geologically speaking)