Fifty is the New F-Word

by Margaret Lashley

  “We have a changing room you could use,” Monty offered, averting his eyes. “But it’s quite small.”

  “We’ll make it work,” Cold Cuts chirped. “Where is it?”

  The longsuffering desk clerk pursed his lips and sighed almost imperceptibly. “Down the hall, first door on the left. Here’s the key.”

  I snatched it from his hand. “Thanks. I’ll need my suitcase.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course. The blue one, as I recall.” He pushed my mangy case with his foot until it rounded the corner to our side of the reception desk. “When you’re through um...changing your clothes...we would like to offer you complimentary cocktails and hors d’oeuvres at the cabana bar. And, if you care to, please enjoy a sunset sail with our resident captain. With our compliments, of course.”

  Cold Cuts giggled like a tipsy schoolgirl as Monty handed me a brochure. On the front was a picture of a gorgeous, twenty-foot sailboat manned by an even more gorgeous, twenty-something man. “This looks really nice,” I said.

  “Did I mention free cocktails?” Monty asked.

  “Yes you did,” Cold Cuts said, then pinched me on the bottom. I winced and felt my face heat up like a volcanic eruption.

  “I’ll be needing my bag, as well,” Cold Cuts giggled like a dime-store floozy. “The one with the toothpaste.”

  “Very good, miss.” Monty’s head disappeared behind the desk as he bent over. He popped back up holding the grocery bag as if it were the putrid tail of a dead rodent.

  Cold Cuts grabbed the bag over my shoulder. “Thank you, Monty dear!”

  “I’ll bring back the key,” I told Monty, then backed slowly away from the reception desk, Cold Cuts hanging on me like a drunken sailor.

  “I’ll be here,” Monty said flatly, and produced a hard, tight smile I’m sure he saved just for such lovely occasions as this.

  “WHAT AM I GONNA DO with you?” I asked Cold Cuts as I rifled through my suitcase in a changing room not much bigger than a broom closet.

  “Aww, come on. I’m just trying to get you to have some fun. Why are you so cranky?”

  I thought about her question for a moment, but no good answer came to mind. “I don’t know,” I said finally.

  “Do you want to do the sunset sail?” Cold Cuts asked and made a face so goofy I forgot to sneer and laughed out loud instead.

  “You know what, why not?” I grinned and decided to follow her lead and make the most of the situation. “What should we wear?”

  “I’m gonna wear a sundress with my bathing suit on under it.” Cold Cuts raised her grubby t-shirt over her head. “I think I’ll go for a swim in the moonlight!”

  The idea kind of scared me, but I didn’t let on. “Good idea,” I lied, and picked through my suitcase for my old reliable, one-piece bathing suit. It wasn’t in there. All I found instead was that blasted gold thong bikini Laverne had given me for my birthday. I held it up for Cold Cuts to see. “Someone’s sabotaged my suitcase.”

  Cold Cuts laughed. “Well, look on the bright side.”

  “There’s a bright side to this?” I held up the tangle of gold strings and tiny triangles.

  “Sure. If you get wet, it’ll dry faster.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Cold Cuts fastened the hook on a pink bikini top. “And it’ll be sunset. Everybody looks better in the twilight.”

  “You have a point, there,” I said, and stripped off my jeans featuring their new, air-conditioned crotch. “Bikinis and sundresses it is.”

  “And cocktails,” Cold Cuts said as she tugged a cute, sky-blue sundress over her head. She smoothed it into place on her torso and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Don’t forget the cocktails.”

  “Believe me, there’s no chance of that.” I wriggled from the odd sensation of gold string rubbing between my butt cheeks. “Ugh!” I groaned, then pulled a sundress from my suitcase and closed the luggage fasteners. “Could you take the key and my case back to Monty while I finish dressing? I want to take a minute to check in with Tom.”

  Cold Cuts shrugged. “No problem. As long as you don’t need me to dance the Macarena with you anymore.”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “Meet you at the cabana bar?”

  “Yeah,” I said, fishing through my purse. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Cold Cuts picked up her grocery bag and my suitcase, then elbowed the door open. On the way out, she tripped on my shoes and tumbled right into the arms of yoga guru and nipple-ring model, Bill Robo. He raised a bushy eyebrow at us and smiled.

  “Having a good time, ladies?” he asked.

  “The best,” Cold Cuts said, then turned back toward me and blew me a kiss.

  It didn’t get more humiliating in my book than being suspected of canoodling in a broom closet wearing nothing but a gold thong bikini. “Perfect,” I sighed, and gave in to the madness. “Darling, would you please let Monty know we’re taking him up on the offer of a sunset sail?”

  “Why of course,” Cold Cuts and Bill said in unison, then turned and giggled at each other.

  I flashed the pair a simpering smile and kicked the closet door closed with my bare foot. As the trail of laughter faded down the hallway, I sat down on a bench and punched #7, speed dial for Tom. It rang three times, then went to his answering machine.

  “Hi, Tom. It’s me,” I said into the phone. “Just wondering how things were going with Jorge and the guys. This place is really nice. We’re having fun.” The hollowness of my voice caught me off guard, and I found myself adding, “I miss you.”

  Chapter Nine

  As I strolled up to the cabana bar, Cold Cuts was sitting on a barstool again, but this time she wasn’t alone. She’d been cornered by a blobby, sweaty-looking man old enough to be her father. His orange sport shirt was blinding. But it still didn’t deflect my eyes from the main attraction. Perched atop the ruddy-faced slob’s head was either the world’s most tragic toupee, or some poor squirrel hadn’t saved enough nuts to make it through winter.

  Cold Cuts turned toward me as I walked up. Her eyebrows knitted together and she mouthed the words, “Help me!”

  “Hi. I’m Jim,” the greasy man said. He held out a meaty handful of fat fingers that sent my mind racing back to the time my mother had tried to pass off cigar-shaped globs of Spam as hotdogs. I shook his gross, pink fingers and tried to make a grimace into a smile.

  “Hi. I’m Val.” I said, then glanced around the bar for a Wet-Wipe.

  “So what are two nice girls like you doing in a place like this?” Jim asked. He laughed at his own attempt at humor, causing the blubbery folds under his weak chin to jiggle like meat-flavored jello.

  “We’re waiting for a handsome captain,” I quipped.

  “Yes! That’s what we’re doing,” Cold Cuts said, and laughed with relief.

  “Well, aren’t you lucky, then,” Jim said, eyeing Cold Cuts lasciviously. He grinned, exposing an off-colored front tooth. “You know, I just happen to be a captain myself.”

  “Are you now?” I said.

  “Yes, I am.” Suddenly, Jim’s face looked pained, as if he’d been stabbed with a fork. “Um...excuse me ladies. Nature calls.” He heaved himself off the barstool and waddled toward the men’s room.

  “You don’t think he’s our sailboat captain, do you?” Cold Cuts asked.

  The thought made my stomach turn. “If he is, I’m gonna sue the place for false advertising. Come on. Let’s get out of here before he comes back.” I took a step toward the beach.

  “Wait,” Cold Cuts grabbed my arm. “We’ve still got twenty minutes before we’re supposed to meet at the boat. Don’t you want a drink first?”

  “If you think a drink’s gonna make that guy look better, you’re out of your mind!”

  “Come on. What’s the harm?” Cold Cuts turned to the bartender. “Two margaritas, please. Put them on my tab.” She shot me a devilish grin.

  “I don’t trust that look. What are you up to?”

  “I just gotta know,
” Cold Cuts confessed.

  “Know what?”

  Cold Cuts bent over and whispered in my ear. “If that thing on his head is real. Come on. Aren’t you curious?”

  I pulled back. “Aww, geeze!”

  Cold Cuts batted her big brown eyes and patted the barstool next to her. “Come on. It’ll be fun. I mean, what else have we got to do?”

  “But...how –”

  “I’ll distract him,” Cold Cuts explained, cutting me off. “Then you sneak up behind him and get a good look. Shhh! He’s coming back.”

  I sat and watched as Jim waddled toward us like an orange Shamu Slushie. Cold Cuts smiled at him coyly and winked. “What took you so long, handsome?”

  Jim almost managed to hide his surprise at the compliment. “What? Oh! Did you miss me?” he said, and smiled in a way that made me want to go bleach something.

  “Of course!” Cold Cuts said, and practically shoved me off my barstool. “My friend needs to use the facilities, too. Where were they?”

  Jim hitched a greasy pink thumb over his sloping shoulder. “Back that-a-way.”

  I got up and took about ten steps in that general direction, then turned around and shrugged at Cold Cuts. She winked and motioned for me to come up behind him. She grabbed Jim’s Spam hand and got busy chatting him up like a professional flirt. He fell for it, hook line and sinker.

  Now all I had to do was figure out if he was fishing with real or artificial bait.

  Cold Cuts kept the tub of gelatinous man-flesh busy while I snuck up on him from behind. Perched on a barstool, he was taller than I’d expected. I teetered on my tiptoes about a foot behind him and peered at the shabby, gray mat of fur clinging to his noggin. I still couldn’t tell for sure, so I tried to part it at the scalp with a toothpick I found lying on the bar. I stuck the pick into the swirl of hair at the back of his head....

  “Your margaritas, ladies,” the bartender said, startling me like a priest caught at a peep show.

  “Whaaaa—!” I lost my balance on my tiptoes, wind-milled my arms wildly, and fell, face forward onto Jim’s huge, orange back. The impact knocked Jim over. He fell to his knees onto the sand floor. The toothpick jutting from his hair snagged on the hem of Cold Cuts’ sundress and yanked Jim’s toupee clean off his liver-spotted head.

  “Ack! Ack!” Jim gurgled and clutched at his throat as he hit the sand.

  Too mortified to move, before I could register what was happening, the bartender ran around the counter and encircled Jim in his arms. He tried to perform the Heimlich on him, but the young man’s arms couldn’t stretch all the way around Jim’s substantial midriff. The bartender gave up, circled around Jim on his knees and punched him in the gut. A martini olive shot out of Jim’s mouth and ricocheted across the cabana bar like a slimy ping-pong ball.

  “Oh my lord! I’m so sorry!” I said.

  Jim sucked in a lungful of air and shot me a dirty look. Then he felt the top of his head and immediately started grabbing at the sandy ground around him.

  “Sir!” the bartender said, “You need to remain calm!”

  “Need...my....” Jim gasped.

  Cold Cuts grabbed his toupee, shook the sand off it and offered it to Jim. He snatched it out of her hand and slapped it on top of his head.

  “I think you’ve got it on backwards,” Cold Cuts said, then bit her lip hard.

  “Why, you two ingrates!” Jim screeched.

  “We were only –’ Cold Cuts began.

  “I think you should leave,” the bartender interrupted. “Just go. Let him cool off.”

  “We’re sorry. Let us know if there’s anything we can do,” I said to Jim.

  His blubbery face was almost the color of his shirt. He shot me a look so deadly, that even if I’d been a cat, all my lives would have been used up.

  “Thank you,” said the bartender, glancing from Jim to me. “But as you can see, I think you’ve already done enough.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cold Cuts and I slunk away from the cabana bar like a pair of hapless felons, leaving Jim to recover from his close brush with the grim reaper’s martini. The way I saw it, it wasn’t choking on an olive that had nearly done Jim in. If we hadn’t left when we did, I think the poor guy would have died of embarrassment.

  “Hurry up!” Cold Cuts called.

  We’d been following the shoreline toward the sailboat, and she’d run along ahead of me. The unexpected turn our toupee investigation had taken left us running short of time. If we were going to catch the sunset sail promised by Monty and his glossy brochure, we had to hoof it down the beach – and fast.

  The sailboat finally came into view, and I grabbed Cold Cuts by the arm, my chest heaving. “Slow down! Let me catch my breath!”

  Cold Cuts stopped and laughed. “Well, that was a pretty hair raising affair,” she joked.

  “Cold Cuts! Are you nuts? How did I ever let you talk me into doing that?”

  “Hey,” Cold Cuts teased, “you’re the one who ripped his wig off. I just wanted an opinion – not a look under the hood. All I did was chat you up to him.”

  “But it was your idea! Hey, wait a second. What do you mean, chat me up?”

  “Come on. Jim’s just a lonely old guy. You know he’s way too old for me.”

  Indignity straightened my spinal column. “But not for me?”

  Cold Cuts rolled her big, brown eyes. “Okay. For both of us. I mean, he’s too old for my granny. Besides, I told him you were already spoken for, so you’re off the hook.”

  Cold Cuts began walking toward the boat. I tagged along behind her, my feet twisting in the sugary sand.

  “What do you mean? Why did you tell him I was spoken for?” I called out behind her.

  She twisted her torso to face me, but kept trudging along, her blue dress flapping in the evening sea breeze. “Because you are. Or did I get that wrong?”

  “I’m not joined at the hip with Tom,” I heard myself argue. “I mean, it’s not like we’re married. We’re barely engaged.”

  “Uh oh. Do I smell trouble in paradise?”

  I scowled. The sun was setting over the ocean and the sky was gorgeous, but all I could see was red. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. You told that guy Jim that I was spoken for. That makes me feel, I dunno, like somehow the fun part of my life is over.”

  Cold Cuts stopped and let me catch up with her again. “Wow. That’s not good, Val. But you know, Tom’s not to blame for the way you feel.”

  “Who’s blaming Tom?” I said angrily.

  “You are.”

  “Me? I am not!”

  “Aren’t you? Think about it. Did Tom force you to take that engagement ring?”

  “No.”

  “Has he forbidden you to see your friends, or to ever have fun again?”

  “No,” I pouted.

  “Well then, who did?”

  “I...uh –”

  “Well if it isn’t my favorite pair – Drunk and Disorderly,” a voice boomed out across the water from the vicinity of the sailboat.

  Cold Cuts looked over and laughed. I didn’t. Our so-called handsome sea captain turned out to be Bill Robo, the man-bun model. “Welcome aboard, ladies,” he called from the bow.

  “Well, this ought to be fun,” I muttered, and stuck a toe into the mild surf. The water was tepid. Not warm, but warmer than I’d expected for April.

  “You coming?” Cold Cuts asked. Water was already up to her shins and she was halfway to the boat. I followed suit and waded, knee deep, into the Gulf. When we reached the side of the sailboat, Guru Bill hauled both of us up, in turn, with surprising strength and dexterity.

  “Looks like you two are my entire crew tonight,” he said. “We’ll be taking an hour-long sail to Dog Island and back. Sit back and get comfy.” As we settled into the cushioned seats at the front of the boat, Bill added, “Oh yeah. Safety preliminaries. Your life vests are located under your seats. And I presume you read the brochure and left all your valuables, cell phon
es and personal electronics in your rooms?”

  “Personal electronics?” I asked.

  “Yes. Headsets, cameras, exercise monitors,” Bill explained. He looked at me and winked. “Why? What were you thinking?”

  I forced a smile and silently stewed over whether that joke was part of Bill’s regular tourist routine, or if he’d invented it just for me. I couldn’t tell. Dang. Man Bun’s pretty slick.

  “Any other questions?” Bill asked and shot me a mischievous grin.

  “Will we have time for a swim?” Cold Cuts asked. “We’re wearing bikinis.”

  “Well, in that case,” Bill said with a devilish smile, “I’ll see to it that you get the chance.”

  “Cool,” Cold Cuts said, and relaxed into the cushions beside me.

  The evening sky was a rainbow of pink and purple as Bill hoisted up the anchor and worked the mainsail. Soon we were cruising comfortably toward a small speck of land backlit against the horizon. Salt spray freshened the air, and I finally let go and relaxed into the moment. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath as the cool, evening breeze swept my hair from my face and my troubles from my mind....

  Then something splattered against my closed eyelid.

  My eyes flew open. I wiped my eye. It was only water. I looked over at Cold Cuts. She was staring dreamily out to sea. Bill, in turn, was staring at Cold Cuts. I shook my head and closed my eyes again. Another drop of water hit me. Then another. I opened my eyes just in time to see lightening flash in the distance.

  “Uh oh,” Bill said.

  “What do you mean, ‘uh oh’?” I asked.

  “Looks like a thunderstorm brewing,” Bill said. “And it’s coming up fast.”

  Another lightning bolt streaked across the sky. Cold Cuts grumbled, “I hate lightening.”

  “We need to take cover,” I said.

  “Absolutely,” Bill agreed. “We don’t have time to waste. We’re closer to Dog Island than the shore. We’ll have to wait it out there.”

  “But –” I started to protest, but our captain wasn’t listening.