For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  “We’re here,” I sighed, relieved, exhilarated, and triumphant that I’d made the trip all by myself, without Joe, and without mishap. For several heartbeats, we sat and stared through the windshield at the low-hanging live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, and the mass of tropical plants that encircled the condo. The ordeal of unloading and unpacking loomed large, however, and we both felt drained. The challenge of transporting liquor, worthless full-fat snacks, and a case of diet Dr. Pepper—in addition to seventy pounds of comfortable clothing and personal hygiene products—would daunt most women our age. And truth be told, we were both pretty damned daunted already.

  “What have you got in here?” Bernie snarled as she hoisted a large canvas bag out of the trunk.

  “Nothing. Just two cartons of hard lemonade and a case of bottled water.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Michaela. They have a store here you know.”

  “I know, but I was hoping to save us a trip.”

  Settling in was no easy task. By the time we’d made our third trip to the condo and back, a generous supply of neighbors had gathered at deck rails and barbecue pits to stare at the raucous interlopers stumbling toward their unit like a comedy team run amuck. We each had packed enough for a family of twelve for a month. No denying the serenity of the golf course resort and retreat had been shattered by our arrival.

  Speaking of golf. As if on cue, two golf carts lurched onto the horizon. Four portly but nattily dressed gentlemen disembarked, selected the appropriate clubs and continued to pursue their elusive quarries. Sweating and red-faced, these mainlanders pelted the manicured green with the little dimpled golf balls that toyed with the hole, then rolled to rest yards away from the flag.

  “Look at that,” I nudged Bernie with a pointy elbow in what was once her rib cage. “Free entertainment. I love how they dress. They all want to be Tiger Woods, don’t they? Watch this guy’s putt,” I chuckled then hopped as a Titleist ball bounced across my Croc-clad toes. “Whew. That came too close.”

  I stooped, scooped up the offending ball, and tossed it back onto the green then caught Bernie’s raised eyebrows and winced. “I guess I shouldn’t have done that, huh? Oh, well.”

  Gasping for breath in the dense, humid jungle of moss-laden live oaks, we dragged, bounced, and cajoled the offending necessities up the steep cedar steps to the locked front door. Once again, I groped and mumbled as I searched for the ever-elusive keys.

  “Here they are,” I muttered, aware of my friend’s growing consternation. “Hold this, please.” Handing her my tote and a plastic grocery sack, a travel mug, a beach towel and a can of bug spray, I hip-checked the door, and we stepped into blessed air conditioning.

  No time to bask in delicious coolness, however. We still had to wrangle and wheedle to establish turf and bicker over every detail from prime refrigerator space to who gets the lighthouse coffee mug. Could we ever have guessed that there’d be so much more to our ten glorious vacation days than sandy sheets, too much shrimp, and an increasing need for pants with elastic waists?

  Being female and therefore pros, unpacking was efficient and methodical…Step one: open the closet. Step two: throw in a suitcase. Step three: close closet door. All there was to it. Feeling a tad defiant, however, we skipped step three.

  To the casual observer, the urgent need to take this trip might have appeared to be nothing more than a mid-life crisis, or, at the very least, a mid-life dilemma. Whatever the case, we needed this trip more than we’d needed anything in a long time. Years had come and gone, and yet, we found ourselves able to resume our friendship and our lives right where we’d left off those many years ago. Sarcasm, jokes, good-natured sniping were all right on target and interwoven with the commonality of humor.

  Bernie, after several fruitless attempts to use her cell phone in the condo, limped outside to search for a signal. Six minutes later, she returned, looking flushed and exasperated. Her “Men.” was all I needed to know that her call home had gone through, and she’d been able to talk to her husband. Exhausted, we nodded to one another and headed for our respective rooms for a lie-down. I don’t know about Bernie, but I was prostrate and snoring within minutes.

  THREE

  One hour and sixteen minutes later I awoke refreshed and thirsty. After a quick visit to the bathroom and the fridge for a Coke, I planted myself on the couch. On the glass and bamboo table—smartly appointed with a map of the area and the obligatory fish house menu—lay a book Bernie had unloaded from her carry-on: The Complete Idiots Guide to Middle Age. Its dog-eared chapters nodded to an untold wealth of pertinent information.

  I flipped through several cropped pages until I found a highlighted chapter—Spastic Colon. “Whew,” I whistled under my breath. A bit too much information, but somehow strangely intriguing, too. I was amazed by Bernie’s insistence on marking her territory in this pre-packaged guide to plunging downhill. It’d been quite a few years since she and I had really connected. I could only imagine the medical history she’d had to endure—not to mention the obvious pitfalls of just plain getting older. I focused on this most personal diary of my friend.

  Flip…flip… “Hmmm…Goiter. Goiter?”

  Flip…flip… “‘Bingo Arms’…what the hell are ‘Bingo Arms’?”

  I continued paging and scanning this horrendous collection of matronly maladies, alternating between fascination and horror as I perused the topics of interest to one Bernadette North.

  “Dentures…” I whispered. I never would have suspected that Bernie had dentures. She looked so natural.

  “Halitosis…” Flip…Flip… “Warts?”

  My eyes filled with tears. My poor, poor Bernie. Had so many years passed that my poor, decrepit friend had failed, while I, miles away, had been oblivious? I mean, I hadn’t changed. Well, not all that much.

  Flip…flip… “Bunions? Gastric Bypass: Pros and Cons? Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way to Get Even? Amazing.” The blinders were down. I had a new perspective now. My dear chum doddered on the edge of senility and old age. Thank God the chapter on Flatulence bore no marking, but Acid Reflux was highlighted in fluorescent yellow. I could relate to that, anyway.

  Intrigued, I continued to leaf through the book, marveling at the desperate information chronicled by my faltering cohort. In the back bedroom, I could hear Bernie stirring and groaning. When she sauntered out to the living room, all I could do was stare at her weakening form—a fragile earthen vessel cracking in so many places.

  She brightened when she saw the contraband in my hand. I met her raised eyebrows with a lump in my throat and watering eyes. My dearest of dear friends…a poor, pathetic creature, who’d been viable—alive—only an hour before.

  “Isn’t that a hoot?” Bernie bellowed, crashing onto the cushioned chair that matched the couch in fabric and style. “Found that in the little pocket in front of me on the plane. Some old fool left it behind.”

  More than relieved and quite a bit embarrassed, I mustered a lame grin, and tossed the book aside. “Well. Okay. Ha, ha. Loved it. Loved it.” Damn.

  Bernie’s cell phone emitted a funny little ping-squeak at that auspicious moment.

  “Is that your phone?” I leaned forward to stare at the funny little flat gray and silver box on the table. “Sure has an odd ring.”

  “That’s not its ring, just noise to let me know I have a text message.” She snatched it up and released an exasperated sigh. “Yep. It’s Jack again. He’s already called seven times today. I called him when we arrived and told him I can’t get a signal here. So, just like a kid, he text-messages me…again and again.”

  “That’s so weird. How come you can get an alert to a missed call or a text message but not the call itself? Of course I don’t know why I’m even asking since technology and I have never been the best of pals. All I know is my cell phone works just fine, anywhere, anytime,” I tried to tone down the smug sound in my voice.

  “Yes, well, I discovered mine will work if I stand out on
the green.” She looked through the large sliding glass door behind her. “Nobody’s out there at the moment. Maybe if I hurry I can make my call before some guy yells at me to get out of the way.” With a resigned sigh, she slipped on her shoes, pushed through the door, and made her way down the stairs.

  I leaned back against the couch cushions, put my feet up on the coffee table, and closed my eyes. At that predestined moment in eternity my cell phone rang. With a groan to rival Bernie’s sigh, I sat up and reached for the little demon, vibrating on the glass-topped table. One glance and I knew it was from Joe. Dear droll little man. What had he lost now?

  FOUR

  Every vacation condo in South Carolina comes complete with essential ingredients: gnats, mosquitoes, sand, heat, humidity, and, if you’re lucky, a glorious gallery of characters and personalities who comprise The Neighbors. The tradition of scoping out these special residents always provided both color and comedy for all.

  No scripted masterpiece can compete with women-without-mirrors: confident, self-assured, and oblivious to the ravages of rear view cellulite. And let’s not forget the portly, post-fit, studly men who thrive on striking poses, one hairy hand on hip, while flipping burgers and dodging grease in skimpy Speedos. The image is enough to make one lose her appetite.

  We’d trudged out to the car for the last of the supplies and had paused at the foot of our stairs when I did a double take. “Bernie,” I hissed, landing another pointy elbow in my friend’s ribs. “Look who’s coming our way.” My gaze riveted on a fifty-something, wild haired, frizz queen sporting crimson lips and audacious boobs trapped in purple spandex. She strode across the pine needle-strewn parking lot, extending a beringed hand, sporting scarlet inches-long fingernails.

  “Hey, y’all. Welcome to Fun City. I’m Vicki and that little teddy bear of a man there behind me is Lionel. Lionel, honey,” she shrilled across the lot, “come say hey to our neighbors in 215.”

  Bernie’s eyes rolled heavenward. She sent me a meaningful glance, then stepped forward. “Hi,” she said, donning her best principal-in-charge smile. “I’m Bernadette, Bernie for short, and this is Michaela, whom her friends call Mike.”

  Vicki beamed and Lionel offered a sassy wink. I winked back then wished I hadn’t.

  Needing to lose eye contact with the leering Lionel, I glanced up and spotted a small, pixie-haired child in a bright blue swimsuit peering through the slats of the upstairs railing. She gazed down at us, transfixed. I smiled and waved. Not blinking, she poked a yellow plastic shovel through the cedar slats, aimed, then let it go. The darned thing plunked on my pink floppy hat, bumped to my shoulder, then landed in the pine needles at my feet. She giggled, and the tiny face disappeared behind a colorful Dora the Explorer beach towel, draped over the railing.

  “Ahh, the welcoming committee is launching an attack,” Bernie commented with a lip curl.

  “Cute,” was all I said, removing my hat and rubbing my head and shoulder.

  “Isn’t she just the most precious little darlin’?” Vicki cooed.

  “Oh, she is, she is,” Bernie nodded. “Cute as she can be.”

  “I just love her to death,” Vicki simpered. “And don’t you just love that there little beauty mark on her cute little chin? Just like Elizabeth Taylor’s and Marilyn Monroe’s. Oh. And Cindy Crawford’s got one, too. I’m thinkin’ of gettin’ one myself.”

  Not having paid that close of attention to the child’s face nor that fond of moles of any kind, I just nodded, while Bernie’s shoulders lifted to her ears.

  Vicki giggled. “Thank God for cosmetics. Right? Well. Sure was nice meetin’ you all. We all’ll talk again later. Gotta help my man with the dinner. Toodles.”

  Vicki’s red-taloned hand fluttered in a limp wave as she bounced over to join Lionel, hunched over their Weber grill. She leaned over, too, and the resulting display was phenomenal. I glanced up at Bernie and saw the horror I felt mirrored in her eyes. Each of us, desperate to comprehend the amazing elasticity of Vicki’s challenged spandex top, which barely contained her size forty-two-triple D bosoms, was almost too startled to move. The law of physics be damned.

  “My girls would never tolerate that kind of confinement,” I muttered.

  “Girls? What girls?”

  “Nellie and Gladys,” I said, stabbing a finger at my own size 38 chest.

  “You named your breasts?” Bernie’s eyes widened.

  “Of course. Didn’t you?”

  The look Bernie gave me was this side of being grossly disrespectful. With tandem shrugs, we turned and headed for our condo, stumbling back up the steps like weary infantry after a grueling march.

  By the time we’d reached our porch, mosquitoes had descended upon us in hoards—in quest of an evening meal, no doubt. All I wanted was to get inside, but just as my hand reached for the doorknob, the occupant from the unit next door materialized.

  “Yoo-hoo, girls. Don’t forget trash pick-up is tomorrow, bright and early,” the wispy white-haired, floral caftanned fantasy sang out. “I’m Melba. You know, like the toast. Melba—you can call me Melba though some people call me Mel, but, I prefer Melba, though it doesn’t really matter. Trash pick-up tomorrow morning, girls.” She paused, frowned, and extended a plump hand. “Have we met? My name is Melba. Like the toast.”

  “Hello,” we chimed in unison. I added, “I’m Mike and this is Bernie.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Melba—”

  “Yes, yes,” Bernie growled, “like the toast.”

  “Thanks for the info on trash pick-up, Melba. We’ll see you later. Gotta unpack.” I waved to Melba-like-the-toast, and ushered Bernie into the condo. Once the door was closed, I wagged a finger at her. “Now, Bernadette, you be nice. That poor woman isn’t rowing with both oars, if you know what I mean.”

  Bernie made a face. “You’re telling me? Sheesh.”

  Heavy footsteps overhead reminded us there was a family with an adventurous toddler occupying the unit upstairs. Bernie’s eyes shot upward.

  I snorted, “We’ve got neighbors coming out our whazoo. That’s no doubt the bunch with the adorable little kid who pelted me with the plastic shovel.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bernie nodded, “Most assuredly so. What’s more, I think I’m going to like those people. Very perceptive folks. Especially the little munchkin with the beauty mark.”

  “Oh, please. Not you, too. I was so b—”

  From somewhere in the recesses of the small apartment a telephone jingled. Before we could reach the offending noise maker, the answering machine clicked on, retrieving for posterity a perky pre-recorded message alerting us that there was still hope for our bulging bottoms, protruding bellies, and sagging chins at the local pharmacy cum bait and tackle shop. ‘Buy Belly-Free today to live belly-free tomorrow’, the message shrilled.

  I made a face. “Who do they think lives here, anyway? A couple of senior citizens?” I gazed into the decorative wall mirror hanging beside the door. “As if we needed that kind of help. I think we look pretty darn good for our ages.”

  “I wonder if they sell that stuff in gallon buckets,” Bernie muttered.

  “Oh, pooh.” I leaned in closer and shuddered at the noticeable lines fanning both eyes. “You know what really rattles me?”

  “No. What?”

  “I happened to turn on one of those cable stations and saw an old Bonanza rerun.”

  “And?”

  “And it shocked the living daylights out of me when I discovered that Ben Cartwright was more appealing than Little Joe.”

  Bernie’s resulting snort was not at all attractive.

  FIVE

  Lionel’s barbecue coals smoldered in a soft, gray glow as evening melted onto the horizon. Not a soul in sight. The dinner hour, and Bernie and I prepared an elegant repast of Cheetos, onion dip, potato chips, and Triscuits with cheese. A chunky brownie rounded out the meal. We acknowledged the obvious fact that we couldn’t eat this way for ten days. Tomorrow we’d pick up a bag of s
alad and a few peaches at the local Piggly Wiggly. And maybe some more beer and pretzels.

  Lighting a chubby citronella candle, we settled into creaking deck chairs for some downtime before retiring, and crafted our plans for the upcoming days. The subtle scents of growing things teased our noses. Heaven on earth. I let out a long sigh. Bernie opened her mouth to quip but snapped it shut when sweet, fragile Melba from next door wandered onto the deck and appeared delighted yet surprised to see us.

  “Well, hello, dears,” the older lady cooed. “So happy to see you. My name is Melba. Are you staying here with Elfriede and Simone? They just arrived today.”

  Oh, Lord, this is going to be a challenge, I thought, not daring to glance Bernie’s way.

  “Hello, Melba,” we said in sync.

  “I’m Bernie and this is Mike,” Bernie added. “We met you a few hours ago, remember?”

  “Of course I do, dears. But where are Elfriede and Simone?”

  Melba’s eyes slid from us to the porch railing, where a few seashells lay in a row. Poking at them and rearranging several, the older lady seemed to have forgotten we were there. After an epic-length of time, she lifted her round shoulders, mewed, and shuffled toward her front door, lime green flip-flops popping on callused heels as she made her way back to the cool darkness of her little condo. A gentle turn of her head, a smile in our direction, a wave, a sigh, and she vanished.

  “Well.” Bernie exhaled. “If that doesn’t beat all. Sheesh.”

  “A tad on the scary side…”

  “You’re telling me.”

  We sat in silent contemplation for several minutes, then I couldn’t stand it another second. “That’s it.” I grimaced and twisted and writhed with annoyance.

  “Good Lord, what’s biting you now?” Bernie leaned away from me.