CHRISTMAS in KHOBAR - Excerpt from the story of the same name.
I
walk into the hospitality suite room to see two bachelorettes drinking Miranda
orange soda on a sofa. Oh…oh, I know
the red-haired woman.
A
month or so before. Milt and I are wandering around after dinner in some alley
when he tells me that last week the teenagers had a Scavenger Hunt party. A what?
Apparently
they would meet at someone’s house, be paired into teams and sent out with a
list of stuff to collect. They had two hours to scavenge and then come back.
Whoever had the most stuff won.
My first question is, “Won what?”
Milt
replies, “A hamburger and milkshake at the Fiesta Room.”
Not too shoddy, I think to myself. “And
what did they have to collect?”
Milt
says, “Mostly junk. A copy of The Sun and
Flare, an old shoe, a sand dollar, an empty Pepsi bottle, a burnt-out light
bulb, a broken fork, a matchbook from
the States, a pipe cleaner - A stick of Beeman’s gum.”
Spontaneously,
we have a terrific idea. We rummage through the nearest garbage can and come up
with a piece of brown paper bag, and Milt has one of those short pencils that
are free at the golf course. Under a streetlight, I flatten the paper over my
thigh and write up our list.
Skavenjer
Hunt
1.
Old newspaper
2.
Shovel
3.
Spear Gun
4.
Pepsi
5.
Another Pepsi
6.
Firecrackers
7.
Black Jack or any kind of gum
8.
Cookies
9.
Box of grape Jell-O
10.
Golf ball
Since
we didn’t want them anyway, we cross out newspaper, shovel and golf ball – as
if we already had them. We hold out for the spear gun and head to the
bachelorette portable situated on the broad median that intersected 11th
Street as it flowed down to the AC plant.
About six single women lived there. I
ring the doorbell, and a red-haired lady — she was probably in her late
twenties — opens the door. It is doom; she knows me. “Hi, Tim. How’s your
mother doing? Beautiful Norah probably keeps her busy.” I later find out her
name is Molly.
“Oh,
she’s fine. Though she burps a lot. Ah… I mean Norah does. We’re on a scavenger
hunt. Milt and I are supposed to get this stuff.” And I hand her the scrawled
list.
She
scans it with a straight face, although she is probably dying of hysterics.
Looking back, I really am grateful to her and the many other adults who cut me
enough slack to not break into uncontrollable laughter on the spot.
“We had a
spear gun, but I think Skinny picked it up yesterday. I’ll check,” and, looking
away for a second, says, “I think Sylvia lit off all of her firecrackers at the
big dance at the patio last Thursday night.” She pauses for a bemused moment,
“But let me see what we’ve got.”
Milt
and I are shuffling around in the small reception room. Wondering if she is going to call our
mothers, somehow check up on us. We’re about to bolt into the night when Molly
appears with her hands behind her back.
“Sorry,
but the spear gun is gone. Aimee ate the last four cookies and chewed all the
gum. But I do have these,” and she brought forth two cold Pepsis and a box of Jell-O.
Lime Jell-O, probably the worst flavor, but who is choosy?
We
are effusive and completely obsequious as we back out of the portable and head
off into the night. Except we have a problem.
Three minutes later, I am back at the portable, knocking on the door.
Molly answers, “Oh, hi, Tim.”
“I
forgot, but we’re supposed to get a bottle opener, too.”
The
dear woman. I have no idea how she
didn’t collapse into convulsions. Anyway, she maintains a stiff upper lip about
to shatter into giggling pieces and returns with a rusty church key.
We thank her and flee to
the ample hedge surrounding the tennis courts. We worm into a favorite burrow
within the vegetation, conveniently powdered in DDT, and pull out our stash. We
eat big chunks of abused, year-old Jell-O that has congealed into a solid
piece, then wash it down with swigs of Pepsi that make the Jell-O fizz up in
our throats, and our blood sugar count soars into the Guinness Book of Records....and the story continues
No comments:
Post a Comment