Crash Diet

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Irene allowed herself to be herded along the path while trying to hide the giddy smile that threatened to crack her face.

“The man’s pond slime.” Ditz was still huffing. “I swear to God, I don’t know why I don’t just punch his lights out and be done with it.” She started to laugh. It was a good hearty belly laugh. “You see the look on his face when I called him a whale turd? Maybe it’s better to keep him around; for the entertainment value.” And she laughed again.

“Where’re you taking me?” Irene spoke up.

Ditz had marched forward, taking the lead and didn’t turn. “You and I are going to be roomies, sweetie. We’re sharing a cabana near the beach. You’ll love it. We’ll go native: run around naked, sip rum drinks, lay in the sun, tan our hides, swim in the ocean. This is the best job you’ll ever have; trust me.”

The pathway meandered to the left and the oval-shaped cabana came into view, partially hidden in the jungley growth and flowering bushes. The walls were white stucco, capped with shaggy palm fronds and shaded by two coconut trees. A vine ran along the roof ridge with heart shaped leaves and spilling a cascade of purple flowers across the thatch.

A piece of driftwood had been nailed above the door with the letters HOBBIT carved and picked out in yellow paint. As they moved toward the side door a mother hen with a dozen chicks scuttled into the underbrush. The door entered directly into the main room where two wicker love seats were parked across from each other. A paddle fan spun lazily overhead, moving the air about Irene’s shoulders. A kitchenette was positioned against the far wall and a breakfast island dominated the middle space.

There were two bedrooms, one at either end of the cabana.

“This is lovely,’ Irene commented, feeling thoroughly enchanted by her new living quarters. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

“Yeah. Makes me feel like a Hobbit,” Ditz added. “Your room is here, in back. We share a bathroom and there is an outdoor shower, if you’re not too modest. Otherwise swim in the pool up at the main building and shower there. Me, I prefer the sea. And if someone walks by while I’m rinsing off, they get an eyeful. Lucky them.”

“It’ll be fine,” Irene reassured Ditz. “I’m gonna love this.”

“Atta girl. Every time I go State-side, I miss this place like crazy, after only a day or two; can’t wait to get back. C’mon, here’s your room. Get unpacked first, and we’ll settle in, get to know one another. Lots of time for the grand tour.”

Irene’s room was tiny, as befitted a Hobbit, with a round end wall and a window. There wasn’t any glass, just three panels of louvered slats. And the view into her bedroom was guarded by a honeysuckle. Irene could hear the birds rustling in the branches and the delicious fragrance of the flowers wafted in on the tropical breeze.

Her stuccoed walls glowed faint pink and a framework of open poles supported the thatch over her head. There was a narrow bed along one wall and a dresser and small open closet across. Irene placed her suitcase on the bed and unpacked her meager travel wear. Her toiletry case was placed on the dresser and her change of underwear went into the top drawer. She pulled back the curtain and hung a fresh white shirt and navy skirt on hangers. She changed into a sleeveless blouse and a pair of khaki shorts.

Irene poured water from the jug that sat on top of the dresser and rinsed her face and hands in the basin. She opened the catch on one of the louvered panels and, swinging it open, drained the water onto the sand. Feeling refreshed, she went out to the main room to meet her new friend.

“What’dya know about blenders?” Ditz was scowling at the stubborn appliance filled with pink booze.

It took Irene a moment to get her breathing back. Ditz wasn’t kidding when she said: “We’ll go native!”

Ditz was standing barefoot at the center island wearing nothing more than an ankle length beach wrap. The gauzy material was loosely slung about her hips. She wore nothing on top.

Well if I had a set of t**s like that, I’d be walking around half-naked as well, Irene conceded quietly to herself.

Ditz was a full-figured girl and had a magnanimous set of companions that seemed to scream: Party-time! With heady brown n*****s, Ditz’s swooping breasts jutted from between her arms and joined in, looking expectantly at the disabled blender.

Irene swallowed. “I know to keep my fingers outta the blades,” she responded.

“Humph,” Ditz sounded with disgust as she followed the power cord back to the outlet. “The bloody electricity is off again. We can wait ‘til they start the generator or you can have your rum punch shaken, not whirled. Don’t know about you, but I could stand a jolt.”

“By all means. Shake.” And Irene’s eyes circled wide at the sight of the bounce in Ditz’s chest as she removed the glass jug from the top of the blender and jostled it violently.

Ditz added ice to glasses and with her breasts swaying in unison, moved to the closest love seat, plopped down, stretched and crossed her ankles. “Here’s to Sandro,” Ditz raised her glass and drank long and deep. When she had polished off the top third, she wiped her mouth on the back of a hand. “May he catch something dreadful from one of the local girls.”

Irene got comfortable on the love seat opposite and tried her drink. With a hint of mint, the rum punch was tastier than the one she had enjoyed on the ride over to the hotel. “I could get used to these,” she held up her glass, “let me buy the next bottle.”

“You can buy scotch, vodka, bourbon and gin at the cantina; pretty much anything imported and as an employee, you’ll get a wholesale price. But it’s hard to beat the price of the rum. It’s free. Quality is a bit raw, mind you, but it’s fine for mixing. A rum punch is pretty much standard fare for the employees.”

“I think I just found my drink,” Irene quipped. “So what is it you do here?”

“I’m a hostess. Sorta the washer that fits between the nut and bold. I oversee the dealers and wheel-spinners and take the friction if something comes up between my girls and the customers. It doesn’t happen often, but if there’s trouble, the gaming floor is monitored with security cameras and before I can snap my fingers, a couple of big dudes will show up to make things right. And how about you? Been flying long?”

“Ever since my feet could reach the peddles. My dad taught me to fly and I qualified on larger and larger aircraft. Co-piloted a DC-9 for five years then three years as pilot before moving up to the DC-10. Worked for United for eleven years.”

“I’m thinking most women would kill for a job like that.”

“I guess. I just remember it as being one long struggle with a lot of disappointments thrown in; mostly because I was a woman and women were supposed to be in the back, wearing a tight skirt and serving coffee. Things are slowly changing but it’s still very much a male dominated profession. I’ve been lucky, is all.”

“And you never got yourself tied down?”

“Naw...”

“Smart girl. Men are like a bowel movement. You jump when the urge first strikes but after, you just end up with a load of crap.”

“You ever married?” Irene asked.

“Sure. Tried it once,” Ditz started laughing. “Only lasted a few months, though. I should have never married poor Harry.”

“Poor Harry?”

“Yeah, the little runt. Get this: One of his legs was shorter than the other.”

Irene started to giggle. “C’mon. How much shorter?”

“Oh, a good copula inches. Honest. He had this special shoe made. You know, with a real thick sole to even things out? But he still use-ta bob and roll like a friggin’ penguin.”

The image of the little man brought tears to Irene’s eyes but she did her best to keep a straight face.

“But what made things worse,” Ditz continued, “Harry had to take all his trousers in to get altered. Well his tailor could never get it right. He’d measure from the back and he’d cut from the front so he always shortened the wrong leg. Harry would be walking on his cuff on one side and have his sock showing on the other. He looked like Michael Jackson on a bad day.”

That was it. Irene’s snicker turned into a hoot of laughter.

“No. I’m serious, here,” Ditz said in all honesty. “And Harry didn’t want to offend the guy so he never said nothing. Just kept wearing out the cuff of his pants. And another thing: He only had one nut.”

“He was missing a testicle? You’re kidding me.”

“Yeah. I mean no, I’m not kidding. The first time I stuffed my hand down his pants, you know, to check inventory? I found he was outta whack. But at least the little bugger could cross his legs without hurting himself. Well right to left, anyways, if you get my drift.”

Irene’s eyes sparkled. “So what happened to– to his other one?”

“He got attacked by an angry squirrel when he was raking up acorns in the front yard; at least that’s what I used to tell my girlfriends.”

“Wait a minute. You told your girlfriends that your husband was missing a ball?”

“Oh hell no. Harry told them himself. He figured he’d be less threatening. He’d tell them they’d be half as likely to get pregnant. It wasn’t true, of course. He was a gusher, even with one of his pumps missing. He liked it when I gave him head and it was like having your lips around the end of a fire hose, let me tell you. When Harry came I’d have stuff blowing out my ear-holes.”

“So he was doing your girlfriends?” Irene was searching for a tissue. “B-but why did you marry him?”

“Well I felt sorry for the little runt. Trouble was, lots of women felt sorry for Harry. Every time I turned my back he had his d**k in the honey pot. Couldn’t seem to help himself. No woman was safe around my Harry. He was doin’ the post-lady, one of the girls at work, the woman who came once a week to clean, even his mother’s best friend was putting out for him. Harry was incorrigible.” Ditz drained her glass. “Want another drink?”

Irene was thinking of a ball-less little man rolling and bobbing like a penguin. “Sure. One more,” she blew her nose, “then you have to put on a top and take me for a walk around. Deal?”

“Okay. Deal.”