The Boathouse Incident

The Queen of Cherryhill made her way down the gangplank and onto the diving platform, her seguined leotard flashing and sparking the sunlight back onto the enraptured audience. There were audible oohs and aahs and faps as she lowered the ballast. Her ample bosom swayed ponderously with the lake’s waves. Suddenly Murdstone snapped to consciousness. What had been in that last glass of lemonade? Surely the persistent urgings of Dexter had not caused her to nod off; not when this was her night to putty.

Murdstone rolled over onto her left side and looked around the boathouse. There were the usual water-skis, snorkels, and sheep carcasses, strewn hither and thither about the small building. She cast her mind back over the evening. Dexter was always trying some new way to impress her with his ‘special talent’. This consisted of little more than Dexter setting his hair on fire, declawing the Barnipple’s cat, and pulling off the tablecloth without even the slightest tinkle from the champagne flutes. Sure, she liked to get her kicks, just like any other girl; but tonight was different; that busboy sure had yelled a lot.

Dates with Dexter were always the same dull-as-dishwater, quick-kick-and-a-kiss routine: a light beating with cocktails, spanking and nipping during dinner, and then a long bout throwing the teddy-bear back and forth. They must have tossed that thing for almost three hours. Once, as Murdstone ran behind the boathouse to retrieve an overthrow, she saw Bub cleaning his teeth. Her mind raced back to the early glimpse of his raucous tatto. What a clown! Her father hadn’t noticed her wet pants, and a good thing too; if Papa Doggone had had his way, she would be sitting over the pail right now. And, man oh man, did that tin get cold about three in the morning!

Murdstone knew that something had passed between her and Bub that day. It wasn’t the saliva stains on her tunic, or the way her head lolled crazily on her neck; no, it was something else. Something so close to her and yet so far. It was like that time that she had been whacked over the head with a melon. The noise had made her giggle, and when they finally replaced the patch of hair, she understood.

“Funny how life throws you against a brick wall now and again,” mumbled Murdstone, her elbow increasingly digging into Dexter’s solar plexus.

Dexter coughed once, twice, and then sat up. His dishevelled hair now perfectly in place thanks to the coating of salmon oil he had been soaking in. His breath was warm and reminiscent of cheese doodles and ginseng, testimony to the pig-swilling he had recently been party to. His pants fell about his ankles as he struggled to loosen the twine securely holding his wrists and ankles together.

“Come on, Muxy. Untie me so’s I can finish the maze.”

Murdstone looked over at him nonchalantly. “You, Dexter Divot, are a no-good creep! I never want to see or smell you ever again. You can slip some of the girls some of the tongue some of the time but you won’t be slipping over mine again! Kindly remove your prothesis from my petticoat.”

Dexter stared dumfoundedly. “Buggah . . . mushe . . . yummers . . .” he enunciated.

Muxy continued her harangue: “And furthermore, I happen to know that you never did like eels and that your brother is a chimp! Your mother told my mother that she won him in a crooked poker game! Good-bye Dexter Divot, you’ll never be the clown,...uh I mean chimp,...I mean man, for me!” So saying, Murdstone stumbled out of the boathouse. Her trailing shoelace caught one of the heaps of carrion and sent her headlong into a box of lettuce. Dexter giggled coyly. How could anyone stay angry at such an idiot?

Murdstone returned to vertical and disappeared into the night.