by Bill H Myers
Mango Glades
A Mango Bob and Walker Adventure
by
Bill Myers
www.mangobob.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.
Copyright © 2015 Bill Myers. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.
Version 2015.01.31
Chapter One
So it's Tuesday morning, and I get this call from Polly. She's the owner of the 55+ trailer park where I live in my motorhome. She and Buck Waverly run the place. I help out sometimes by doing maintenance and the occasional errand.
Polly doesn't like me calling it a trailer park, mainly because it really isn't one. Mango Bay is a high-end RV resort filled with expensive motorhomes, mostly owned by snowbirds and retirees trying to escape the cold winters up north.
According to park rules, you have to be at least fifty-five years old to live here. A lot of parks in Florida are that way. The minimum age requirement keeps most of the rowdies out and makes for a peaceful environment. It also means the park is filled with lots of older people.
I'm the exception. I'm in my mid-thirties and normally wouldn't be allowed to live here. But because I helped Polly and Buck buy the place, they let me live here in my motorhome, rent free.
I should mention right off I never planned to live in a motorhome, especially in a 55+ retirement park. But sometimes life throws you a curve and you either go with it or go down. I decided to go with it. So far, it's worked out pretty well.
I've met some interesting people here, including Polly and Buck. Polly is in her mid-sixties but doesn't look or act a day over forty. She still has a tennis girl figure and all the energy it takes to run a place like Mango Bay.
Buck, her significant other, is a bit older. He's in his seventies but still gets around pretty well. He tours the park in his custom all black golf cart while wearing his trademark cowboy hat.
He was once a well-known movie star who appeared in more than thirty action adventure films and even had his own TV show. He was paid well for his work, but his previous four wives pretty much cleaned him out. When Hollywood quit knocking on his door, he sold his home and moved into his tour bus. He eventually ended up in Florida and in Mango Bay.
Buck can tell you some pretty wild stories about his days in the movie business, but only if you ask him. For the most part, he's a nice guy who never brings up his fame or stardom.
As I was saying, I'm the youngest person living here in Mango Bay. That means when the other residents need someone to do some heavy lifting, they come to me. I'm their go-to guy for moving furniture, patching things up around their motorhomes, and driving them into town when they need to pick up prescriptions and what-not.
Not only am I the youngest guy living here, I'm also single. That creates a challenge some of the older ladies living in Mango Bay just can't resist. They seem to think I'm missing out because I haven't found the right gal to marry, so they’ve made it their mission to get me hooked up.
They try to set me up with single ladies they've met in town, unmarried daughters of friends or recently divorced or widowed women near my age. Usually, they're pretty sneaky about it, asking me to come over to their place to help them lift something or do some repair work. When I show up, they introduce me to the special lady they want me to meet.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. The small repair jobs give me something to do during the day and the women they fix me up with keep me from spending too much time alone in the evenings.
That's something many of the residents of Mango Bay worry about. Me sitting home alone. They can't understand why a young, single guy like me would live in a trailer park in a retirement town like Englewood, Florida.
What most of them don't know is I used to work for a Fortune 500 company. They don't know that, after I was laid off, the company paid me a generous settlement to keep quiet about some of the unsavory things I discovered on the job.
My neighbors in Mango Bay would be surprised to learn I have enough money in the bank to live well without needing a job for a long, long time.
But the people here in the park only know what they see—a single, unemployed guy in his thirties living in a motorhome. Someone likely down on his luck, just going through a rough patch.
It didn't bother me that this is what they thought. In fact, I kind of liked it this way. Only Polly and Buck knew the real story.
Chapter Two
Like I said, Polly called me that morning. Nothing unusual about that. She called me just about every morning. Sometimes just checking up on me, but mostly with a list of small chores that needed to be taken care of around the park.
I wasn't officially a Mango Bay employee and I didn't get paid for the things I did around the park. But I liked helping Polly because not only was she my landlord, she let me stay in the park rent free. And there was Lucy, Polly's 30-year-old daughter who I'd been dating on and off.
Keeping Polly happy kept Lucy happy. And that kept me happy. So when Polly called that morning, I answered.
“Good morning, Polly. You calling to tell me I got the day off?”
“Walker, you know you can take the day off any time you want. You can take months off if you like.
“But if you're not doing anything, I've got a small favor to ask. If you do this one thing for me, I promise not to bother you the rest of the week.”
Now, when Polly asked me to do a favor, I rarely turned her down. I had plenty of time on my hands and because she was my landlord and the mother of my part time girlfriend, staying on her good side worked in my favor.
“Polly, I'm always happy to help. What do you need?”
“Walker, I have a friend who needs a ride to the Oasis Ranger Station in the Everglades. It's about a four-hour drive, and my friend needs to get there before dark today.
“Think you could do it? Drive her down there?”
At that time, I'd been in Florida for about eight months but hadn't got around to seeing the Everglades. I'd always wanted to visit, and doing the favor for Polly would give me a good excuse to go there.
“Sure Polly, no problem. I'll clean out my Jeep and go pick up your friend.”
I'd bought the Jeep after I moved to Florida. It was four-wheel drive, had a hard top, and gave me a way to get around without having to drive my motorhome everywhere I went. I figured Polly wanted me to take it instead of the motorhome.
But I was wrong.
She said, “No, not the Jeep. You need to take her in your motorhome.”
“My motorhome? Why would I want to do that? It'll be a lot quicker if I take the Jeep.”
She paused then said, “Walker, this is kind of embarrassing, but my friend woke up this morning with, uh, let's call it intestinal distress. She needs to stay close to a bathroom. That's why she needs to be taken down there in your motorhome—because it's got a toilet.”
My motorhome, like most other motorhomes, did have a toilet. In fact, it had a full bathroom with sink, shower and even hot water. And I could understand how if a person had 'intestinal distress', traveling in a motorhome with a bathroom close by might give some peace of mind.
“Polly, I don't mind taking her in my motorhome, but if you
r friend is that sick, shouldn't she just stay home until she feels better?”
“Walker, she would if she could. But they need her at the Oasis Station. It's kind of an emergency.”
“An emergency?”
“Yeah, an emergency. She's a vet. Big cats are her specialty. Last night, a Florida panther was rolled by a car near Oasis. The panther lived but suffered some broken bones and maybe internal injuries. They want Doctor Joy to go down and check the cat out.”
I paused then asked, “Doctor Joy? That's her name? Doctor Joy?”
“Yes Walker, that's her name. She needs to be at the Oasis Ranger Station before dark. Will you take her there in your motorhome?”
Chapter Three
According to Polly, it would be an easy drive. Leave Englewood, get on I-75 south, go past Port Charlotte, on to Fort Myers and around Naples. Then get on Alligator Alley and follow it to the Oasis Station.
“What's she like, this Doctor Joy?”
I was still on the phone with Polly. She sounded amused when she answered my question.
“She's nice. She's got a great personality. She's good with animals. But none of that really matters. Your job is to get her down there, hang around a couple of hours then bring her back. That's it.
“You need to pick her up at her home in Venice. But before you, clean up the bathroom in your motorhome. Make sure there's plenty of toilet paper, clean towels and soap. And while you're at it, spend a few minutes picking up your dirty laundry. Make the place presentable.”
I promised Polly I would and we ended the call.
She said I needed to be at Doctor Joy's home in Venice at exactly eleven o’clock. That gave me about two hours to clean up the motorhome, dump the holding tanks and make sure there was an ample supply of toilet paper in the bathroom.
I'd also need to clean Mango Bob's litter box and get him ready for the road.
Mango Bob is the big, orange bobtail cat that lives with me in the motorhome. It wasn't something I planned, to live in a motorhome with a cat. But in a moment of weakness I agreed to take him in for a lady friend who moved into an apartment where they didn't allow pets.
She assured me it would just be a temporary thing and she’d come get Mango Bob after she got settled in. But she never did come back for the cat. In fact, she moved again and neglected to give me either her new address or phone number.
I tried tracking her down but didn't have any luck. Six months after she'd left the cat with me, I finally realized she wasn't coming back and I was stuck with him.
By then, I'd gotten used to living with the cat, and he'd gotten used to having me around. He seemed to be pretty happy with the arrangement, and I didn't see any reason to try to change it. He sleeps most of the time, eats when he's hungry and is pretty good about using his litter box. He seems to like living in the motorhome and enjoys it when we're on the road.
His favorite spot when we're not traveling is in the bed in the back bedroom. When we're on the road, he usually rides up front with me. He'll sit in the passenger seat and watch the world go by.
Because not everyone enjoys the company of cats, I made sure Polly understood that if I were taking Doctor Joy to Oasis in the motorhome, the cat would be going with us. If the doctor had a problem with this, she'd need to make other arrangements.
Polly had said, “No problem. Doctor Joy likes cats. She and Bob will get along just fine.”
With the cat issue resolved, I picked up things inside the motorhome, took a shower and stowed everything for the trip. To get ready for the road, I unhooked from shore power, cranked down the TV antenna, and brought in the slide room.
I checked to make sure all the doors and cabinets were locked then settled down into the driver's seat and started the motor. Bob came trotting up front and jumped onto the passenger seat. He looked at me and said, “Murrrph.”
He was telling me he was ready for the road.
Mango Bob's always up for a road trip. Especially those that end with us camping near trees full of birds and squirrels. He loves to sit on the top of the couch, leaning against the screen while he spies on the wildlife outside.
With him settled in on the passenger seat, I entered Doctor Joy's address into the GPS. It showed the best route would take us through Englewood and then out Jacaranda road past the Venice Walmart. Five miles later, I'd end up at Doctor Joy's place.
Since I'd be passing Walmart, and because their parking lot was big enough to handle the motorhome, I stopped there to pick up a few supplies. Polly had said we'd only be gone for a day, but I've learned things don't always go as planned and it's a good idea to stock up before hitting the road.
Inside Walmart, with Doctor Joy's “intestinal distress” in mind, I made my way to the paper products aisle and picked up an eight pack of Angel Soft toilet paper, the preferred kind for a motorhome. In the beverages aisle I picked up a case of Zephyrhills bottled water.
Even though the motorhome has a thirty-gallon fresh water holding tank, I always carry bottled water because you never know how safe the holding tank or campground water might be. It could be perfectly safe or not. I don’t want to risk it so I carry bottled drinking water.
Leaving the beverage aisle, I went to the wine section and picked up four bottles of white wine. Nothing special, just something to have to go with dinner. In frozen foods, I picked out six Healthy Choice frozen dinners.
With the water, wine, toilet paper and frozen dinners, I had enough to survive just about anything that might happen on my short trip to Oasis Station and back.
After paying and loading everything into the motorhome, I drove over to the Walmart gas pumps and topped off the tank. It took forty gallons.
My motorhome is not like those big buses you see rolling down the road. Mine is smaller. It's a Winnebago on a Ford E450 chassis with a V10 motor. About the size of a UPS truck.
When I first got it, I didn't know anything about motorhomes. All I knew was I needed a place to live and that one was available at a good price. I really wasn't interested in it until I saw the inside. From the outside, it just looked like a big truck. But inside it was like a compact luxury apartment. It had a full kitchen with granite counter tops, a microwave, fridge and a gas stove. It had the aforementioned bathroom with a toilet, sink, shower, and hot and cold running water. Across from the bathroom was a private bedroom with wall mounted TV.
Up front, there was a dinette table with room for six and a couch that folded out into a queen-sized bed. The driver and passenger seats were leather, and there was power everything. For a single guy like me, the motorhome offered a chance to live in a high-end condo on wheels at a budget price.
With the fridge stocked with goodies from Walmart and the fuel tanks topped off, I pulled out of the parking lot and let the GPS lead the way to Doctor Joy's home. It had me take 41 north until I got to the stoplight at Venice Avenue. There it said to turn right and keep going until I reached the light at River Road. At the light, it said to keep going straight.
Two miles later, the pavement ended. I pulled over and stopped when the GPS said, “You have reached your destination.”
Looking around, I didn't see any houses or driveways. Just the muddy road in front of me. As I sat there figuring out my next move, my phone chimed with an incoming call.
Chapter Four
The caller ID read, “JOY.”
I answered, “This is Walker.”
The female voice on the other end said, “I figured that. You're late. What's the holdup?”
“I'm lost. I followed my GPS and it took me to where the pavement ends on East Venice Avenue. It says this is the place, but I don't see any driveways or houses nearby.”
There was a pause, and then the female voice said, “You've gone a half mile too far. Turn around and come back. I'll be standing on the side of the road, waiting for you.”
She ended the call, not sounding very happy.
I wasn't happy either. I was sitting on a narrow two-lane road with n
o turn around in sight. If I kept going, I'd be on dirt and there was no telling how far I'd have to go before I found a space wide enough to turn the motorhome around.
I couldn't back up all the way to Doctor Joy's place. She said it was a half mile away. I couldn't risk damaging the transmission going that far in reverse in the motorhome. That left me one option. Try to turn the RV around.
The road I was on looked to be about twenty feet wide with deep drainage ditches on each side. My motorhome was twenty-eight feet long; eight feet longer than the road was wide. To get it turned around, I'd have to hang the tail out over the ditches and make sure the tires didn't slip in.
It would be difficult, but I figured I could do it. Bob decided he didn't want to watch. He jumped down from his perch in the passenger seat and trotted back to the bedroom. As far as he was concerned, it was a good time to take a nap.
Knowing the good Doctor Joy was waiting for me, I set about the task of turning the big motorhome around. If the road had been wider, I would have been able to do a standard three point turn, but no way that was going to work on this road. It would take more than three points to get it going in the right direction.
In the end, it took eight back and forth maneuvers. Each time, I pulled to the edge of the ditch, cranked the steering wheel hard to the left or right and gained about a foot. After fifteen minutes of this, I finally got the motorhome pointed in the right direction. I was about to head to Doctor Joy's when my phone chimed again.
The caller ID again showed, “JOY.”
When I answered, the voice on the other end said, “I'm waiting. Where are you?”
It was clear she wasn't happy. But instead of explaining why I was late, I simply said, “I'm on my way. I'll be there in a minute.”
I ended the call, put the motorhome in gear and drove. Three minutes later, I saw her standing on the right side of the road. Mid-thirties, five foot six, blondish shoulder length hair, medium build. Wearing khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and hiking boots.
