Scavengers

by Rosalyn Wraight

  "Oh, I'm sure she is now,” Lisa wailed.

  "Screw the clue!” Holly said. “Come on, you guys!"

  She and Laura nearly sprinted across the bridge. I helped Claudia out of her bonds, and Maggie did the same for Susan. When we made it back to the other side of the gully, Laura and Holly were walking away with Alison, Holly's arm around her, apologizing for being so stupid.

  Back at the road, we decided to do what we had done with the Mad Cow incident: we were all winners, or all losers, depending upon your perspective.

  The seven of us headed back, leaving Lisa to her own devices and her own car.

  "Not one of you could do a simple trust walk?” Ginny asked, apparently shocked beyond belief.

  “Not one?"

  "What the heck happened out there?” Kris inquired.

  "Trust is overrated,” Laura quipped, but offered no humor to accompany it.

  "It's my fault,” Alison stated.

  "No, it wasn't,” Holly defended.

  "Actually—"

  We all spun around to see a muddy Lisa approaching. She looked through us all and kept her eyes riveted on Alison. “Actually, it was my fault. I overreacted. I'm sorry."

  "Oh, Lisa!” Alison cried as she ran to her and threw her arms around her.

  As they moved off to the side to talk, we silently turned back to Ginny and Kris. Awkward glances were exchanged, and envelopes were handed out to each couple.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 6

  Back in the car, it seemed an unspoken, mutual decision not to talk about what had happened. I so wanted to wag my finger in Claudia's face, though. How could she even begin to think that her colors resembled those of that other?

  "Where are we headed this time?"

  I ripped open the envelope and announced, “Happiness prevails! Yes! Can you dig it?"

  "I can dig it!"

  I held the sheet for us both to read.

  The time on the clock says happiness prevails.

  At least, that's what we're hoping this clue entails.

  You have worked hard all day long, led by the nose.

  This time no Greek, no French, just time to repose.

  Spirits are calling; there is no time to lose.

  There may be some jazz or it could be the blues.

  For the win, one must designate the other and then collect three sticks that vary by color.

  "Happy hour ... spirits ... jazz ... blues.” Claudia rattled off what seemed obvious.

  "Designate the other?” I questioned.

  "Designated driver! Three sticks that vary by color. Let's see..."

  "Swizzle sticks!” and “Stir sticks!” we yelled in unison.

  "Okay, so one of us gets to drink, the other has to drive, and we need three different colored swizzle/stir sticks to win,” she summarized.

  "I don't think only one of us gets to drink—just that someone has to be sober enough to be legal."

  She corrected, “Ah, so one can get shit-faced but not the other."

  "Yes, so you can drive and I'll have another,” I rhymed in my very best sing-songy voice.

  She slapped my thigh and begged, “Oh please, don't do that. Things have been rhyming in my head all day. It makes me crazy."

  "Well, then maybe a little booze will make it all hazy."

  "Shut up!” she yelled but couldn't hide that laughter that tagged along with the words.

  We were tired—and giddy from it. Some time to unwind sounded so very good.

  She started the car and asked, “Jazz or Blues?"

  "I vote Jazz,” I said. “How about Fat Cat on Main? And who's the lucky one who gets to get shit-faced?"

  She reasoned, “I think it might be better if it's you. You hold it better."

  "Yeah, but I drive better."

  "My God, you're being obnoxious!"

  "All the less reason for me to drink. And besides, if I hold my booze better, then I can have a drink and still be fine. I vote that you drink and I drive."

  "Let's flip for it then."

  I grabbed a quarter from the ashtray/vault and tossed it in the air. It ricocheted off the ceiling, bounced on the console, and fell under the seat.

  She grabbed another, rolled her eyes at me, and asked, “Heads or tails?"

  "Heads."

  "Okay. Heads you drink. Tails I drive,” she proposed, and I almost missed it, but not quite.

  "Want to reword that? I'll start rhyming again if you don't."

  "Fine. Heads you drink. Tails I drink.” She flipped the quarter, and it landed tails up on the mat.

  Within twenty minutes, we were belly up to the bar at Fat Cat.

  "Hi, Kate,” Dave, the owner/bartender greeted me. “Are you here officially or just visiting?"

  I had written a review of Fat Cat some months back. My job as a reporter for theGranton Journal took me to lots of places throughout the city. I think I hit Fat Cat on Fat Tuesday. Something like anyway.

  I nodded my acknowledgment to Dave and said, “Just visiting. I hope you liked my review, though."

  "We sure did,” he said, nodding his head vigorously. “In fact, it's in a frame on the front wall. So, whatever I can get you girls is on the house. My pleasure."

  "Thanks. That's very generous!” I gushed. “I want one of those Scottish ales you gave me last time. Claudia, if I'm not mistaken, will have a bourbon Old Fashioned.” I looked to her, and she concurred.

  We took a table in the back, far enough away from the small stage that we could hear the music and each other. The band played “Take the ‘A’ Train,” and I was sure Duke Ellington kept the beat somewhere above, happy with the rendition.

  Claudia shoved the orange and cherry in her mouth, handed the swizzle stick to me, and said

  “One down; two to go."

  The stick boasted a royal purple, and at its widest end a fat cat perched. I shoved it into my shirt pocket and took a hefty swig of my beer.

  A few moments later, Dave came by our table with a bowl of pretzels. As he set it down, he said,

  “It's Happy Hour, two for one. It's my policy that that goes for drinks that are on the house, too.

  Can I get you girls another one?"

  "Thanks, Dave. I think I'll pass. I'm still enjoying this one, but I think Claudia's ready."

  She was swallowing fast and nodding her head at the same time.

  "Great,” he said. “I'll be right back."

  "Bottoms up, hon! And I know you thought you'd never want to eat again, but letting a few pretzels float along with those spirits might be a good idea."

  Soon, Dave returned with Claudia's next drink. He laid a fresh cocktail napkin and placed the drink carefully. In perfect synch, Claudia and I looked at each other with dismay.

  "Hey, Dave,” I called after him. “This may sound stupid, but do you have swizzle sticks that are any color but purple?"

  "Kate! Look at this place,” he ordered, stretching out his arms and slowly spinning around.

  “Would we have any color other than purple? Sorry."

  As he walked away we were suddenly inundated with purple. It owned the carpeted steps, the tablecloths, the napkins, even the jackets that the band members wore. Any color but purple?

  Unlikely.

  "Oh, shit, do I have to drink this then or should we just leave?"

  "Just drink what you can. It's on the house, which almost makes it an obligation."

  I watched her trying to down the thing so we could get moving, when at last I declared, “Come on. I'll help you. We'll just make sure the next bar is within walking distance.” I shoved my beer to the side and helped her finish nearly three-quarters of it. I hated Old Fashioneds!

  With a wave to the bartender, we left the Fat Cat and headed east to the Blue Note. I guessed that they would have blue swizzle stick with a musical note on top.

  We entered the bar to speakers blasting Muddy Waters’ “Iodine In My Coffee.” That would make me want to sing the blues,
too.

  As expected, everything that needed a color got blue. I ordered Claudia another Old Fashioned and a cup of coffee for myself, hold the iodine. Sure enough, a blue swizzle stick came to a standstill in front of me, minus the musical note. “Cool stick,” I remarked, not wanting to sound ungracious like I probably had to Dave. “Are they all blue at the Blue Note?"

  The bartender nodded, somehow proud of himself for something that seemed so clich to me.

  "I think we should have hit the Rainbow Room, hon, if we wanted sticks of many colors,” I said as I handed the drink to her.

  "Yeah, but they don't play Jazz or Blues."

  "I know. I bet all gay bars are part of some gay-man secret society, founded to save show tunes, the Village People, and songs that make you need to flamboyantly toss your head back."

  Fifteen long minutes and a bathroom trip later, Claudia was ready for a burp and a change of venue.

  She staggered a bit but was not shit-faced. What the lesser term for shit-faced was, I did not know.

  "Can't we just stop anywhere on the way back to the car? Does it have to be Jazz or Blues? I'd even do Country."

  "You don'tdo Country, hon. Country does you.” What the hell that meant was beyond me, but she laughed at the nonsense nonetheless.

  Just then I spotted flailing arms down the street, apparently attached to Holly. We both waved back and made a beeline for the bar into which they ducked.

  Before we entered, Claudia said, “You know they seem to meet up with us near the end of every one of these. That always gets us in a neck and neck position. I mean really. Have we come in first even once?"

  She had a point, and seconds later, I had a plan.

  We waited several minutes before entering. We allowed them enough time to order, get their drinks, and seat themselves. We walked in, spied them at a corner table, and then walked up to the bar. “We'll have a bourbon Old Fashioned, a mineral water, and then another two of whatever they ordered,” I said, directing the bartender's attention back to Holly and Laura, who were both flagging us.

  "That'd be a Cosmopolitan and a cherry Coke."

  Claudia helped me carry the drinks to the table, and an inebriated Holly stood up as I set the drinks down. She wrapped her arms around me. I think she meant it to be a friendly hug, but I ended up being a prop for her seemingly boneless body.

  "I'm so sorry I told you to shut up back there,” she slurred and then kissed me, or rather, slobbered on my cheek.

  "That's okay, Holly. You were right. I should have kept my mouth shut."

  "But I didn't mean to be a bitch,” she said, the “itch” spraying its way into my face. “I love you two."

  "And we love you, too, Holly,” Claudia reassured. “Look, we bought you guys drinks. Oh, but it looks like you guys already ordered. Well, no mind. They'll be fine until your ready."

  We took our seats, and I watched as Claudia sucked the orange and the cherry off the yellow stick, shove it into my shirt pocket, and consume nearly half of the drink in one swallow. I was proud of her—my little lush taking one for the team. She chugged again, and this time she arrived close enough to the bottom to call it finished.

  "I have to make a trip to the ladies room,” she said, and this time she was slurring her words. I prayed it was merely for effect.

  "Let me walk you there,” I offered. “I'm not sure how steady you are."

  "Okay, honey,” she agreed, wrapping her arms around my neck in a way that said “carry me."

  I maneuvered her toward the back of the bar. As soon as we hit the little hallway that sheltered the bathrooms, she became suddenly quite sober and said, “Okay let's blow this place."

  "There,” I said, pointing to the back door.

  We flew out into the darkening evening, the chill feeling good on our faces. Hand in hand, we ran as fast as we could back to our car. I dug my set of keys out of my pocket, started the engine, and raced toward Kris and Ginny's. We had neither seen hide nor hair of Alison and Lisa or Maggie and Susan. Odds, for once, were in our favor.

  Several minutes later, I parked the car in front of the old Victorian, feeling rather proud of the both of us. “We did it!” I declared. I still understood that there was a chance that the other two couples may have beaten us, but it still felt good.

  "Oh shit!” I heard Claudia say, and it felt as though the bottom of my stomach had fallen.

  "What? Maggie and Susan—shit! They win almost every frickin’ one! I should have figured."

  "Ah, maybe you'd better figure again!"

  I whipped my head around to see Holly and Laura chitchatting with Ginny and Kris in the driveway. “I am going to kill them!” I screeched.

  "And I'll hold them down!"

  We exited the car to have a not-so-inebriated Holly come over quickly and wrap her arms around me again. “I am so sorry I lied to you back there.” Her words slurred together, but this time, laughter performed the work of the swizzle stick. “I love you two."

  I let out an “aaaa” that I guessed carried for miles. Kris grabbed my arm and reminded me that they had neighbors, nice neighbors, tolerant-to-a-point neighbors.

  "Yeah, but two less visitors,” I said, lunging at Holly while Claudia went for Laura.

  A catfight it wasn't but enough faux fur had flown for me to be temporarily satisfied. I looked to Claudia, and without a spoken word, we nodded our agreement: They would pay, too. This was turning out to be a day filled with vendettas.

  Kris did the usual: jotted down our time on the clipboard, gave us the next envelope, announced that it was worth two hundred points, and sent us on our way. She excelled at her trade.

  "Sober one had better be driving!” Mother Ginny's words followed us back to the car.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 7

  I was fuming, and yet amusement stoked the fire.

  "This is now full-blown war, Kate,” Claudia seethed, but her eyes were smiling. Then again maybe all the booze brought the sparkle there. “They are not going to play us for fools ever again.

  Give me the envelope! And drive away from this place—fast!"

  I did as instructed, and I suddenly realized that this was first time Claudia had been able to experience the painful pleasure of ripping open the envelope. The sound of her doing so made me certain that, for her, at that moment, the envelope was indeed a metaphor—for Holly and Laura.

  As I drove, she read the clue:

  This dick owns a castle. Isn't that just regal?

  To enter, you need to prove that your age is legal.

  Cinemas, gadgets, things that go bang in the night.

  If you have to ask what it is, please be polite.

  The goal is to take a picture of a hot dame, but it can't be a clerk and you can't know her name.

  I cracked the window and lit a cigarette as I listened to Claudia's guesswork. Riddle masters we were not.

  "Dick. You think that's a name or a not nice word?” she asked.

  "Holly calls Laura a dick all the time, but that's because it's old slang for detective."

  "Well, sometimes she fits the other slang, too,” she said and uncharacteristically snorted. “But if you have to prove your age, that would make it something adult ... or maybe an R-rated movie.

  ‘Cinemas’ is in the clue, too!"

  "When was the last time they carded you to see an R?"

  "Good point. It has to meanreally adult, then. Adult cinemas ... um..."

  Maybe we were not riddle masters yet, but we were formidable apprentices, because in unison we roared, “Porn!” Never in my life had I wanted to squeal the word “porn” at the top of my lungs.

  "So have you written any reviews of porn shops, Ms. Reporter, or just bars?"

  "Oh yeah, Sunday's Lifestyles section."

  "Well, I don't know of any. How do we find out?” she asked, trying to know something far beyond the scope of her knowledge.

  "There's that one on the west side. Pure Pleasure or somet
hing."

  "What do we do, just go and hope it's right?"

  "Well, believe it or not, I'm starving. How about we hit Mamacita's Taqueria. You get us some food, and I'll look through the phonebook."