Riding low in the water is a boat. Well, “boat” is a generous term. Raft? Impromptu flotation device? “Death trap” may be most accurate.
“Granny, we’re not riding on that thing all the way to Seattle. It’s like an hour to cross the bay. There aren’t even any guardrails.”
“Life doesn’t have guardrails, girlie!”
Gardenia passes around a jug of mead.
“Stitch those labia up, ladies. Your blood spatter needs to match my blood spatter. We’re all in lockstep here.”
In the distance, we hear the bells from Zephyr’s one-speed bike. Or I do. The elderly don’t have young ears anymore.
“They will never forget our sacrifices!” Granny Mavis hollers as the seniors and the captain roll Cher onto the dinghy.
Zephyr stands at the edge of the dock, hands on his hips.
Granny Mavis raises the mead jug to him as we sail away.
“Well-behaved women never get the ultimate pleasure of their cheating exes’ nads nailed to their makeup vanity.”
I’m drunk again.
The mead-and-moonshine slushy the elderly women brought on our field trip of self-discovery and revenge is just what the goddess ordered to survive the knockoff ferry ride.
I figure we drown or make it across. Either way, I’m plastered and happy.
We park a couple of houses down. Not by design. Rainbow can’t get Cher to brake, and I grit my teeth as the VW bus almost flattens my neighbor’s mailbox.
Ex-neighbor,I remind myself, the mead feeding my anger. Even though I was the one who baked cookies for them and was nice to their kids on Halloween. Now Nathan and that home-wrecking giraffe reap the rewards of my emotional labor.
I take another long swig.
“Atta girl.”
After unloading my powdered potatoes, I hop out of the bus and wave the seniors after me.
They’re old and I don’t work out, so we’re a creaky, unsteady bunch as we sneak through the alley to unlock the gate to the back yard.
It’s starting to drizzle.
Perfect.
“Nathan’s going to be so pissed!” I snicker as I rip open the first container.
Nathan loves golf. He goes to the Masters in Augusta every year and spends his bonus checks on golf trips. Shoot, he insisted we have our engagement party at his country club. The backyard couldn’t be used for entertaining or—gasp—a fire pit, oh no. It’s got extra-special putting green grass that cost two hundred bucks a square foot. And I am going to ruin it all.
Muhahaha!
He’s going to wake up in the morning and see his precious grass covered in a thick layer of—
“Stop it, Truman. Don’t eat that. Those are our revenge mashed potatoes. I’ll take you to Starbucks after this for a Puppuccino. Hey, Granny Mavis!” I wave to her and Crocus, who are huddled in the dark corner of the yard by the fence. “Do you want to hit the front yard while I finish up here…”
The figures both look at each other as I walk over, crossing the small yard quickly.
One of them crouches down even lower. It’s way too flexible for Crocus. Is it Nathan?
Shoot, I’m screwed.
The shadows seem to grow as men, huge, bulky men all in black, stand up.
