FUN FUELED SERIALIZED FELINE FICTION | PART 3
Fortune Favors The Bold
The Tale of Tiki
Maribel is a solid writer. She scored an invitation to the 2023 Cannes Film Festival in May for a film treatment she scripted.
Toni Greathouse ←🆘Sista Offering Support
The woman had left the lid of the center console open, practically begging for its contents to be raided. Better me than the gulls. The Ragdoll kitten licked his chops.
Steeling his resolve, he took a deep breath and leapt! He landed sideways on the center console, causing the red crate nestled inside to teeter. He stretched out his limbs and unsheathed his pinprick claws to steady the crate. Thanks to his superior sense of balance (that far overshadowed that of his graceless sisters), it did not topple over.
Success! He was swimming in loot, like a pirate chin deep in gold bullion. Ah! Tin cans. Smoked salmon, the nectar of the gods; he would save the best for last. Next: crinkly brown paper bags filled with…he inhaled deeply — buffalo chicken wings. Should he? No, he was not a barbarian; he would wait until he was alone to savor the tender meat and suck the marrow from the bones.
He swatted his grey and white 6 toed paws to rip open the wrapper of what he suspected was the remains of a ham sandwich when the woman and her father approached. He lowered his tufted ears and flattened his fluffy body as best he could.
“I’ll pick Randy up from the airport,” the father said. “He wouldn’t BS his old man.”
“Are you sure, Pops?”
“Positive. I don’t want you to miss out on a gig.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of surprised. I didn’t expect a booking on Christmas eve but….” She hesitated. “Pops, what if he doesn’t show?”
“You ran the credit card, right?” The man squinted in the direction of the parking lot where the tourist’s freshly waxed rental cars sat juxtaposed with the year-rounder’s decade old pick up trucks, RV’s and vans, customized with dents and dings from hauling, fishing and drinking.
“No, Pops. Randy. What if Randall bails? Again. On Christmas?”
“Then we will do what we’ve always done.”
The woman sighed. “Yeah.”
“So who’s the booking for?” The man changed the subject. Rubbed his nose as if he could polish it off. “Coupla snowbirds?”
“No. Party of one.” She opened her laptop and toggled to the schedule. “Delores Beecham.”
“Sounds like a yank.”
“Yep. From Massachusetts.”
The kitten’s eyes darted from one human to the other. Waiting for them to stop vocalizing. Why use so many words when a few words could express the same thing? Betty was not much of a talker, unlike most of the wives. Only a discussion about her absentee brother could color her cheeks with suppressed emotion.
A windowless white van sped into the parking lot and backed crookedly into a handicapped space. A short, heavyset woman with a severe bun, shiny forehead and red glasses perched over a tiny owllike beak swung the driver’s side door open, a hairs breath from scratching the Maserati parked to the left and station wagon on the right. She slid out, white gym shoes first. A scuffed black wheeled carryon followed, slamming harmlessly on the concrete. She fished for her wooden cane and straightened as if Charlie Chaplin animated her posture.
She walked with a slight limp toward the woman and her father, dragging the luggage behind her. The humidity caused shards of thick salt and pepper hair to escape from their bobby pin sutures atop her helmet head.
Even sans mirror, the older lady could feel them out of place and ineffectively smoothed the hairs back, but they rebelled and sprung back, sticking out their tongues at her authority.
“You.” She pointed in a rude but friendly way. “You must be Betty.” The older woman stuck her hand out in greeting. “I’m Delores.”
“At your service.” Betty slightly bowed. “This is my father. Bobby.”
“Bobby Soules.” The man shook Delores’ fish-belly white hand. A cameo bracelet cut off the circulation at the juncture of her bloated wrist.
“Pleased to meet you. Glad you could take me on such short notice. So many places are closed this time of year.”
“Yes. Even we townies like to take time off during the holidays.” Bobby looked at his watch. “Welp. I’m gonna head off. Gotta pick up my son at the airport.” He tipped his hat politely and sped off in his pick up truck, barely missing an iguana who scurried across the road.
“Don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing those things, “Delores said. “They’re everywhere. I could have sworn I saw them on the tarmac when I flew in.”
“Probably. They’re an invasive species. We’re allowed to shoot them on sight so if you ever want to take an unconventional tour detour — just holler.” Betty laughed.
“You’ve shot iguana’s before?” Delores asked, nonplussed.
“My father and my nephews do. Not my thing.”
Delores hmmfed. “Sometimes it’s the most compassionate thing…”
“I beg your pardon?” Betty looked at her quizzically.
“Roosters are the second most prolific species I’ve encountered.” Delores pivoted away and unzipped her wheeled bag, riffling inside for something.
“Not surprising! They might as well be the state bird of the Conch Republic.”
“They look well fed.” Delores pulled out a set of expensive binoculars and a small notebook that she tucked under her arm. “Do you have a locker on board I could store my bag in?”
“We do, but…perhaps you’d rather keep it in your car? I’d hate to risk it getting wet.”
“Oh, you don’t plan on throwing me overboard, do you, Mrs. Soules?”
“Miss Soules…Not Mrs…No, I don’t…I just thought — -”
“I’d rather have it stowed where I can see it than roasting in the hot sun.”
“Very well,” Betty said, deferring to her charge. The customer is always right, she heard, in her father’s gravelly voice. “Ready to begin our voyage?”
“Indeed.” Delores’s pushed her glasses up her tiny nose and peered into the distance with her binoculars. “Indeed.”
