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Subject: Retry NEW STORY--Island [1/2]
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=========================
The following is total fiction.  Any resemblance etc. is a product of
your imagination.  This work is meant as 
ADULT entertainment.  If the laws where you sit say you're too young to
read this, go away and turn 
yourself in to the thought police.  Even thinking about sex is dirty and
nasty and will warp your mind 
forever.  Go watch a movie or play a game that ends with a body count in
the high four figures.  Death and 
destruction are good clean fun.

©1997 losgud.  Personal use just fine.  Archiving okay.  Absolutely NO
for-profit use permitted.  Reposting 
without notice is frowned upon.  Tampering with the text (rewriting) is
illegal.  Copyright violations will fall 
under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the punishment is to
discourage repeat offenders.  We cut 
your fucking hands off!
=========================
M/F  Inc  Con  Humor
NOTE:  Again--losgud trademark--there is the long buildup and wait for
the sky to darken before the 
fireworks commence.  If you don't want the context, skip about halfway
down to after dinner.  Enjoy!


ISLAND  [1/2]

	
	Why in the world anyone would choose to build a tiny little cabin on a
tiny little island in the 
middle of a tiny little lake is something I've never figured out.  But
there it is and there I was going.  It'd 
come down from my wife's side, and when her parents died she and her
siblings had turned it into a sort of 
family trust.  We all split the costs of the upkeep and share a vacation
destination.  The unwritten by-laws 
still work fairly well.  The obvious hot dates are doled out
democratically; we had the long Labor Day 
weekend last year and won't see it again for at least half a dozen
more.  We're barely an hour's drive away 
and come up once or twice a month during the summer, but if we have
plans then hear the California Gang 
has decided to fly in for the same dates, we of course do the gracious
thing.  Things have gotten a bit more 
crowded, if cheaper, now that all our children are growing up and buying
in.
	It's a primitive place and there's no way out except by boat.  There is
a great family story dating 
back to a particularly bitter winter back in the days of the Model A
when a hardy group _drove_ out to the 
island.  Oh, and they made it.  The proof is apparently still at the
bottom of the lake about halfway back.  
There's not much to be done when one wheel breaks through a patch of bad
ice except curse Henry Ford 
for your own stupidity.  The gang scattered safely back to the mainland,
talking already of safety lines and 
chains and a winch set up on shore.  Later in the day they returned with
the necessary equipment, and 
luckily someone thought to bring a prehistoric camera.  And there is the
actual proof.  A wall of the cabin is 
adorned with framed and matted copies of the series, shot as they
approached the site but were still safely 
away, the images capturing the few minutes before the final _cra-a-ack_
that set the automobile deep 
diving.  
	The island has a little cove with a little beach and a little pier. 
The cabin itself is one fair sized 
room.  One wall sports a huge stone hearth that is the furnace.  Cooking
is done on a cast iron wood stove 
that was rowed over piecemeal way back when.  If you need a bath,
someone hands you a bar of soap and 
tells you to go jump in the lake.  The toilet is a half-step above
dragging a shovel behind you on your way 
out into the woods.  The water source used to be a bucket but anymore
you bring your own, fresh and safe 
from a tap.  The lake's not toxic but even boiled it's not good for the
bowels.  We're curious creatures, us 
humans.  We soil our own nests, then bitch about it later.
	Still and all it's a nice cozy place.  There's no worry of being stuck
out there with some big family 
bash because it really is too tiny.  The upcoming visit would be pushing
all known limits, setting records and 
in fact the logistics hadn't really been worked out.  There are two
double beds in the place, but they date 
back to when people were much smaller.  We'd be banging against the
rafters, I just knew it, but in the face 
of so much enthusiasm I decided to play along.  My wife and I, our
daughter Melissa and her husband Dale, 
and their two little ones.
	Truth be told my favorite time out on the island is when I'm out there
alone playing the handyman.  
The peace and quiet and the chill of a six-pack sunk in the shadowy cool
water under the pier.  Nothing to 
beat it.  There were some minor chinks in the mortar between the logs
that needed attention and I knew of a 
prime piece of dead fall that should be perfectly seasoned for
firewood.  And I've recently acquired the 
luxury of being bound by no work week, which is a blessed feeling for a
man in his mid-40s who had been 
resigned to shoveling shit for the rest of his life.  Reason enough to
motor out to the island a day early.  Get 
things ready for the rest of the crew.
	So I was all set for a little solitude when Melissa suddenly announced
that she wanted to join me.  
My heart sank but I kept it from my face.  Sure, she's my wonderful
daughter and all, but mostly I was 
telling myself _don't be such a fucking ingrate_.  It was her doing that
I was able to be doing this.
	I was early in college when a faulty gene revealed my true destiny. 
_C'mon_, it shouted, _drop 
out and paint_.  A painter in the sense that the only walls I'd be
covering would be those in museums.  I 
still don't know why Betsy chose me to be her husband.  She's terribly
intelligent and driven and creative, 
but she has a pragmatic sense I totally lack.  She supported me for a
year, but with no real nibbles and the 
advent of Melissa I made the decision to become a lifer at the fucking
warehouse.  It paid the small bills of 
the time.  I still painted like crazy, and never stopped.  Once it
became practical Betsy reentered the 
workforce and went corporate in a big way.  Every glass ceiling she
encountered, hell, she just threw some 
bricks and crashed her way through.  Within ten years she was earning
enough I could have comfortably 
quit but I didn't.  It was never a big male ego provider thing, I just
didn't want my selfworth to revert to that 
of dead weight.  The kind of husband and dad who stays home drinking
coffee all day, engaging in basically 
a hobby, taking the odd dance with the vacuum cleaner to make myself
feel productive.  If I'd possessed 
any innate culinary skills perhaps things would have been different.  If
I'd had a wonderful way with mops.  
I still shopped around.  Some gallery owners had kind words but rarely
any space for me.  I met a few 
enthusiastic people with very little money.  I'd sell a painting now and
then and be content with the 
progress.  But, you know, to be ecstatic about a year in which my gross
income managed to push beyond 
the three-digit range, that wasn't quite me.  It didn't even pay for the
fucking supplies.  I was never sure what 
Melissa felt about all this growing up.  Telling her class at the
beginning of each school year, _oh, my daddy 
has a shitty job in a warehouse and paints on the side_.  Lissa always
was in many respects very much of 
her mother.  Completely different, but tolerant.  She whipped through
her four years as a Business Major in 
three, and then went on to grad school.  No one was more surprised than
me that first Christmas break 
when she came home and announced that her MBA program had mutated into
an MFA.  Feeling 
particularly fatherly I threatened to take off my belt and convince her
otherwise.  But when she showed us 
some of her work I used it instead as a sling to keep my chin from
dragging on the floor.  Damn, but my girl 
was fucking _good_.  I was instantly intensely proud.  Not because my
genetic material had finally shone 
through.  But because she had distilled it into greatness.  There was
the brief period where she would visit 
and I'd chase her from the threshold shouting, "You can't fool me! 
You're not here because you love us; 
you just want to steal my supplies."  And sure enough she'd leave and my
brand new tiny $20 tube of 
cadmium red would have gone missing.  I'd call her up and bitch her out,
"Those cadmiums and cobalts are 
not only expensive, they're _toxic_.  They're not meant to be in the
hands of children."  Then she'd show 
me her latest series and of course she'd have put the pigment to far
better use than I ever could.  Was I ever 
jealous?  No, not really.  There was never any room for that.  I was too
busy being enthralled.  And then 
very quickly she married Dale her old MBA beau.  He ran up the ladder of
success.  Melissa didn't bother 
wallowing in that bohemian thing.  Fuck all the galleries.  She started
her own while starting their family.  
Two small children later hers is the preeminent gallery in the entire
region.  I never said a word until the day 
she showed up and marched straight to my storage.  "What do you want?" I
shouted.  "This and this and 
this and this . . . " she replied.  I got barely half the stuff back. 
Lissa rarely hangs her own stuff there 
anymore, and then almost as a lark.  She organized the daddy/daughter
show several months ago even 
though most of her work was tagged NFS.  One was officially the property
of the Whitney in New York.  It 
was their second purchase, and the head curator called angling for a
third.  All twenty of my meager entrees 
wound up walking out the door opening night.  That was a Friday.  Monday
I called in to the warehouse 
and spoke to my boss.  "Remember how on Friday you were my supervisor?" 
"Yea, whatcha gettin' at?"  
"Well, today is Monday, and you aren't."
	So goes the story of how I managed to be guiding a small outboard motor
towards a dinky little 
island in the middle of a lake in the middle of the day in the middle of
the week when by all rights I should 
be deep in the bowels of a warehouse bitching at a forklift driver,
"Pallets of product, right.  _Wrong fucking 
row!_"
	I'm the skipper of my own boat, with a lovely young passenger who
happens to be my daughter 
my savior.  Does life get any better than this?  I think not.  Melissa
is indeed a delightful creature, and the 
happiness she exudes is infectious.  My darling little daughter, my
sweet Princess.  Daddy's little girl.  All 
those wonderful intonations from the days when I was King.  When I was
Daddy the Hero Who Could Do 
No Wrong.  When I was the man who she wanted to marry when she grew up. 
Betsy, well, she could have 
a bedroom all her own in our new house.  These were the memories that
nearly made up for the subsequent 
eras when I became _Daddy, that bastard_, and later a seemingly
bottomless pot of money.  _Honey, if 
you only knew_.  Which I suppose she actually did.  What is the measure
of success in parenting other than 
that they grow into adults without despising you?  And really that is
the best success.  Melissa sat in the 
bow of the boat as charming an adult as I cared to have as company.  As
I dared to hope to have as 
company.
	As we puttered across the tranquil surface of the lake I was thinking
that I didn't like the looks of 
the horizon.  It wasn't anything a novice might notice, just a slightly
darkish string laid along the tree tops.  
In all likelihood it meant nothing.  I didn't care to mention it, not
wanting to spoil the gay mood of Melissa 
chattering away.  She was going on and on about the success of the last
show.  Then she paused to add in a 
cryptic voice, "Everything I've ever wanted I've learned from watching
you."  
	I shrugged off the tone.  "You snagged a few tubes of paint and did the
rest on your own."  
	She just sat there, silent, her head in a minor shake of dissent. 
"That's not the art I'm talking 
about," she finally whispered.  
	I shrugged clueless and guided the boat towards the approaching pier. 
My first mate tied us off 
with the knot I'd taught her ages ago.  We lugged the provisions up to
the cabin and opened the place up.  
Then I went out and circled the perimeter, making mental notes of where
I'd want to work.
	Then it struck me.  "God_damn_it!"
	Melissa was fast in the doorway with a worried look.  "What's wrong?"
	"Oh, nothing.  _Nothing_.  Not a thing," I scoffed.  "Just you know
that bag of mortar?"
	She picked it up real quick.  "Oh, you mean the one you left in the
trunk of the car."
	"You got it," I grinned.
	She paused.  "You going back to get it?"
	"Naw.  Hell with that."
	"Want me to go?"
	"Nonononono.  Manana, baby, manana."
	Instead I wound up in the woods.  I had cut the dead fall into
draggable lengths the last time I was 
on the island.  Nothing to it but the little bitch of pulling the stuff
down and out.  Lissa came and helped for 
a while.  I could tell she was having second thoughts almost immediately
but didn't know how to back out 
of the team.  Finally I said gently, "Princess, I know it's sick, but I
actually sort of _like_ doing this.  So why 
don't you go run off and do something you want, okay?  This _is_
supposed to be _Fun Island_, you 
know."
	She beamed.  "Okay.  Thanks Daddy.  I think I will go and have an
explore."
	"Just mind the Heffalumps!" I called out after her.
	I set to work cutting the stuff down to size.  The ax went _clunk clunk
clunk_ . . . and after ten 
minutes I'd raised a tiny scattering of wood chips.  I realized I wasn't
going to cut through anything with this 
method, or if I did it'd only be my foot.  The old saw worked moderately
better but after going at it for ages 
I'd only gone through one section.  I used the ax to split all that, and
then I sat down on a stump.  At some 
point when I wasn't paying attention, my motivation had seized its
chance and run away.  
	It was the saddest sight in the world, that tiny pile of mine.  All
that effort, and I had maybe a few 
hours worth of firewood.  It was an illustration of my life.  _Oh my
intentions are always the best, but all 
my plans just turn to_ shit!  Gloomy thoughts, what wonderful companions
they make.  I shook it off, 
because the situation was so archetypical and amusing.  It was
laughable, and then there _was_ laughter.  I 
turned to find Melissa, all snuck up on me, her hand over her mouth.
	"I'm sorry, it's just that you look so . . . _you_."
	"That's okay.  I know.  It's no news to me.  I've been living with it
for 46 years now.  And actually 
that's basically exactly what I was just thinking about."
	"Why didn't you use the chainsaw?  I kept waiting for that manly
explosion of sound."
	"Well, aside from the fact that I didn't feel up to walking all
twenty-five of those feet to the cabin to 
fetch it, I plain didn't want to deal with the noise.  I mean, sure, you
get all the work done, but only because 
there's someone yelling in your ear the whole time."
	"That's my father," she smiled and tousled my hair, "very funny, a
little strange, and decidedly 
unique."
	"Carve that on my tombstone okay?"
	"Remind me when you're not a hundred years away from it.  Anyway, I
came out here to see if 
you'd be interested in a little dinner."
	"Dinner?  What's that?"
	"Just one of the sundry uses for that yap of yours."  She gave it a
quick peck, then helped hoist me 
to my feet.
	Dinner it was, and what a feast!  What smells and so many bowls. 
Nicely spiced chicken chunks 
and beans refried from scratch.  Several kinds of grated cheese which
didn't come from bags.  All sorts of 
vegetable stuffing, and warmed tortillas to wrap it all up in.  "_For
god's sake_," I complained, "is this fresh 
cilantro minced up here?"  It made my heart just swell to see how warmly
Lissa took the compliments.  
"How do you do it?" I continued.  "I can barely get that fossilized
stove to boil water for coffee."
	Melissa was shrugging and blushing, "Well what would you be doing for
dinner if I wasn't here to 
take care of you?"
	"You'll notice," I nodded towards the counter, "that I did not leave
the bag of _chips_ in the trunk.  
I have my priorities straight.  And chilled in that cooler is a six-pack
of liquid nourishment known as 
sandwich-in-a-can."
	"Gawd, my incorrigible father," she rolled her eyes.  "Though now that
you mention it a couple of 
beers would be perfect with all this."
	And so they were.  The clean-up was easy as always if a bit primitive. 
Melissa got a fire roaring in 
the hearth, then fed it the gunky paper plates and bowls.  I swiped out
the pans, then filled them with clean 
water and a little bleach and let them boil for a bit.
	Evenings on the island tended to end early.  Aside from the fireplace
the only light is from a pair of 
antique oil lamps.  You can read only if you want to ruin your eyes.  We
chatted frivolously for a while, 
then ran through our patience for double solitaire and gin rummy and
poker.  There was a short serious 
discussion of art while we both kept picking up our respective cans of
the last beer on the island, pretending 
or forgetting that they weren't really already empty.  Eventually we
went taking turns darting outside to 
empty our bladders of beer.  Then we shared a basin of precious water to
brush our teeth.  The lowering of 
the lamp wicks away to nothing.  I discreetly changed into my pyjamas
and slid into my bed.  Melissa 
slithered out of her pants and bounded into her bed in just her
t-shirt.  Which wasn't so long that I didn't 
catch the golden dying fire glow of her bare butt.  There was the slight
delay before I thought, _hey, she 
shucked off her panties along with her jeans_.  And another before I
considered, _or else she wasn't 
wearing any to start with_.  I certainly started feeling positively
old-fashioned in my pyjamas.  It was a 
positive sensation though, because even in summer the nights on the
island got pretty chilly, especially once 
the fire went down to embers.  But what did I care?  My era as Father
Knows Best was like that of the 
television show, residing solely in the history of memory.  I curled up
and prayed that sleep would 
somehow find me in this relatively early hour.
=========================           
End Part 1 of 2	
=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under the "Author Name":
	lushgod@hotnomail.com

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