The Scheme
The Scheme
“Eyes on the road,” I shouted.
Bracing my arms against the dashboard, I ground my jaw tight and pushed deep into the passenger seat. Oh God, my mind flashed, a head-on collision – hope my underwear’s clean...
Horn blaring, gears grinding, trailer rattling, the eighteen wheeler in the opposite lane swerved away from the center line.
Jim looked up from the brochure he was reading, smiled at me, tilted the steering wheel an inch to the right - and preserved our earthly existence.
The big rig thundered past, shaking every bolt and rivet in our jalopy. I glimpsed the driver as he whooshed by, arm raised. One of his fingers told me he wasn’t waving “hello.”
Behind me, in the back seat, a fist thumped against the roof of the car.
“Frickin’ awesome,” my brother, Ronny, said, adrenaline heightening his voice. “Best road trip ever. Marco Island here we come.”
One at a time, I unclamped my hands from the dash board. Shirt sticking to my armpits, I went limp. “You guys are nuts,” I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. “I knew I should’ve worked during spring break.”
###
A white-gloved hand opened a gleaming glass door. Jim, Ronny and I stepped from the 90 degree, hair-frizzing, shirt-drenching Florida day into 68 frigid degrees of pink, marble tile and teal stucco luxury.
The Marco Island Hilton.
Our heads swiveled simultaneously as a long-legged blond in a black Lycra bathing suit glided through the crowded lobby and stopped to ask the concierge a question.
Jim showed two rows of even white teeth. “Looks like we came to the right place,” he said. He sucked in a gut that had engulfed his belt buckle since grammar school and hitched up his pants. “Watch and learn, boys,” he said. “Master at work.”
Ronny slowly shook his head. “This is gonna be embarrassing… C’mon, let’s watch.”
Sidling next to the blond, Jim propped his elbow on a counter and cupped his pasty, round face in a hairy, white hand. His voice oozed from thin, pink lips, “haven’t I met you someplace before?”
I covered my face with a hand and peeked through splayed fingers.
The blond smiled. A wide, sincere smile. Was she actually gonna fall for that?
“No, I don’t think so,” she answered in a voice from down under, “it’s the first time I’ve been in the U.S. – and the third time I’ve been asked that ridiculous question.” Her smile hardened and she turned and fled.
“You need some new lines,” said Ronny, “they’re gettin’ away.”
Jim rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Way ahead of you,” he answered. “Jimmy Bertucci in the land of hot babes without a scheme? Get real. Remember the brochure I had in the car. Made it myself. A hundred in the trunk – and here’s what we’re gonna do with ‘em…”
###
I kicked at the hot, dry sand and it hissed across the beach. The smell of salt, seaweed and tanning lotion pinched my nostrils and the afternoon sun scorched my neck and shoulder blades. A flock of seagulls chattered in a turquoise sky. Across the beach, the sound of feminine giggles floated above the pounding of the surf.
A rousing game of co-ed volleyball.
I admired the form of the dark brunette serving the ball, then tucked Jim’s brochures under my arm, and skittered toward a white and red striped beach umbrella.
In the shade of the gigantic parasol, Ronny sipped an amber liquid from a tall, ice-filled glass. A few feet away, a dozen leather-skinned, blue-haired, senior ladies worshiped Sol from the comfort of two rows of reclining beach chairs.
I set the brochures down.
“Here they are,” I said, annoyed. “Jim filled in the room number. He’ll be out later, he’s getting things ready. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
Ronny took a long sip of his drink and rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal. A few brochures, a little fun…”
“Fun?” I said, my voice rising. “Two first floor, beach-access rooms on my credit card? Three hundred bucks for liquor and snacks?”
Smiling, Ronny retrieved a brochure. “It’s vacation – and you’ve got to admire the guy – when it comes to babes, he never gives up.”
The brochure read:
LADIES’ ONLY
SUNSET TONIGHT
MARCO ISLAND HILTON
ROOM 111 – BEACH ACCESS
HOT AND THIRSTY FROM A DAY AT THE BEACH?
STOP BY
FREE HILTON FOOD – FREE HILTON DRINKS
LIVE ENTERTAINMENT
“He must’ve been thinking this up for months,” I said. “Ordering us to only give the flyers to the best looking girls on the beach. One room to ply them with drinks; the other to…”
I slammed my fist into the sand. “I’m throwing them away.”
Scooping up the brochures, I stepped toward the nearest garbage can.
Ronny reached out and grabbed my ankle.
“Not so fast big brother,” he said. “You’re right – in a way. College babes’ll never fall for it, but,” he raised an eyebrow and smiled that smile that scares me, “it’d be a shame to waste food and drink when there’s ladies close by who’d really appreciate the invite – AND give us a chance to teach Jimmy-boy a lesson.” He tilted his head toward the two rows of reclining chairs.
One of the blue haired ladies glanced up and smiled at me.
She had no teeth.
###
Going, going, gone. The giant red orb sizzled into the Gulf of Mexico, melting along the horizon before slowly dissolving under the waves. The night deepened and one-by-one pinpricks of light appeared in the velvet sky. Ronny and I sat on the dark, deserted beach, chuckling.
I glanced at my watch. Green phosphorescent hands indicated the time. “You think he’s had enough?” I said, my face sore from laughing.
“Ohhhhh, yeah,” said Ronny. “They’ve been in there for over an hour.”
“Kind of mean of us to suggest running out and getting – um- protection – just before they arrived.”
Ronny shrugged his shoulders. “Is it our fault it took so long? Our fault we couldn’t find a gas station with lubricated ones? Can’t wait to see the look on his face.”
I stood and brushed the sand from my Khaki shorts and bare legs. “It’s time. Let’s rescue him.”
As we approached the party room from the beach, waves of pulsating sound engulfed us. The patio doors were open, but the vertical blinds drawn. Behind them, lights flashed and silhouettes swayed wildly.
Ronny stopped and tilted an ear toward the room. “They’re all clapping in rhythm. It sounds like - a polka?”
We parted the blinds and peeked inside.
Jim had pushed all of the furniture in the room, including the bed, against one wall. A boom box trumpeted from the floor, while a five-foot tall, dowager-humped, wrinkled-face septuagenarian flipped the light switch off and on in rhythm to the beat of the “She’s Too Fat Polka.”
The seniors had formed a dance fever gauntlet in the middle of the room. Face flushed, barrel-chest jiggling, Jim high-stepped and spun one ancient female after another, while the rest cheered him on, fueled by the influence of alcohol and the remembrance of youth. One of the more adventurous ladies slipped her bra off from under her blouse and twirled enormous twin cups over her head.
While I stood mesmerized by this sight, the toothless woman noticed us peering through the blinds. She tottered over, grabbed Ronny’s arm and tugged him into the dance line. While the wrinkled party goers swarmed Ronny, Jim took a breather.
Chest heaving, he whispered in my ear, “Great job, guys. Best party ever. These gals - they’re a riot - and all warmed up. Did you get ‘em?”
Dazed by the music and lights, I didn’t understand and stared blankly.
He asked again, “The rubbers? You get ‘em?”
He had to be kidding.
“Jim,” I said. “They’re all at least seventy.”
He hesitated, then wriggled his eyebrows. “You’re right, Ricky - as always. Don’t need ‘em, do I? They won’t tell – or swell.”
He pushed me over to the boom box – and turned it off. It took his guests a few seconds to realize the music had stopped.
Clapping his hands, he got everyone’s attention.
“Ladies,” he yelled. “Are you having a good time?”
A shrill cheer erupted.
He beckoned Ronny to join us. Bending, he changed the CD in the boom box. A familiar grinding beat throbbed from its speakers. He rose, draped an arm around each of us, and whispered, “payback time.”
Then he shouted,
“Ladies, the entertainment I promised has arrived. Get out your dollar bills and warm up your libidos – the strippers are here!”
Strippers? Me? Oh God ...glad my underwear’s clean.
