Must Love Otters

• MUST LOVE OTTERS
  
• Copyright
  
• 1: Batman Jerry
  
• 2: Nacho Fun Time
  
• 3: Cougars Eat Yorkies—Right?
  
• 4: Dance Hall Days
  
• 5: End Is the New Beginning
  
• 6: Drowning of Sorrows
  
• 7: Breakfast with Mangala
  
• 8: Revelation Cove
  
• 9: Tablecloth Is My Best Color
  
• 10: Sampling Local Delights
  
• 11: Hooker Shoes
  
• 12: Smells Like Maple
  
• 13: Spa Day
  
• 14: Who Doesn’t Love a Surprise?
  
• 15: Orcinus orca
  
• 16: Rescue Hero
  
• 17: Pregame Conference
  
• 18: It’s Pronounced “Gooey-duck”
  
• 19: Enhydra lutris
  
• 20: Watersport
  
• 21: Fun While It Lasted
  
• 22: Chloe the Cougar Does Not Wear Ribbons
  
• 23: Putting Humpty Together Again
  
• 24: Oblique Is My Best Angle
  
• 25: Cause Célèbre
  
• 26: The Raft
  
• Acknowledging Our Raftmates
  
• About the Author(s)
  

©2013 Jennifer Sommersby Young/Eliza Gordon. All Rights Reserved.

Cover art ©2013 Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

E-book ISBN 978-1-63064-010-1

Published by West 26th Street Press, 21 W. 26th Street, New York, NY 10010

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner in any media, or transmitted by any means whatsoever, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The publisher has made every effort to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this publication. Any errors brought to the attention of the publisher will be corrected in future editions.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“My husband … he’s not breathing. He’s blue. His lips are blue. Jerry, wake up! Wake up!”

“Ma’am, did he choke on something? Tell me what’s happened so I can help you.”

“I think it’s his heart. He has a bad heart. He didn’t take his pills today. Or maybe he did, I don’t know. This doesn’t matter! Help me, goddammit!”

“I’m trying to help you. Where is your husband right now?”

“On the bed. He’s on the bed,” the caller says.

I look at the clock. Sixty seconds since the call started. Nineteen minutes until my shift is over.

“Okay, an ambulance is on its way. What’s your name?”

“Linda.”

“Okay, Linda, I’m Hollie. Before the ambulance gets there, we need to do a few things. Can you listen to his chest or feel if his heart is beating?”

“I can’t. Oh, his lips are so blue.”

“Why can’t you listen to his chest, Linda?”

“Because … he has a costume on.”

“A costume?”

“He’s dressed up. It’s Batman night.” Excellent. Oh, Batman. Your timing is impeccable. I’ll have to do yet another karmic inventory to see where I screwed up. I hear my father’s voice:
It’s not all about you, Hollie
. Guilt squirts into my gray matter.

“Listen to me, Linda. Check his neck. Two fingers alongside his neck.”

“His costume goes up his neck.”

“We gotta get the costume off so you can check for a pulse and maybe start compressions.”

“Hang on … I gotta put the phone down.”
Shuffle, shuffle, grunt, curse.
“I can’t get it off.”

This is bad. If we can’t get to his chest, dude’s gonna die. If he’s not already floating to the bat cave in the sky. “Linda, can you cut through it?”

“He’ll kill me if I ruin this costume. He paid a fortune for it.”

I want to tell her that he probably won’t ever know because at this rate, his brain is guano. “Linda, listen to me. We need to do CPR. You said he’s on the bed?”

“Yes.”

“Can you drag him onto the floor?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He weighs 300 lb.! I can’t lift him,” she shrieks.

I’m supposed to be in control here, but that flash of powerlessness never goes away. Unless you’re Les and then nothing bothers you because your soul oozed out of your pores years ago and that mass in your chest formerly known as a heart is now nothing more than an algae-encrusted river rock. With boogers.

“Linda, did he take any drugs tonight? Did he drink anything? Anything I can tell the medics so they’ll know how to help?”

“Umm … Viagra. And some scotch. It’s Batman night …” Linda starts to cry.

Despite the fact that Batman night is over—abruptly—I feel bad for Linda. “I want you to put the phone down and try to do chest compressions.”

“But the costume—”

“Work with me, Linda. He’ll forgive you for wrecking the costume if you save his life. Okay?”

The rest of the call does not go any better. I do hear later, however, that Batman Jerry (deader than a fruit bat in the vegetable aisle) had a stiffy that would make Zeus jealous. Details I don’t need. Note to the world: Viagra + scotch + heart condition = dead with a boner.

That disgusting feeling of
I just listened to somebody die
washes over me. It’s gross. Been at this job for two years, eight months, sixteen days, since disappointing my union-loving nurse father—
yes
, my dad is a nurse, so get your jokes out of the way now—and leaving school early secondary to questionable financial management. I am the only person in the family who faints in the presence of blood, an unending source of ribbing at those insipid annual family gatherings. Whatever genetic predisposition to medicine that runs like plague through my family? Yeah. It skipped me. Working 911 was the easiest compromise—I sit in a room and listen to blood, but I never actually have to see it.

But dead people never get easier, especially the ones who are already dead when the call starts. Aneurysms. Heart attacks. Strokes. Embolisms. Mother Nature is a clever, clever girl.

I lean back in my chair and slurp on the remnants of a long-ago melted iced coffee. Les is staring, those beady little eyes fixed on me. I know he’s going to do it when I see his hand move to the chest pocket of his ugly brown flannel button-down. The mothballs and Old Spice piggyback a puff of recycled air.

I shake my head
no.

Don’t do it, Les. Don’t pull it out.

He does. The Black Book of Death. He’s going to put a goddamned checkmark next to my name. Again. To show that I’ve killed someone else.

It would be funny if he weren’t such a raging, infected prick. Little stooge goes into advisory board meetings every two months and pulls out that confounded book to gloat about how many lives he’s saved, and how many I’ve lost. He doesn’t mark down Troll Lady’s dead people, but I suspect it’s because she’s playing his skin flute in the unisex bathroom during their lunch break.

I’m not sure what disgusts me more: watching Les pull the greasy black comb out of the back pocket of his Wranglers to straighten the twelve hairs still sticking out of his head, or thinking about Troll Lady’s smudged red lips wrapped around his member.

It’s a tossup. I feel sick to my stomach.

I’m now twelve minutes into overtime. I will be reprimanded if I reach the thirty-minute mark—“Budgets are tight! Cuts are coming!”—the same war cry from administrators who make six fat, beach-house-owning figures a year. Sorry. Batman died. What was I supposed to do, tell his Catwoman to call Robin for help?

The tiny vacuum starts up. My signal to go home. Troll Lady is aggressively rearranging her collection of frizzy-haired beasts, using the handheld vacuum to suck the dust free and keep their multihued coifs at attention. Because she’s been here the longest—pretty sure she started with 911 when they were still using pterodactyls as messengers and Flintstone cars for ambulances—she gets away with shit that would never fly for anyone else. I’ve heard that people have lost their jobs over complaining about her troll collection, the dust it collects, the simple fact that they’re horribly ugly, despicable little demon spies for the CIA. She compromises by keeping the troll army small and dusted daily.

“This one, my pride and joy. Elvis. I spent $400, not including shipping. Straight from Graceland! I’ll bet Priscilla touched it. Wouldn’t that be something?” I try not to listen, but she is loud. Really loud. And my console abuts hers. The troll looks nothing like Elvis. Maybe fat Elvis. Right before he died, drugged out and on the shitter. I wonder what that 911 call sounded like.

I unplug, log out, power down. Grab my logbook. Lock my drawer so the dispatcher due to my console in thirty-nine minutes won’t steal the last of my Lucky Charms. I’m the one who painstakingly separated all the boring cereal from the delectable marshmallows, so I’m the one who gets to eat ’em.

Grab the report that confirms Batman Jerry didn’t make it through our call.

Sorry, Batman Jerry. Rest in peace.

The evening’s saving grace: upon opening the apartment door, it smells a little like food. Keith made dinner. I am so grateful.

“Hey,” I say, dumping my backpack on the floor. His black jump kit takes up the entire space on the ornately carved foyer bench. The bench I bought to someday grace the grand foyer of my amazing house that I will somehow manage to buy on my pathetic salary. Which is why it’s still sitting against the wall in my shitty two-bedroom, rent-controlled apartment.

Why we need a jump kit inside the apartment at all times—“You never know when the Big One might hit, Hol, and people will need my help”—ergo, a 40 lb. bag of gloves, surgical tubing, IV bags, gauze, tape, water purifying salts, and silver emergency blankets sits in my hallway and takes up all the space on my pretty bench.

I sort of hope an earthquake does hit. And when it does, I hope it opens a chasm below this apartment and swallows the jump kit whole. I’ll miss my bench, though.

The Yorkies go apeshit. I live here. This is my abode. And every single night, these stupid little ass-licking, ankle-biting shit machines bark like I’m the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Assholes. I hate Yorkies. And by hate, I mean I want to drown them. Or magically turn them into clouds so they will float away on a breeze of my own making.

“Your dad called,” Keith says from the kitchen. “Again.”

“Mmm-hmm. What’s for dinner?”

“Wait! Don’t come in here.”

“What?” I freeze. The Yorkies are yipping at me. I make my meanest face at them. They bark louder. Why can’t we have a cat? Cats are so much cuter than Yorkies. Plus cats look like otters. Otters are the bestest creatures in the whole wild world. Thus, because it is not legal or practical for me to have an otter, we should have a cat. To balance out all the doggish hormones and slobber and ball-licking.

Keith leans around the corner, baggy flannel pants doing nothing for his ass, stethoscope around his neck as per usual. Why he does this, I don’t know. I have zero fantasies about humping a doctor. Or an EMT. Because Keith is not a doctor. He’s the guy who drives the ambulance and jams the IV in your arm until he can take you to the hospital where a
real
doctor will help you. “I have a surprise for you. Go in the bedroom. Get comfy.”

“Oooookay …”

“And by comfy, I mean naked.”

He leans close for a kiss but I push him away. He smells like dogs. And Cheetos. Have I mentioned how much I hate Cheetos? Well, I am telling you now: I fucking hate Cheetos. On a dare, I ate an entire bag at Charlotte Smith’s ninth birthday slumber party because I wanted the little ceramic rainbow pin she was offering the winner, and I puked orange for four straight hours.

For the record, I won the pin. I still have it. But I don’t eat Cheetos anymore. God, I am a crabby cow tonight. I might need a chocolatey intervention to balance out the meanness.

He wants me naked. Now? “I need a shower. And you need to brush your teeth. You smell like Cheetos,” I say.

Keith honks my boob. “Fine, fine. But hurry. You’re gonna love this.”

I squint at him. Do I hear adventure coming from that boy’s mouth? Is this real life? “What’s going on?” I ask cautiously. I’m tired of Naughty Nurse. And Doctor and Nurse. And Doctor and Patient. And I Saved You From a Burning Building So You Should Have Sex With Me Even Though You’re Unconscious and Could Be Dying from Smoke Inhalation. Shall I continue? All the games either end with me mummified in gauze and anchored to the bed, or with me pushing his stethoscope out of my face while he’s pumping away. The romance is overwhelming. I know. Here’s a cloth to wipe your fevered brow.

“Go get more comfortable. I mean it—no clothes. Find something to blindfold yourself.”

I smile at him. “Really? Is this going to hurt?”

“Hollie …”

“No stethoscope. No medical dramas. I don’t want to play
Grey’s Anatomy
anymore.”

“This is something different.”

“Okayyyyy.”

“Do you trust me, Hols?”

Does he want a real answer to that? “I’ll … get changed.” I slide into the bathroom to shave so he doesn’t complain about my prickly legs again (if he doesn’t like the legs, he certainly won’t like my panty tarantula). It’s been a while since we did anything that involved being naked. Maybe a good toe-curler is just what I need, even if it involves something battery powered. And a warm shower does sound lovely. Wash the stink of death from my brain and body.

Once the tub tap is turned off, I hear him shuffling in the kitchen on the other side of the wall. Hmmm, maybe he’s bought strawberries and whipped cream, or chocolate body glaze, or honey … that would be something we’ve never tried before.

I throw some lotion on all the newly excoriated body parts and sneak out naked into the bedroom. I catch my reflection in the closet mirror. Turn sideways. Suck it in. I’ve only got a few years left with this body. I’d better take up yoga. Troll Lady keeps telling me how big my ass is going to get from my job once I turn thirty or pop out a pup, whichever comes first. She’s also told me that at forty, white hairs start growing from your chin and the sides of your face, and your body odor becomes unnatural. Which is why there’s a huge cupboard of scented baby wipes in the bathroom at work.

These are not sexy thoughts. These are gross thoughts. Must have sexy thoughts.

I pose my sexiest in the mirror. Push out my boobs. Tough because they’re a B cup. Okay, A cup. Whatever. The tarantula is under control. It’s no Brazilian, but it’ll do. I can’t imagine having my pubes waxed completely off. First, the screaming. I would definitely scream. Second, doesn’t it say something about a guy who wants a totally bare playground? It seems a little … disturbing. Worrisome. Little girls are hairless. Women are not. Third, the ungodly itching. I cannot even imagine how bad that shit would itch when it grows back in—

“Babe, you’re not blindfolded.”

I throw my arms over my nakedness, embarrassed that I’ve been caught ogling myself in the mirror.

“Eyes are closed. I swear I’m not looking.”

“Okay. Get on the bed. Don’t peek,” Keith instructs.

“Should I light some candles?”

“Probably not. Fire hazard.” The bedroom door clicks closed. We’re alone—without Yorkies! Cause for celebration.

I hear him setting up a TV tray. My stomach quivers in anticipation of the coming treats. I’ve seen porn with this. Food and stuff. Culinary naughtiness. Granted, it involved eating fruit salad out of … never mind.

“Lie flat, Hols. And don’t move.” I do so. He shuffles something around. “Get ready. It’s going to be—”

“COLD! Holy shit, Keith, is that ice cream?”

“No,” he laughs. “Just hold still. This will take a second.”

I try to steady myself, but he’s just smeared something, a lot of cold something, all over my stomach. Goosebumps break out on my arms. “Must be cold,” he says, flicking my nipple. I smack at him. “Don’t move! You’ll ruin the surprise.”

I’m thinking this must be whipped topping of some sort. It feels like that. Or maybe ice cream because it’s really holding the cold. He’s layering something else on top of it. I hear a jar opening. And a can. Then something plopping into the mix on my belly. Cherries, maybe? God, it’s been forever since I’ve had a good chemical-infused maraschino cherry.

He opens a plastic bag and I almost open my eyes.

“Tell me those aren’t Cheetos.”

“Not Cheetos. Almost done. Hold still. This is awesome. I should take a pic—”

“If you so much as finish that sentence, this party is over.”

He laughs. “Final touches. You ready?”

“Go.”

It’s a squirt bottle. Has to be chocolate or caramel sauce. He’s drizzled some over my boobs. That will be fun to lick …

Wait a second. Why is it burning?

“Keith …”

“Almost done, babe. This is classic.”

“Keith, what did you just squirt on my boobs?”

That’s it. I’m opening my eyes.

I do, expecting to be greeted by a belly covered in ice cream, whipped cream, cherries, the works.

“You—you made nachos? On my stomach?”

“Yeah! Isn’t it awesome? I saw this the other night on Food Porn.”

“Is that a show?”

“It’s these two guys who mix food and porn, but the food they make is porn all by itself. They said that this is a fun way to spice things up in the bedroom.”

“Keith, my boobs—they’re burning.”

He leans in for a kiss. “That’s so hot, baby …”

“No, I mean like my nipple is on
fire
.”

He sits back, reaches over to the TV tray, and grabs the squirt bottle. “Oh. Shit.”

“Oh shit
what
?”

“Babe, I’m so sorry …” He can’t finish his sentence because he’s laughing like a goddamned fool. He hands me the bottle.

“Extra hot Sriracha. Excellent. That’s brilliant. My nipples are going to melt off and you’re laughing.”

“I’m … so … sorry.” He stumbles into the bathroom and gets a wet washcloth. When he tries to wipe it off, I smack him again and take the cloth, careful not to spill the entrée onto the bed. Because, of course, we’re on
my
side of the bed.

As I’m wiping the sizzling rooster sauce off my tits, Keith sneaks over to the dresser for his iPhone.

“I’m not kidding. You will never get another piece of this ass ever again in your life if you take that photo.”

“Come on, Hols. I promise not to get your coochie or any boobage. Just one shot?”

I glare at him, blowing alternately on one nipple, then the next. “I think I need ice. Fuck, I think you blistered me!”

“I did not …”

“LOOK, KEITH.”

He flicks on the bedside lamp. “Wow. Shit. I think you’re right. Oh, baby, I am so sorry. Let me get some ice. I have WaterGel in the jump kit, but we should maybe eat first, don’t you think?”

I don’t know if I should cry or scream.

“Here. Just try this.” He reaches into the bag of chips and scoops sour cream, guacamole, refried beans, and an olive onto a chip. “Here comes the airplane!”

Instead of opening my mouth, I grab a handful of his culinary masterpiece and smear it all over his face. Ahhhh, that feels better.

“What the—geeze, Hollie, you’re going to get this all over the bedding now.”

I respond with another handful, this time across both cheeks. Now I’m laughing. He’s not sure what to do. I lick my fingers. Mmmm, that guac is good.

“Pass me the chips.” He swipes his finger down one cheek and pops it into his mouth. Hands me the bag.

“Damn. Not bad.”

The Yorkies are onto us. They can smell the food. Now they’re whining outside the door. Keith, for once, tells them to quiet down. They do. He kneels next to the bed and removes the washcloth from my left nipple. Stares at it closely, then looks back up to me. I think he’s asking for permission.

He pops it in his mouth and gives it a little twirl of the tongue. Feels decent enough. Until he suddenly releases and runs to the bathroom. “Still hot. Still hot!”

The bedroom door thrusts open and I’m a goner. Three Yorkies are on the bed like, well, like Yorkies on an open buffet.

“Keith! The DOGS!” As much as I want this to be erotic, it is exactly the opposite. I don’t mind a little kink, but bestiality is not on my list.

“Trixie! Pixie! No! Moxie, get down!” he yells, shooing them away. As soon as he drops one dog on the floor, another takes its place.

“Get them out of here, dude! Jesus!”

“I’m
trying
!”

The nachos—what’s left of them—are completely inedible. “Hand me a towel, please. Now.”

With two dogs under one arm and me holding the third one back from eating through to my navel piercing, Keith tosses me a towel. I scoop and dump the remaining Mexican feast onto it.

“I’m taking a shower.”

“So … are we not going to …”

“No, Einstein. We’re not.”

The Yorkies bark at me, pissed that they can’t have the rest of the nachos. “Come to Daddy. Mommy’s not mad at you, babies, don’t you worry. Come here,
mwuah, mwuah, mwuah.
” He’s kissing them again. Those dogs get more action than I do. Which is disgusting. And pathetic.

I’m sensing a trend here.

“Not their mommy,” I mumble, moving in for my second shower in under thirty minutes.

Once cleansed of nachos—nipples still on fire—I dress in clothing decent enough to leave the house. Throw on my coat, grab my keys.

“Where you goin’?”

“I need food, Keith. Unless you have some kibble in the pantry that the Yorkies haven’t eaten.”

“I don’t feed them kibble.”

“Leaving now.”

“Wait, I’ll come with.” He dresses and turns the monster TV in the living room to kids’ programming.

“I don’t think the dogs like
Thomas the Tank Engine
.”

“They like the songs on this channel. Keeps them calm.” Duh, Hollie.

Keith throws on his ginormous parka with, you guessed it, huge pockets filled with medical supplies. Just in case. He’s a caricature of himself.

“Leave the steth, Keith.”

“What? No way.”

“You look like a tool. Leave it.”

He stares at me for a second, that hurt look I’m sure he gave his mother when she told him to stop operating on the neighbor with her kitchen utensils, and pulls the stethoscope from around his neck. He kisses the Yorkies again, three little bastards licking his face and ears, and moves away from the couch.

“If someone dies at the restaurant, it’s on you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time today.”

My phone chimes in my pocket en route to the car. Text from Dad. “Call me. Have a surprise for you.” I hate surprises. The last one involved me wearing a ridiculous pink taffeta gown and a cupcake hat—seriously, a silk and taffeta hat sewn and stuffed into the shape of a cupcake—for my non-sister’s wedding to a creepy guy who smells like other women’s perfume most of the time.

As we’re in the drive-through for Noodle Yu, another buzz from my phone. An email. I should never have introduced my father to technology. I open it to find a registration confirmation from a resort. Dad, what are you up to?

It reads “Revelation Cove, British Columbia, Canada. Gift registration, four days, three nights, Sweethearts’ Spa & Stay Package for two. Love, Dad.”