“Caribbean Vacation (not starring Chevy Chase).” Part 3

FACT: Guys have big egos (you might have somehow missed this; those of you not currently inhabitants of Earth). And the size of said ego (contrary to popular myth) does not correlate to any anatomical accoutrement. The Bigus Egotistis syndrome probably emerged during early human evolution; circa Neanderthal Period. This likely included such DNA-shaping moments like:

“Hey Urghnrk (male name), dude. I just out-witted that dim-witted Saber Tooth; looks like it’s Tiger Burgers tonight. Beats the hell out of eating more of those lousy tree moss pâté concoctions.”

Or

“Hey Grrrrntz (male name), dude. I bet you I can swallow this handful of rocks in one big gulp without actually hurling any.”

Or

“Hey Eeeeyaay (female name), dudette. Wanna watch me flip some big T Rex chips into the lava pool tonight? I can get four skips before the awesome sizzles and brown cloud explosions.”


We can’t help it; it’s in our genes. That’s why after Leslie delivered the $20,000 gut punch I had to keep my cool, preserve the male species and not let her know that my life was passing before my eyes – and at the tender age of thirty-eight that’s not even a decent movie trailer. To make matters worse, I was faced with trying to manage an abundance of sweat building up under my arms, streaming down my back and chest; my very own perspiration relay race. My very manhood teetered in the balance. Not only could I NOT afford the $20K, but after a quick mental audit of my finances (this didn’t take long) I determined I might be able to afford a couple of nights at the local Motel 6, appetizers from a local takeout restaurant, strawberries in chocolate (frozen, with Hershey’s Kisses) and a bottle or two of Cold Duck (make believe) champagne.
But fear not and remember, I AM a man; the genes finally kicked in.

I executed the “slow head nod” gesture, simultaneously feigning my best “sure, I can handle that” smile.

“Wow, that sounds beyond anything I could have ever imagined, Leslie. Really fantastic. I just can’t imagine how I could do any better.” After a few more “stall nods” (realizing my fervent prayers for a “Scotty, beam me the %#$% out of here!” escape would not be answered), a flicker of hope sparked in my mind. Maybe there was a way out this she-devil-Black-Widow-sent-from-the-dark-side-of-hell-to-extract-the-very-essence-juices-of-my-manhood death grip.

I continued. “Sounds, perfect. Yup, perfect. And sticking to my policy, you do remember don’t you that I did mention that I never accept the first option presented to me regardless of how seemingly perfect it might appear, can you suggest another option? And just for comparison, I’d like to know what I’d sacrifice if we were to scale it back to, let’s say, give or take $5000.”

The t-shirt under my short-sleeved shirt had absorbed most of the sweat (the Hawaiian print disguising the other wet spots among the pattern), which was enough to lend some credibility to my otherwise shaky comeback. Leslie smiled, gathered up the other brochures she had selected, returned them to the shelf and walked back and forth along the shelves eyeing the remaining pamphlets.

“Hmmm. No. Let’s see...no, that won’t work. Hmmm. Hmmm.”

The sails of my imagination, previously billowing with the fulsome laughter of Caribbean winds, went flaccid:
• No white linen clothing…maybe Hanes t-shits…and no romance;
• No sunning on deck like lazy turtles, gesturing periodically with a nod for the prompt arrival of a single malt scotch for me and some bubbly for the lady…maybe poolside at the Motel 6 with whining kids and the delight of abrupt warm spots in the water…and no romance;
• No lobsters leaping gleefully on board with buttery dreams of our impending appreciation…maybe Red Lobster…and no romance;
• No phones, clients, deadlines…maybe ever again…and certainly no romance.

And then, when all seemed lost and hopeless; ten words changed everything.

“Wait a minute. I think I might have another option.”

For emphasis.
(b)