Haddencroft 8

Phil’s yellow ‘70 Mustang convertible roared to life as he pulled out of the staff parking lot at Tanglewood, tires spinning, throwing gravel as he accelerated up the hill. Freshly showered, he’d sprayed himself with a liberal dose of “Old Spice” aftershave and combed his jet black hair back away from his high forehead. A gold chain hung from his neck, mingling into the thick mat of curly dark chest hair, exposed by his unbuttoned shirt.

Wanting to arrive after the Dickens party was well underway; he plotted his “moves” with the 20 year old lifeguard. As he negotiated the bumps and potholes of the Tanglewood Road, he patted the chest pocket of his bright yellow flowered Hawaii shirt groping for the Marlboros he was sure were there. Finding nothing, he swore, remembering the course of events with Dean, finally putting the pieces together.

”That little shit!” he muttered to himself smiling, admiring Dean’s ingenuity as he fished out a fresh pack from the glove compartment of the Mustang. With a flick of his wrist, he’d finished shifting into third, found his “Zippo” and lit the cigarette. Barely missing a beat, he hit the button and the 8-track fired up. Trumpets blaring, strains of Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park” echoed through the otherwise quiet woods. “Tonight is going to be a good night”, he mused, breaking out a fresh, cold Budweiser from the six-pack he’d set in its paper bag on the passenger side floor, savoring a deep swallow of the cold brew.

Dean flicked the flashlight on, making his way through the maze of trails that connected the cabins of Tanglewood’s now dark forest. “Tonight was going to be a good night” he mused to himself. He had dreamed of actually seeing a woman’s bare breasts in person for as long as he could remember. Before tonight, the closest he had ever come was looking down the open blouse of his residential counselor, Joanne, a dowdy, 35 year old.

She was middle-aged from his perspective, and not terribly attractive, but had large breasts that she rarely treated to a bra. Opportunistically, he would position himself for a look if she bent down for any reason, offering a shot of cleavage, and if the angle was just right, perhaps even a fleeting but heavenly glimpse of a nipple.

As he quietly made his way through the pathways, he had only one more cabin to get by on his way to the fire pit. It just so happened it was Joanne’s. The cabins were not terribly well lit, but in the dark, Dean could see inside clearly. The single bulb hanging from the rafters of the cabin had been left on. Initially it looked as if no one was inside. He couldn’t resist, and quietly made his way to the window, peering cautiously inside.

Apparently, Joanne did not go to the party. It was only 9 pm and she was sleeping soundly already. “Pathetic”, Dean thought to himself as he silently eased the screen door open. Joanne’s arms were folded over her ample chest as she reclined atop the down-filled sleeping bag spread on her bunk bed. On the bench beside her there was a paperback novel with a macramé bookmark splitting the pages. Next to that, there was a half empty-bottle of “Boone’s Farm” wine. Joanne was snoring. Tonight might just have gotten even better.