Peter Owen

Bathrobes, Boats, and Curses

The door swung open and a heavy, sweat-soaked man rushed in the room. Another man, well nestled in a bathrobe and slippers, sat in a chair sipping coffee. The sweaty man took a few steps in the room before he paused to catch his breath. “Leonard, are you alright? I heard something coughing and sputtering up the road, and I thought I was going to have to call animal control to come and shoot some wounded animal wandering up the lane. If I had known it was you I would have called and had them use a moose tranquilizer – because I knew the second you’d stumble in here you would begin dripping sweat all over the carpet. Look – look at you go. You missed the wet t-shirt contest by about twenty minutes – better luck next season.” As the man talked Leonard remained hunched over catching his breath; he did not reply but only raised his right hand, presenting a well-intentioned single-fingered salute. Leonard knew there was no point in arguing, his brother Skip was a royal pain in the ass and always had been. Some people have always been told they were smart; others, like Skip, had never been told that and felt compelled to act as such in every scenario in the hopes that someone would call them that someday. That day hadn’t come for Skip and it was not going to come this day either. But today Leonard didn’t need someone smart, he just needed somebody to hear what he had just found.