Harold Judy Good

Harold sat at a table for two in the bright Florida sun.  At least he sat there for a while before his thinking cap overheated, a black ball cap.  The front read, Love to Hate in red letters. Flashes of sun blocked out the keyboard.  The back of the hat read, also in red letters, You’re My Dream Bitch.  He found this persuasively obnoxious, and a clever disguise.

Once back in the shadows of a large, green canvas awning, he began to type again, a novel of love and deception.  The working title was Hurt So Good.  

 

Harold rather fancied his name de plume, Judy Good.  Hard to believe a bachelor, using a woman’s name could sell books, but he already had half a dozen on the shelves, and just knew Hurt So Good would be his best.  Couldn’t miss.  His technique was to write whatever came into his mind and tickled his fingers.  Afterwards, he could make any necessary changes. 

 

His first romantic novel, Countess Jupiter Is Not Pregnant, did very well, as did the follow up, Oh Yes She Is. However the third part of the trilogy, The Count Has His Doubts, slacked a bit, with several wives writing that he/she had ruined their marriages.

 

But, this next one would be super. Hurt, as he called it, began on the Italian Riviera, with a fisherman’s daughter falling into a net, half drowning before a fabulously good looking millionaire dove off the deck of his passing yacht and saved her.

 

He was the third multimillionaire to dive to her rescue.  Matter of fact, her father had given up fishing completely and was satisfied with just netting.  He spoke perfect English, but broken Italian worked better, especially if the yacht flew an American or British flag.

 

“Help-O!  Help-O!  Mia Butiful dog-ter is she to drown-O!”

 

Adolfo Gleason had waited years for a chance like this; in fact he had tossed many a maiden into the briny just for practice. “Scream louder!” His hands cups as a megaphone.  “Duck your damn head a couple of times!”

 

The last one, Gloria Morning, a Bulgarian stripper, actually could not swim and when she yelled and went under, coming up and sloppily paddling like a terrified house cat, the screams were real.

 

“One of the best!” was Adolfo’s comment, “Really great thrashing,” he said with a glamorous show of perfect, glistening white teeth.

 

Over supper, he suggested Gloria try it again in the blackness of night.  
Against vicious protestations to the contrary, mostly in rapid fire Bulgarian, including an un-translated, “I will strike significant damage to your particulars”, he tossed her overboard. This time the show was really terrific, including the struggle on deck. So terrific in fact, he paid for her year’s stay in a psychiatric hospital, so afraid of water she couldn’t wash her hands without paddling the air and wetting herself.  Doctor Leroy Felter found it amusing and loved to see her do her hippy-hop dance in the hot tub, held down by four very masculine nurses. Then, when unannounced, he joined her, well, it was a real show.

 

One night she escaped, but she didn’t get far.  After changing her pronoun, she forgot to change her given name. She booked a room at the Motel de Jour or de Hour, awaking and screaming loud enough to wake the owner, in the middle of a rain storm.  He plodded through the downpour and seeing the crazy woman on her hands and knees, ripping up carpet with her teeth, he called the police.

 

Dr. Felter welcomed her back with a broad smile and his pet name for her, Hot Tubby, and a smiling shriek of “Take Tubby to the Hot Tubby!”

 

A year later, when she turned catatonic, he pronounced her cured.  She no longer feared water, or conversation, or deodorant, or playing I’ve got a secret. She also found a fondness for bondage, and laboratory animals, and humming the Bulgarian Love Chant.

 

Judy Good (Harold) turned the page and wrote on at a fevered pace. Time to go back to Adolfo and his newly found fisherman’s beautiful daughter, whose name was Triumphina.   She had large….let’s see, he thought.  What the hell should be large that wasn’t a cliché?  Large hair?  No, too Texas.  Must be Italian.  Large spaghetti pots!  Readers might see that as a euphemism, but it was good, and he’d save it for later.  Ah, big nostrils!  Huge nostrils!  Nostrils you could put your fist in!  Maybe that was overdoing it, but at least sizeable nostrils.  Also a large smile!  He’d run with that.  A smile so large lobsters thought it was a trap!  Wolves ran in fear.  Let’s give her a snicker, too.  Let her snicker every time she smiled, which made her sound like she had a serious sinus problem, but after all, she’d almost drowned so many times, she probably had an Ear, Nose and Throat doc on call.

 

Ah, but her father was certainly fond of Adolfo.  Much better than the last one, Francis of Assisi, whom he had taken to calling Ass-i After being poked in the eye when Ass-i genuflected.   But, Ass-i was rich.  Very rich.  Paid off well when Triumphina reported she was with child.  Not a huge lie because although she wasn’t p.g.,  she did have two kids.

 

But, Adolfo!  What a catch.  Rich as a Cardinal, and with a huge yacht which Triumhina’s father liked to gape at out of his one good eye. Adolfo could be the end all and be all and a clear frontrunner on the trail to riches.

 

How to end this enticing tail?  Judy Good pondered it, then smiled.

 

Trumphina’s father did not bother to tell her that this was the last inning and they were so far ahead Babe Ruth and the entire 1927 Yankees could never catch up.

 

It was the dark of night and he didn’t notice much of anything, but gasped when he got to the fishing boat and saw his daughter jump over the side, into the net!  Who let the net out? Woof Woof, Woof Woof. Why did she jump now? 

 

He climbed on deck and raced to the stern.  He’d seen Triumphina jump, but why didn’t she come back up? Her super large nostrils didn’t even blow large bubbles. A hole in the net told the story.  He looked again and the two cement blocks that usually held the folded net in place were also missing.  Plus, a bit of rope lay near where the net should be.

 

Then a solid board caught him in the back of the head and he also fell overboard and through the net.

 

Adolfo stepped out of the shadows, moved closer and looked down at the water.  No bubbles, although there was the chance the fisherman’s body would eventually rise. 

 

Of no concern. He’d be on his yacht, half a mile from the dock, and on his way within a couple of hours. No one knew him or about his connections to anyone here.  He smiled.

 

Ah, home at last.  The spaciousness was calming.  And alone was even better. Adolfo started to call Stevenson to get his ass in there and fix him a perfect Manhattan, and perhaps a few crackers the cook had conjured up, along with a plate of oil cured olives and slices of aged Manchego.  He’d forgotten he’d given the crew the evening off.  Just as well; if they were questioned, they couldn’t say when he had gone or where he had gone, of when he returned.

 

Ah, yes, a drink.  He poured whiskey over ice and listened to it crackle.  Then he heard a noise, just a slight creaking.  He went back to sipping.  Got to be the boat.  It did shake a little bit.  Not enough to spill his drink.  Took a lot to shake this big bitch of a boat significantly. 

 

Then he heard another noise.  A small boat tapped and scraped against the yacht.  Must be the crew.

 

She stood with a gun in her hand, a small black automatic. Gloria Hot Tubby.

 

“Don’t do it,” he said solemnly, but the ice in his glass did shake a little.

 

She motioned toward the stairs that led to the deck and pointed to a rope.

 

The police ruled it an accident.  Obviously the man had started the boat, caught his foot in a rope and fallen overboard.  The boat was anchored and must have churned in tight circles for an hour or more before someone reported it. Simple. Death by drowning.

 

Dr. Felter sat quietly in his office.  Evening had come, the patients were off to bed, the nurses, except for the ones on the wards sat quietly reading, or sipping coffee.  And then he heard a noise…

 

Judy Good (Harold) reread the skeleton sketch of his story.  And with a few changes, it could be really good.

There were no giant holes, just character nudges.  Toss in some real romance, and a castle or two in Ireland or Scotland.   He could sub a castle for the fishing boat and toss a wedding in there and the mandatory breakup.  Then, right before the wedding, when the bride found who she was really in love with….  A Lard reclaiming lost lands. He’d keep the Adolfo name…Yes, an Italian Lard by marriage, living in Scotland. Some scoundrel and scandal never hurt.   But, where would he put the yacht/castle?

 

No real beauties, but that could be overcome. Christ, get rid of the big nostrils and add some bosoms worthy of a salacious mention….Dr Felter would have to go….no, wait a sec, he could be a knight with a large…. ah dungeon…lots of room for whips and chains and swordfights in the stone corridors.  Suppose Dr Felter’s name was Sir Buford Longshanks.

 

He could do this!  The story almost wrote itself!

 

He signed and turned his hat around.  The waitress walked over and slapped him hard enough to give him a concussion.  “Naughty, naughty lad,” she snarled. “Your hat is an affront to womanhood!”

 

“Would you like to be in a book?  I can fit you right in.”