Page 17 of A Leaner Meaner Midlife

“Or mine,” Jennifer said, scooting away from the Keeper of Fate.

“On it,” Gideon said, pulling off the highway.

Candy Vargo crossed her legs and laid out a truth. “Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it’s most likely shit.”

As gross as it was, it was profound—just like the woman herself.

I loved all the people in the minivan. No forcing necessary. Now, we just needed to save the others that we loved.

And we would.

CHAPTER FOUR

We rolled into Lexington, Kentucky at the expected time. Even though it was dark, the star-filled sky bathed the area in a magical silver glow. It was very pretty. Jennifer’s Airbnb was on Second Street in the downtown area. The homes were stunning. We parked on the tree-lined street then made our way up the manicured stone walkway to the ornate front door.

“This should be called a fuckin’ air-McMansion,” Candy commented as we walked into Jennifer’s Airbnb.

Candy wasn’t wrong. I’d expected a cute little bungalow and that we’d be sleeping on couches and possibly the floor. Heck, I was prepared to sleep in the minivan. Not the case. It was a seven-bedroom Victorian house and it was lovely. Although, it was Victorian on the outside, it was all Jennifer on the inside—blindingly bright colors, comfortable furniture and a collection of ceramic ducks that defied logic.

“What the fuck with the ducks?” Candy asked, examining a group of fowl playing poker in the China cabinet.

My little human buddy guffawed. “I was wondering if anyone would mention the ducks.”

“Kind of hard not to notice them,” I told her with a grin.

“I think they’re outstanding!” Tim said. “Did you know that female ducks choose their mate based on their dancing ability?”

“Bullshit,” Candy said. “I used to lifeguard over at Woodson Park Lake twenty years back. I didn’t see no dancing ducks.”

“People don’t swim at Woodson Park Lake,” Dimple said, confused. “Why did they need a lifeguard?”

“Paddleboats. You wouldn’t believe how many humans fall out of paddleboats.” Candy snorted with disgust. “Never did have to get in the water and save no one, though. Just used to shout at them to get their asses back in the boats—scared the hell out of tons of drunk rednecks. But the real kicker… every damn morning, I had to scrub duck shit off them paddleboats. Fuckin’ gross. Those feathered fucks had a whole park to take a crap in, but they crapped all over the paddleboats every night. In my opinion, ducks are rude-ass shittin’ machines.” She popped three toothpicks into her mouth and made herself comfortable on the couch. She wasn’t done with her duck story yet. Leaning forward, she eyed us. I was positive we looked wildly unsure if we wanted her to keep going.

Keep going, she did… “One fine summer night after the park had closed, I sat outside on the dock with two bullhorns. Naked. Every time one of them flying fecal machines tried to take a dump on a paddleboat, I just blew the horns. They never saw it comin’. Ducks were flying around, bashing into each other and losing their tiny poop-lovin’ minds. Those fuckers didn’t shit on a single paddleboat that glorious night. Ended up getting arrested for disturbing the peace and indecent exposure. Good times.”

Candy Vargo’s stories were as batshit as she was. Everyone absorbed her tale in horrified silence.

“I’m very proud of you, Candy,” Tim said.

We went from pondering Candy’s insanity to confusion.

“Why are you proud of Candy?” I asked.

Tim smiled and patted Candy’s head. “Normally, she’d incinerate the enemy. I find it wonderful she just deafened them.”

“Thank you, Tim,” she said.

“Welcome, friend.”

“Such fascinating lives you lead,” Wally commented. “I’ll keep the naked bullhorn method in my Chanel pocketbook. But I must know the story of Jennifer’s ducks! They’re simply darling in a garish way.”

“Craziest thing,” Jennifer said, picking up a duck in a tiny hula skirt. Her smile was wistful. “My grandpappy—God rest his nutty soul—used to go to yard sales. He and his WWII veteran buds would scour yard sales, buy up a bunch of crap, then have their own yard sales. Absolutely insane!”

“Doesn’t explain the ducks,” Dirk pointed out, admiring a trio of ducks dressed in sequin skirts.

“Oh, but it does,” she told him. “Grandpappy was kind of hard of hearin’. Used to call me up in college and shout into the phone every Sunday like clockwork. I’d answer him back, and when I was midsentence, he’d yell, ‘Love ya, Baby’ and hang up. That old geezer didn’t hear a word I said. Loved him something fierce. One time he called me up and told me he got a great deal on some ducks. Said he was sending them. I told him no way in hell—I thought he meant real dang ducks! Anyhoo, he just yelled, ‘Love ya, Baby’ and hung up. That next week, I got eight big boxes filled with the ugliest ceramic ducks I’d ever seen.”

“Oh my,” Dimple said. “And you kept them?”

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