Except now the crank has to go up to keep going around. This is much harder than pushing down on it.
I grunt and I groan, but no matter how much effort I put into the upward swing, I can’t get the handle to budge.
This sucks.
I open the top and peer in. There is plenty of ice inside. I use my cup to move it around, wondering if a piece of ice is stuck. But no, it all fluidly moves in and around the gears that draw it down into the grinder.
Now I understand why they had the most buff member of the crew on crank duty. He made it look easy.
But it’s hard. Really hard.
No.
It’s not.
It’s a challenge, and Ithriveon challenge.
You’ve got this, Bailey.
I shift myself beneath the handle so that I have more room to thrust upward and get the crank to go.
No luck.
Dang it.
I want to cry. I want a margarita. Ineeda margarita.
I dip my cup into the bowl and skim off the bits of crushed ice that have survived.
I take a drink. Whoa. It’s way too strong. It’s going to need a mountain of ice.
“How is it?” Rhett asks.
“It’s perfect.” I take another drink in defiance.
Could things get any worse? A beautiful private island, ruined. A glorious amount of margarita mix all to myself, unusable.
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Is this going to be the thing that defeats me? An ice crusher?
I don’t think so.
Rhett takes a step toward me. “I can crank it?—”
I hold up a hand. “Rhett Armstrong, get away from me. I amBailey motherfucking Johansson, and I am going to make myself a margarita if it kills me.”
He takes a step back. “Just trying to help.”
I examine the handle for a moment. I think if I get on the other side of the machine, I’ll have more leverage than trying to push through it. I drag the cooler around the shredded plastic skirt of the table.
Then I stand on it, grasp the handle from this angle, and thrust upward with all my might.
It moves!
I realize I need to keep going. It’s the starting that’s hard, not the momentum.
I push the crank down, and this time, do not let go for anything.
It rolls all the way around.