The Taming of the Shrues, a short story

It's summertime, and that means vacations, which brings back a story I published in Commuter Lit, and polished a bit recently.  Hope it makes you giggle.

THE TAMING OF THE SHRUES

After twenty-five years in the travel business, Dan Defoe of Adventures Unlimited boasted that he could make any dream come true.  He had a reputation – which is why a certain Mr. and Mrs. Shrue showed up at his office nine o’clock sharp on a Monday morning. 

Mr. Shrue declared, “We want the perfect vacation.  Money is not an issue, you understand?”

“I understand,” said Dan, his mental cash register clinking.   

The Shrues were a familiar type. Mr. Shrue had skipped youth to achieve early middle age, paunch and all, and wore brightly colored argyle socks and yellow ties with pink pigs on them, without irony.  Mrs. Shrue wore tennis whites to show off her early summer tan; and a lime-green tote and matching headband, with the very same pink pigs.     

 “We want a true adventure,” insisted Mrs. Shrue. 

“We’re all about adventure!” added Mr. Shrue.

As Dan knew well, the true adventurer rarely graced the inside of a travel agent’s office. The adventurer came, saw and conquered, with no budget and a single knapsack.  Those who hired Adventures Unlimited wanted, say, Johnnie Walker Blue delivered to mountain retreats.     

“True adventure is why I'm in business, Mr. and Mrs. Shrue,” said Dan with a straight face.

“Andy and Mandy,” said Mr. Shrue affably.   “We’re going to be friends!”

“Andy and Mandy,” repeated Dan.

 “Just one teeny thing,” said Mandy.  “It must be completely different.  Last year, we did Everest, and can you believe that we met our neighbors there? What’s the point?  We need different.”

“Think out of the box, as long as it has golf,” Andy added, with a wink.

“Trust me,” Dan said, winking back.

Alas, easier said than done.  This globe-trotting pair had done it all—African safaris, white-water rafting in Maine, rock-climbing, hang-gliding, and archaeological digs in Mexico, Israel and Greece.  No city on earth had escaped them: Rio de Janeiro, Lima, Prague, Trieste, Moscow, St. Petersburg, Sydney, Rome, and Istanbul, not to mention every village on the Dalmatian Coast. Add to that Andy’s hankering (actually, demand) for golf and Dan was flummoxed.   

Dan’s days became a veritable stream of Andy-Mandy communication. Andy emailed in the morning, and Mandy picked up the slack in the afternoon with a flurry of anguished texts; they split the difference in the evening.  Dan tried to remain cheerful.  But his stockpile of vacation ideas was growing low, since even talented travel agents have a limited repertory of so-called “adventures.”  

Dan’s ever-practical wife solved his problem over dinner.  She said, “My friend Trudy is going to Nirwana Bali, it’s a golf course in Bali.  She says it’s got rice paddies and the world’s best golf.  Plus, it’s this fancy resort on top of a cliff and it overlooks the Indian Ocean—which for some reason is better than the Atlantic.  Can you imagine?”

 “Idyllic retreat,” Dan told the Shrues, “very expensive, but very remote.”

“We love remote,” cooed Mandy.  

 Dan forged ahead with intricate preparations:  translators, chauffeurs, guides, as well as daily shipments of organic produce to fit Mandy’s new North Beach diet.   He counted the hours until he was rid of the Shrues.

Everything was set, until one day before departure.  Mandy called. “Dan, there’s a big problem,’ she said. 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Dan replied, grabbing a few aspirin.

“Our neighbors are going to Nirwana Bali, you know, the same ones we met on Everest.  And we hate them. We can’t go,” she said. “I’m so sorry to cancel like this.”

Moments like these defined a legend like Dan Defoe.  “Not to worry, I have a back-up plan,” he said.

“Back-up?” asked Mandy warily.

 “Oh, it’s a true adventure.  No questions, I don’t want to spoil it.  My driver—his name is Maurice-- will pick you up tomorrow. Trust me, you’ve never been anywhere like this.  And pack just like you were going to Bali…bring everything.”

Early the next morning, a beat-up Toyota arrived in the Shrue’s grand circular driveway. “Maurice, here for your Urban Adventures,” a grinning young Jamaican shouted.  “Hope you’re ready!” 

Maurice’s car had no air-conditioning, and smelled of strong incense.  Soon, the two were en route, as the car limped along the bleak streets of Northeast Philadelphia.  Traffic was heavy, too.

“We’re going away from the airport,” Mandy observed. “This is the Ben Franklin Bridge.”

“No airport,” said Maurice. “Urban adventure, it don’t need airplane.  Urban is all about urban.”

Andy whispered, “I think that urban is a synonym for…slum.”

“You are funny person!” laughed Maurice. “You stay with Maurice’s sister. She’ll make you nice goat stew, delicious.  You are going to love it! Only seven people in her apartment, but so much good food, you’ll forget about it! Wednesday, we go to Newark, even more urban!”

In less than half an hour, Maurice stopped in front of a dilapidated building in Camden, New Jersey – a town that was far from picturesque, and even farther from the imagination of Andy and Mandy.

 A teen-aged girl, wearing halter top, regarded Andy and Mandy with cool hostility.  “You a social worker?” she asked.  “We don’t need social work around here.”

Maurice said, “That is funny, social worker. No, no, no, paying customers…they are going to be my sister’s…guests.”

“Right,” said the girl. “I thought this building was condemned.”

“Ha ha, funny girl,” said Maurice.

  “Whose brother are you?” asked the girl. 

Maurice gaily opened the door, and started to carry the luggage up—but Mandy stopped him.

 “What did she mean, condemned building?” she asked. 

“A matter of opinion,” said Maurice. “The police don’t mind so who cares?  Police all friends with my sister, you hear me?”

Andy and Mandy nodded. 

 “Good, let’s head upstairs, only five flights, but watch out, some of the steps not too strong.  Don’t mind the roaches, they don’t bite, they’re just really big.  You want excitement!”

“Five flights,” said Andy, looking up.

“Roaches,” said Mandy, looking down.

“Some rats, too, but small,” added Maurice. “Very urban adventure.”

The building was hot in the way only cities can be, the kind of heat that makes fire hydrants popular.  Andy’s slight bit of hair was matted down, and Mandy’s foundation, or what was left of it, had begun to streak. 

Mandy said, “I was thinking.  Our neighbors are not terrible people.”

“Rudy and Trudy aren’t bad golfers,” said Andy. 

“We should be more charitable…in the future,” Mandy said.  “But I guess it’s too late.”

Maurice smiled pleasantly. After a suitable pause, he said, “Mr. Dan, he hasn’t cancelled your trip. You could still go to that fine resort in Bali. Of course, it’s not such an adventure…might cost you a little extra.” 

Andy whipped out an unseemly number of hundred-dollar bills- and leading Mandy by the hand, headed back to the relative comfort of Maurice’s Toyota.  The ride to the airport was brief and silent—although, mercifully, cool since Maurice had somehow discovered the air-conditioning switch.  

“Here’s to the Shrue’s perfect vacation,” laughed Maurice, now in a navy blazer, over martinis that night with Dan.

“Not so perfect,” said Dan. “Their neighbors are on the very same flight.  I took the liberty of putting the seats together. It’s a very long flight.”

“That will be a true adventure,” said Maurice.