Season Four—Episode 13 (IT’S OFFISHIAL)
Steady sheets of rain reverberated off the tin roof of Rusty’s bunkhouse. He pulled himself deeper into the confines of the bulky goose down sleeping bag shaped like a mummy. The nighttime of spring was cold—so was sleeping alone—so was the thought of having lost two camp guests and his one and only fishing guide.
“It’s offishial,” MNR Officer Marlin Salty had announced, “We have a calamity involving missing persons and some overly dry elk medallions here at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.” This announcement came on the heels of Celine’s futile attempt to salvage the remains of a supper feast for everyone now drawn to the saga of “what to do next”.
Voice of reason, Minister Neville Thorne had the wherewithal to perform under a cooler temperature of mind and felt it imperative to connect with Stash McGivern (local law enforcement) making him aware of the looming 24-hour missing person’s statute. In fact, Grover and Oscar Williams had now been gone for over the reasoned time, and Clarence Bishop would be in the same category by late afternoon of the coming day.
It was agreed post dessert, a wacky combination of cherry pie filling lathered over Premium Plus Salted Tops with whipped topping (Celine’s stressful claim that she couldn’t very well be expected to chef in the dark) that everyone would spend the night at the camp and at first light a renewed search would begin.
This would be with the addition of Stash McGivern, who as mentioned earlier had been notified by Nev. And now minus Ms. Sally Squatsnfishes who notified everyone at the dining room table (easier to do it in front of a crowd than person to person with Rusty) that she would be departing the island first chance come daybreak. Her travel bags were parked by the lodge door before dessert was served.
There was more to her decision than a bullet hole in her right shoulder and the opposite wing now potentially being dislocated by the impromptu boat landing. In her mind—this would suffice for now without having to delve deeper into feelings and commitment and the sorts of things that a world-renowned outdoor fashion model wanted to put on her back burner. If agent Ben T. Hook caught wind of her connections to missing persons and the faulty actions of a certain incapable camp co-owner… She knew her career would end.
The rain came harder as the night grew longer. It was May—the season of wetness in Northwest Ontario. The tears on Rusty’s cheeks contained the same percentage of moisture as the precipitation outside (albeit a tad saltier). When he needed her most—she was leaving—it’s offishial.
A knock on the bunkhouse door, “Rusty, are you up and at ‘em?” It was Cos… Making early rounds. “We should try and persuade that generator to fire up before everyone gets moving this morning.”
“Yep… I’ll be right there,” checked Rusty. He hadn’t slept for a full thirty minutes and as much as he dreaded climbing out of the sleeping bag, he bucked up to face another challenging day.
“Ok good. Meet me up at the generator shed. And grab a diesel can before you come up.”
Trudging out from the bunkhouse and down the beach toward the boathouse, Rusty had forgotten about the carnage in the harbor from the storm last night. Two camp boats sank with their outboard motors submerged below the water line, and the boat he captained—floating—but severely dented on the port side from his uncontrolled landing. This, in total, equaled three skiffs now removed from their active fleet.
Also on Rusty’s radar… A noticeable rise in lake water level. The observation came as he hiked his way down the beach (double-time) toward the boathouse and noticed a toilet seat washed ashore. And not just any old toilet seat. This was a true to life Centoco… Manufactured in Windsor, Ontario… Near new condition still wrapped in a clear coated protective sleeve.
“Hmmmm…. High water,” Rusty thought to himself. “I know we didn’t have any extra toilet seats laying around… Must have floated off someone else’s island.” And then thinking no more of it he picked up the seat, carried it to the boathouse, placed it on a vacant shelf and found a gallon jug containing some diesel fuel.
The out of doors remained overcast, but the winds and rains had finally subsided as Cos and Rusty wrestled over the Cummins genset motor. So quiet on the island. The kind of quiet you don’t wantwhen your entire property relies on the humming of this machine to operate anything and everything at the camp.
“What do you think Cos?” asked Rusty.
“I think the fuel line got snapped off by this fallen tree… Like I told you last night.”
Cos’s response was like a kick in the stomach. It was gin clear that even his business partner was getting drawn down to his last nerve and rightfully so. They had a non-functioning camp and a missing-persons alert to deal with. Not exactly the best conditions to wake up and enjoy a Timmie’s coffee.
“Maybe some gas line off one of the rental boats?” Rusty wasn’t sure if he was asking a question or coming up with an idea for repair. “Something to attach the gravity fed fuel line to the generator.”
“Yes! Excellent idea young man.” And there was suddenly a renewed energy in Cosmoid’s voice.
“Ok, I’ll run back down to the boathouse and round up a line from one of the boats washed up on the beach. We can rob one… For now… I’ll be right back.”
On his way to retrieve the makeshift fuel line there was a beckoning from across the yard in the direction of the lodge. Rusty was unaware of anyone yet stirring at this hour, but was certain he could hear someone calling “Mr. Flathers… Mr. Flathers…” Then, without locating the pinpoint location of the voice, he continued his errand.
“Oh yes… Quite nice,” agreed Cos after suiting up the black gas line creating a connection between the broken fuel line and the intake on the genset. “This should work adequately.”
Rusty then removed the fuel filter from the Cummins block, filled the glass bulb with fresh diesel brought up in the can, and replaced it with a fully primed for use filter. “Cross our fingers?” he asked while priming the bulb he had cobbled off the outboard motor gas line.
The sweet sound of a diesel generator. Like Mozart’s widely considered finest Jupiter Symphony.
“Hey Flathers… Didn’t you hear me earlier…” Rusty was being confronted by MNR Officer Marlin Salty, as he and Cos approached the lodge after a successful mission in the generator shed. “There’s a broken toilet seat in your bathhouse, and I need to use the facilities.”
“Officer Salty… It just so happens that this is the start of a very lucky day. I have a new one in the boathouse and will accommodate you shortly!”
“A broken toilet seat I can fix,” Rusty thought as he carried himself toward the building with an improved swager. Then his mood quickly dampened… Remembering… “A broken heart—not so much.”
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 