All people and places are fictional. All characters are over eighteen.
*****
Shit smell. The worst. A rotting brown outhouse in a deep shade glen. A man stepped out just as a young woman approached.
"Jesus John! What the
fuck!
Oh my
God!
" she said, turning her head away from the ungodly odor, her body nearly dry-heaving at the insult.
"Whiskey and hotdogs," he said. "Sorry."
"Are you
shittin' me?
" she said.
"Good one!" John said as he flip-flopped away across the damp pine needles.
The woman backed up a few steps and stood there, staring into the hellish, stench-filled darkness of the outhouse, wondering why she had agreed to go on the company retreat.
Mary didn't like camping much. She'd never really tried it, truth be told, but the superficial tastes she'd gotten of that kind of 'outdoorsy' stuff had never been very positive. The company retreat was legendary for its 'earthiness', and she'd managed to weasel out of it five years in a row. Her boss was onto her tricks though, and she wouldn't make it six.
She'd waited two or three minutes to let the smell dissipate, but the mosquitoes were biting in that damp section of woods, so she went in. The smell had modified a bit, mixing as it had with the stench of everyone else's shit in the hole under the seat, but it was still vile. Her eyes were watering by the time she'd done her business and left.
Apart from the crudities of the situation — bathroom needs, comfortable sleeping, privacy and the like — Mary had to admit she was having fun. A different kind of fun than she was used to, but fun nonetheless. Part of it was seeing her boss, a man she'd long had a crush on, in the environment he loved. Part of it was cutting loose a little — swearing, drinking, hanging out with co-workers like they were 'the gang'.
It was day two of the retreat, a Tuesday morning. The company, an importer of Indian and African decorative art, shut down for the three day event every summer during the second week of July. The owner of the company, a forty-year-old Texan named Sturgill Moreland, got the idea for the retreat from his father's company back home in Dallas. When Sturgill opened his own business near Boston he adopted the idea. He had seen first hand how good it was for morale when he worked for his dad, and the same was true up North.
Sturgill had rented part of a campground when they first started the retreats, but the last few years they'd been held on his own property, one-hundred acres of New Hampshire woodland, at the edge of a beautiful mountain lake. His holdings included four small islands, three of them just rocky ledge with a few trees and scrubby shrubs, and one about a half-acre in size, with an old hand-hewn log fishing camp on it that Sturgill was fixing up.
The mainland property, all one hundred acres of it, was pure and mostly untouched, with huge trees that hadn't been logged in over a century. A rutted, pothole filled 'road' worked it's way in from the main dirt road, all the way through the deep woods to the water's edge, where Sturgill had built six primitive lean-tos, two on the water front and four scattered in the woods. They were all connected with newly cleared trails, and all were fairly convenient to the old outhouse. In the center of the little complex three picnic tables end to end were sheltered under a post and beam roof structure, with a huge fire pit next to it. The fire burned constantly throughout the retreat, and the camp chairs surrounding it, with a lovely view of the lake and the islands, were the main gathering place.
"I swear to God Sturgill, if you don't build a better place for a girl to take a shit I won't be back," Mary said. Everyone chuckled as she reclaimed her chair by the fire, her face still contorted by the awful stench that lingered in her lungs.
"We're supposed to get back to nature here, isn't that right boss?" a young man said. His name was Brian, one of two men who worked in the warehouse, driving a forklift and unpacking and packing boxes.
"I gotta admit, it is pretty bad this year," Sturgill said. "It's a deal Mary. I'll build it and you'll be here next year. No excuses."
"Crap, I botched that one didn't I," Mary said, and everyone chuckled again.
"It's that cheap whiskey," John said. "I don't stink so bad when I drink the good stuff."
"Jack Daniels next year, in honor of Mary's nose," Sturgill said. "She shows up one time and the whole thing improves. That's what I like about you Mary. Same thing happened with the business."
Mary smiled. She worked hard as the company's number cruncher, doing bookkeeping and payroll, and she appreciated being appreciated.
"Check this out!" an approaching voice said.
It was Rodney, a good Irish Catholic from Boston's Southie section. Handsome too. He worked with Brian in the warehouse, and had a nice big small mouth bass in his hands.
"Beauty, idnit? Got a bunch of 'em. Joanie's got some crappie and a coupla bullhead. Lunch's gonna be good taday!" he said in his thick Boston accent.
Joan was the manager of operations, Sturgill's second in command. She was fishing from a granite ledge that protruded into the lake. Rodney wandered back down to her, with his fish.
"You should get a head start cleanin' those fish honey," a middle aged woman said.
"Good idea. You lugs'll be hungry soon," the man sitting next to her said.
They were Trixie and Norm, a tough, blue-collar couple who met at the company and got married four years ago. Norm drove the company truck, and Trixie took care of all the paper work in the warehouse.
"Wanna help him Mary?" Trixie asked, with mischief in her eyes.
"Hey, I'm not such a wimp," Mary said. "Maybe I will."
"I'll get a knife for ya honey," Norm said when he saw her getting up to join him.
"This I gotta see!" Trixie said.
The three of them went down to where Rodney and Joan were fishing. An half-hour later all five of them walked up to the picnic tables with a plastic bag full of fillets and two skinned bullhead.
"You shoulda seen the look on her face when I ripped the skin offa them bullheads!" Rodney laughed.
"Hey, I did good!" Mary said.
"She did at that!" Trixie said. "I never thought I'd see the day, Mary rippin' the guts out of a fish!"
