To the Reader:
This story (8 book pages) follows the relationship that grows between the local high school bitch and one of her fellow students as he rescues her from a sprung animal trap out in the wilds.
The
Romance Genre
' is defined by story content: Initially two people meet, they experience disagreement, dislike, sometimes even bitterness, but circumstances of the story's plot drive them together, and during it's course, they find at least the beginning of happily-ever-after
(HOA)
***
Darla Farnsworthy was damn good looking, and she knew it. She was also the bitch from hell.
Every person in Johnsonville's little high school with a pair of balls seemed to have made a bet with himself he could successfully date her and thus win the school's
1977 Stud of the Year Award.
But all gave up 'before the movie', took her home, and for months afterward reinforced her reputation.
Another factor in play here was these guys didn't need Darla. The other pretties in our school more than willingly took up the slack, so these
School Stud
contestants voluntarily removed themselves from the
I'll get Darla Into Bed
competition and went their merry way, circulating among the more accommodating candidates.
Darla's parents worried about her, I learned later, as any parents would worry about their daughter who seemed so unhappy: a date now and then, all of which ended in disaster that quickly spilled over emotionally onto the rest of her family. After her eighteenth birthday, her unhappiness continued its gallop in this undesirable direction, making life at the Farnsworthy home progressively more miserable every passing day. Donald Farnsworthy had more than he could handle, and told his wife so. At its present decay rate, their marriage wouldn't stand the strain much longer, and he knew it.
"What are we going to do, Don?"
"I don't know, but I gotta figure out something."
Mrs. Farnsworthy shook her head in baffled agreement.
"Maybe I should dump her off somewhere on the streets of the Fillmore District one dark night with no money, naked except for a pair of your spike heels, and then let those street thugs up there bang some sense into her. Maybe that would solve her problem."
"Oh, no!"
"Well?"
A smile crept across her face. A quick, if not initially agreed-upon screw with her husband of now twenty years had certainly changed her life. Amazing what two college freshmen could learn about life and each other in the grounds-keeper's storeroom during the second half of the season's first football game!
He saw that smile on her face and knew exactly its source. From college, she'd followed him back to his tiny hometown and become
That lady behind the counter
at
Farnsworthy's Grocery & General Store
. He often marveled that he could have been so lucky. Like Darla--whose name they chose because it sounded short for Darling--his wife, Bessie, was beautiful. That she was blonde, too, didn't hurt. In his eyes she was
worthy
of that description by a huge margin. To everyone who met her, Mrs. Farnsworthy was a darling, too.
How his genes when mixed with Bessie's could have produced the daughter they'd spawned within nine months of that football game dumbfounded him. Luckily, their three sons appeared to have dodged the
bitch virus
and would turn out successful.
Me? I was just another boy in Darla's high school class, a pretty good looking one, if I say so myself. (At least my mother said I was.) 6'-2, dark curly hair, good physical condition, with a young James Garner sort of face.
In Mid-July of 1977 when we'd both graduated and turned eighteen, Darla made the huge mistake of getting all over me about something that was entirely her doing. As that played out, I vowed either she would apologize and be decent about it or suffer the consequences.
That Saturday afternoon, I took a spur-of-the-moment trip to our local river--a slow-moving creek, really, that wound the length of our valley--thinking I might plink some with my graduation present .22 cal. rifle, then wet a hook and see if anything bit. To get there, I rode my new-to-me Yamaha 80 Enduro fifteen miles down a dirt road, about halfway to the next town. I touched off a dozen .22 rounds at tin cans, just to watch them jump while hanging from a handy wire fence. From there, I rode another mile further to a place I knew I could easily get from the road to the creek. I retrieved my pole and rifle, then headed through the creek-side willow thickets to the water.
What did I find as I emerged on the water side of that string of thickets? Darla Farnsworthy, naked except for ankle-high boots, standing on the creek-side gravel beach, and apparently preparing to take an uninvited swim. I don't know why she tried to cover herself, but she did, which really surprised me. It also gave me a great look at what her teenie-weenie bikini didn't hide.
"Get out of here!" she screamed at me.
I just stood where I was; I had more right to be here than her. Far as I knew, my Uncle Barney Lewis owned this strip of creek-bottom. That was one reason I chose this location for my fishing attempt in lieu of property back up the road a ways.
"Get out of here!" she continued screaming (evidence of a very limited vocabulary, I concluded).
So I stood there a while longer, while she continued screaming the whole time. But I'll admit, her vigor tapered off some when I didn't respond, and every once in while, she'd do something with her right foot. She kept looking at me like I should take an interest in her and whatever she was doing.
I ignored her, but instead climbed onto a rock overhang from where I might see what her foot-fiddling business was all about.
Once up there with a mostly clear view of her, I cleared the remaining cartridges out of my Ruger 10--22, and locked its breechblock open with a handy stick of brush cut from the closest bush. After that, I pointed the rifle's scope at her foot. The scope's 9-power magnification showed what her problem likely was. She'd stepped completely into a cocked, and now sprung, 10 inch, long-spring, muskrat trap in the only orientation she could have that didn't take all the hide and flesh off her dainty, booted ankle. Compounding her predicament? Whoever set that trap had stapled its tether chain to a downed log, so without tools, she was anchored there for the duration.
So? What should I do?
I climbed back off the rock and walked toward her.
"Don't shoot me!" she screamed before I got within fifty yards of her.
"Look bitch. You're not worth the five cents the bullet would cost."
"You can't talk to me with language like that. My parents will have you thrown in jail."
"I just said that, and they won't, so go fuck yourself. I know your parents; they're not assholes like you."
That stopped her mouth for maybe a half second before she came back with, "Get away from me, you bastard!"
So I defaulted to complying with what she said she wanted. I headed back through the willow thicket toward my transportation. I did so to make her believe she was left there alone to help herself out of her predicament. What I did instead, was climb the back side of another rock outcrop, bringing me up to where I could watch her without being seen.
She went through all the standard, useless female motions, jerking the chain binding her to that cottonwood log, crying, screaming, cussing like I still cannot believe a girl that good looking could, and finally sitting down and weeping. I had a powerful urge to go help her, but I knew deep down, she had not yet reached the 'grateful for assistance' personality stage.
When I guessed it was three o'clock, I climbed back through the thicket and made my presence known, in spite of the uncultured insults she hurled at me.
"You bastard! You better help me. If I die here, you'll fucking go to jail."
I just ignored that, too. Instead, I found another piece of that log her trap was stapled to, and sat down. When she didn't clean up her act after a while, I stood, shook my head, climbed through the thicket again, then hiked to my bike, started it, and rode away.
I suppose it was getting on toward five o'clock when I rode back down there, parked my bike, and hiked over to where she would be on the other side of the willows. But I didn't go all the way. After perhaps a half hour dinking around carving willow-stick frog-forks and practicing one-man Mumblety-Peg, I walked back to my bike, started it up, and rode away once again. She must have heard its engine; its un-muffled exhaust pipe was pretty loud.
By six-thirty my healthy boy's body was telling me I needed food, so I had a choice to make: Head home for supper, or stick around here in Uncle Barney's creek-side pasture and hope Darla suddenly grew up. It was a tough chance, and with her being the heroine in distress, the odds in her favor looked pretty thin. I did luck out, though, remembering a Hershey Bar I'd stuffed into my bike's handle-bar bag that morning for an afternoon snack. So, I headed back to my bike.
Now, how could I make this most meaningful to Miss Darla,
The Bitch
, Farnsworthy?
I took my candy bar with me, crawled through the willows to her again, and made myself known. But she hadn't softened much yet, so I sat on my log again and ate my candy bar. Almost with glee, I watched her drool.
I was down to my last bite when she none-to-politely demanded, "Give me some of that!"
I only stood, plopped the last of it into my mouth, turned away, and crawled back through the thicket. Just as I came through the back side of the willows, I heard her scream, "You bastard! You miserable bastard! You miserable, cock-sucking bastard!"
Well, that sounded as if I had judged her mind-set correctly, meaning it had not yet improved significantly. I jumped on my bike again and rode away.
For my next return, I walked back a half mile from where I parked my bike this time to where I'd been parking it previously, then walked further on to where I climbed atop my second rock overlook again. There she was, still down there, and not gaining any progress toward escape. As the evening mosquitoes now descended upon her, I continued to watch. With that tiny bikini, there was no way she could swat them fast enough. She was vicious with them, though, I'd giver her that. But they were getting the upper hand, which struck me as a terrible waste when I looked at her quite nice, suntanned body. But I could understand the mosquitoes situation. She looked
so
damned tasty. I'd take a bite out of her myself, if I didn't have to put up with her attitude and language to do so.
As seven-thirty neared, the mosquitoes must have gotten their bellies full, or at least most had departed to the closest mosquito hotel for the night. Still, Darla had made no progress toward escape, but her swatting mosquitoes slowed as their bites slowed. I was greatly tempted to take pity on her, but I didn't. That would have been the worst thing anyone ever did for her right then. But, perhaps she had learned enough to deserve some small degree of hope.
After waiting and watching another quarter hour, I decided to test her. I crawled though the willows again, making plenty noise as I got close to her. There was a hopeful and relieved look on her face this time.
"You scared me," she said. "I thought you might be a cougar or a bobcat coming to get me--or my corpse."
I shook my head.
"Anyway, I'm glad you came back, Dale." Yes, now she was pouring on the sweet little girl bait.
"Still stuck, I guess?"
She nodded. "Please help me or go get help? Don't leave me here all night? I know I've been a jerk, but please?" She gave another ineffective pull on the muskrat trap's chain. "I can't get it loose. Please?"
"Why should I?"
"'Cause you're a nice guy. Everybody says so."
"And what about you?"
"I'm a bitch. I realize that now. But I don't want to be a bitch anymore."
So? Did I believe her? No, not really. At least not yet. I shook my head.
