Desperate women scream "Bob!"

Flushable toilets, electricity and hot showers. My kind of camping.
            I glance around the campsite. Fresh flowers, plastic tablecloths and citronella candles adorn the tables. Paper lanterns accent the trees. I arrange release forms, room assignments and post park rules. I wink at our leader Joe. Another year hosting a Singles Weekend, I’m ready. 
           “Welcome to Yosemite.” I sign up the sixty-five campers, single, all pushing mid-life and wanting dual signatures on their Christmas cards. The hormones so thick the mosquitoes stay away, I tuck my bug spray aside.
           "I want a room with a view," a tart voice dictates. 

Like Lady, this is Yosemite. Waterfalls, meadows, granite domes. “Next?”

“I want the no-snoring section.” I hand the man earplugs and a package of Breathe Right strips. 

“I need to be near the restroom, leaky bladder, you know.” Another guest confides.

I smile sweetness like a five-star hotel clerk and register guests. Hour after hour, I book campers into the slab floor, concrete wall and canvas curtain duplexes. My feet hurt.

“Lock up all food and personal items. Be bear-smart.”

The urbanites shudder and faces pale, “Bears?”
            Promoted from registration clerk to bartender, I plug in the blender, the perk of upscale camping, and pour countless margaritas. My wrist aches. I wonder if the group has insurance for carpal tunnel and hangovers.

The line nonstop, I mix another batch of strawberry margaritas. I nudge Chuck, my fellow happy hour host, and slip an extra shot of Cuervo Gold on the sly. Under Jose’s influence, the medley of strangers eases into gentle banter of uncharted hikes, gourmet food and romantic possibility. 

One more round. I lift the container. Liquid leaks out the seal.

“I’ll tighten it.” A lady in khaki pants offers. “Am I going the right direction?”

“No, that’s the wrong—“

 Slush cascades out the bottom like Yosemite Falls after an early winter thaw, down the table, and into the power strip.

“Ever hear of lefty-loosey, righty-tighty?” I ask.

Toe-deep in tequila, we clean up and close down the bar. Happy hour over, I’m pooped and content with Joe as a roommate.

I drop my pants and slip bare skin inside my bag. Exhausted, Joe snores on the opposite bunk. Peaceful slumber blankets the grounds and I drift into a fantasy. A scream breaks the moment.

“Run!” Joe exits out the canvas curtain.

I dart out the escape. A brisk breeze reminds me I have no bottoms. I zip into the unit and scramble in the dark for my pants.  Ouch, something stings me. My finger throbs as I drag my bedding into the open patio.

“Wasp nest.” Joe grumbles and high tails it to his truck.  

Relocated, I gaze at the mountain sky. Only hours until sunrise, this isn’t so bad.  My finger swells. I find the first aid kit, snap the instant ice pack and shake. 

Nothing. No instant comfort. A dud.

A bottle tumbles to the ground. What’s that? I grab the flashlight and canvas the campground.  No. Can’t be. A bear butt. Downwind, a bear rummages in the garbage can.   

"Shoo, go away."

The intruder sniffs the air and saunters away, undaunted. 

I drop back and search for my shoes. The decision made, I’m sleeping in the truck. 

A can rattles, a branch snaps, he’s back. Trapped, I hold my ground and shine the light. Wow, that’s one hairy chest. 

Not my type, I shout, "Bear."

Sixty-five campers and no response. This redefines a tequila-sunrise.

Positioned on the air mattress, not the alpha player, I reach for a pot. With a bang, I send a wishful command. “Scat!” 

Crunch. Snort. No. Five-feet and closing, the stranger needs no introduction. I struggle to remember what unit the lawyer guy is in and wonder if it’s too late to update my will. Noise. Make noise.

Worn thin with nocturnal party-crashers, I whack the table, rattle the chairs and beg God for a handsome ranger. Heck, any ranger. The bear steps forward, front paws inward, claws grip the dirt. Sort of cute.

What am I thinking? Forget Roosevelt and his Teddy Bear. I’m a cat person.

Desperate, I cry, “Bob!”

Men in boxers, briefs and wrapped in blankets-oh yeah- run barefoot over the pine needles. That proves it, scream “Bob” – there’s always one around. Rescued, I exhale and enjoy the Calvin Kleins.  Outnumbered, the bear disappears.

I peek in the bin. Leftovers. No wonder. Someone gets a red circle with a diagonal line for garbage detail and no “happy camper” sticker.

4:57 am. The camp is secure. 

The smell of bacon wafts on the morning mist as I nod off. Joe stumbles into the patio, industrial size coffee maker in hand.

“Someone poured margaritas in my outlet. Shorted the damn thing out," he says.     

I curl in a bear hug for one and whisper, "Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty."

********************************************** 

 AUTHOR BIO:

Cynthia Borris, author of the quirky mystery, NO MORE BOBS, resides in Northern California. Humor columnist for Valley Lifestyles magazine and a numerous CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL contributor, she is working on her next novel, TO SERVE DUCK. For speaking engagements, visit website. She'll bring the coffee and laughter but not the Bobs!