Chapter 9: The Itch

If there was one person in the world Horace wished he could talk to right now, it was Randolph Blake.

It wasn't that he liked Randolph anymore, not after what Sybil had told him. The guy had been a first-class SOB, no doubt about that. But Randolph would have known just what to do, how to act in this situation. And so help him, Horace didn't know who else to ask. The Skipper intimidated him. Anyway, he was too old. It would be like asking his dad. Horace thought of his dad and shuddered. Absolutely not.

The Professor? About the same age as Randolph. But too formal. Horace was never comfortable with the guy. Heck, half the time he couldn't even make out what the guy was saying.

That left Gilligan. He seemed a bit dim to Horace, but at least you could have a conversation with him. They weren't far apart in age. And then, too, Gilligan was a sailor. Horace knew about sailors. Kansas-bred and Ivy League-educated, Horace had never even met a sailor until he and Sybil had chartered the sailboat back in Hawaii. But so what? Everybody knows about sailors. Right?

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Gilligan sort of liked having Horace around. He seemed a bit dim to Gilligan, but that wasn't all bad. Gilligan sometimes felt like the least competent of the castaways. Now Horace had taken over that role. Gilligan could be a little careless or clumsy at times; he knew that. But after the Navy, the Minnow, and two-plus years on the island, he had a big edge in practical experience over a guy like Horace.

Even the Skipper could see that. And so, when the Skipper assigned Gilligan and Horace to a two-man working party, it was natural for him to say, "Gilligan, take Horace and go. . . ." This morning, it had been: "Take Horace and go get the water." As far as Gilligan was concerned, that meant Gilligan was in charge of the working party.

That felt pretty good. And if Gilligan ended up doing most of the work. . . well, maybe Horace still wasn't a hundred percent. . . anyway, the feeling was worth it.

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The well was a familiar sight to Horace, even though he hadn't yet seen it. Back home, he'd seen similar wells on some of the older farms his dad had foreclosed on. The water was in an underground pool at the bottom of a hole. The Professor had designed a simple crank, and he, Gilligan, and the Skipper had set it up on a bamboo frame over the hole. You let the bucket down at the end of a rope, then you reeled it back up.

Unfortunately, by the time they reached the well, Horace was already a little winded - Gilligan had given him two empty buckets to haul up here on a yoke - and so not in the best shape to appreciate this touch of home. He said, "Gilligan, can we take a break for a minute?"

"We just got here," Gilligan pointed out. Gilligan also had a yoke and two buckets.

"Yeah, I know, but I want to talk to you. I need to ask you something."

Flattered, Gilligan said, "Oh, okay." He sat on the ground. Horace turned one of his buckets over and sat on that.

"Um, Horace," Gilligan said, "you shouldn't do that. You'll get dirt all over the rim, and it'll get into the bucket. The girls use this water for cooking and washing, so we need to keep it as clean as we can."

"Sorry." Horace got up, brushed off the rim, and sat on the ground.

"Okay, so what did you want to talk about?"

"Well. . . I just need to know. . . I mean, I just wanted to, you know, ask. . . well, look. . . ."

"Look at what?"

Horace plowed ahead. "You have, like, two single girls and three single guys here."

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I'm just wondering what you guys do when you get . . . well, the urge."

"The urge?"

Horace was sweating. This was turning into work. "Yeah, the urge. . . the itch."

Gilligan brightened. "I scratch it. What else?"

"Right! That's what I'm getting at. How do you. . . scratch it?"

"With my fingernails, usually."

Horace was starting to look a little ill. Gilligan continued:

"Well, not always. When it's in the middle of my back, I can't reach back there, I have to use a stick."

Horace steeled himself for another effort. "Look, that's not exactly what - "

Gilligan jumped to his feet. "Horace, I don't mind shooting the breeze with you, but we've gotta get that water back to camp." He cranked the handle to raise the well bucket. "The girls are not gonna be happy with us if we don't."

An opening! Horace said, "Well, we sure don't want that, right? So what do the girls do when they're unhappy? Do they. . . hold out?"

"Oh, no, they still cook and do the laundry." Gilligan frowned. "Well, there was this one time when they moved out and set up their own camp. They stayed away for two whole days! Mr. Howell swore he could cook, but he burned every meal he fixed. And do I ever mean burned! And the mending. . . ." Gilligan shook his head. "Come to think of it, we really don't want to make them mad. Let's get this water back on the double."

Yep, sometimes Horace sure did miss Randolph. Whatever happened to him, anyway?