Dan Versus Nature (12 page)

“Yes, I understand.” Charlie pats his backpack. “But I’ve come prepared.”

Hank eyes the Zosters warily. “You’re not, er . . . You’re not also our guides, are you?”

Fay guffaws, showing off her horrendous orthodontia. “You kiddin’ me? We wouldn’t be caught dead in the wilderness.”

“Not that you all won’t have a
terrific
experience,” Monty says, jumping in.

“Right, well, anyway,” Fay says, “terribly sorry we were late. We practically shit a shar-pei gettin’ here —’scuse my French. We had some . . . challenges with our wilderness guide, you see. And between that and the traffic jam and the van issues and the bad weather, well . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Please accept our humblest apologies. We’d be happy to offer each of you a substantial discou —”

“Whoa-no-no.” Monty steps in front of Fay and forces a laugh. “What my wife is so eloquently trying to matriculate.” He barks up another gob of phlegm. “Is that we are terribly sorry for the inconvenience that this situation has caused you all, but as it could not be helped, and as this was most certainly an act of God, we are not responsible nor required to offer any constipatory reiteration. So . . .” Monty nods. “We sincerely hope you understand.”

“It’s fine,” Hank says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “We’re just glad you finally showed up.”

“That’s the spirit,” Monty says. “Expectorate the positive.” He glances at our backpacks. “OK, so, you got your bags, I see. Are you all ready to have the time of your lives?”

“Yee-haw!” Barbara bellows, grabbing her bag and swinging it behind her like it weighs nearly nothing. “Let’s get this party started.”

“I like your attitude, missy,” Fay says, laughing — then breaking into a violent, hacking cough. “’Scuse me.” She belches loudly and clears her throat forcefully into her fist, making a sound like a food processor filled with ice cubes. “It’s the damn cigars. I gotta quit one of these days.”

Monty and Fay make no move to help with our bags, so Hank, Charlie, and I grab our backpacks and our carry-ons. I scoop up Baby Robbie, and we all follow the Zosters out the door — the sorriest wagon train since the Donner Party.

“Here we are,” Monty announces, his voice echoing off the concrete beams of the parking garage. He gestures to a dilapidated old Dodge van parked crookedly across two parking spots. “The Adventure Van! Your stagecoach to excitement.”

“Oh,” Hank says. “Wow.”

The long, eight-seat van is white, sort of, though the ubiquitous orange-brown rust stains are staking their claim. On the side the words
MY WOODLAND TREK ADVENTURES
have been scrawled in Sharpie with what looks like a very shaky kindergartener’s hand.

Penelope laughs. “Well, now. You didn’t mention we were traveling in such style, Mother. My sincerest apologies for all my doubts about this trip.”

“Oh, quiet, you,” Barbara says, swatting Penelope’s shoulder. “It’s not
how
you get there. It’s
that
you get there.”

“Indeed,” Charlie says, snapping a picture of the derelict van. “The promise of which is now very much in question.”

The five of us lug all of our bags to the rear doors, me keeping my distance — and my sour stench — from Penelope. Monty grabs the handle on one of the doors and yanks it open, the hinges making a loud, ear-piercing squeak.

“Sorry,” Monty says. “Only the one side works. Stupid latch is busted.”

“Not a problem,” Hank says. He grabs the backpacks one by one and heaves them inside.

“Why, thank you.” Barbara touches Hank’s arm. “Good to know you’re around to carry me out of the woods if I twist an ankle.”

Penelope groans and rolls her eyes.

Hank looks incredibly uncomfortable, a contorted smile plastered on his face. But I’m kind of loving this. Finally we see the dark side of being a super stud.

Monty climbs into the driver’s seat while Fay rides shotgun. The rest of us head over to the mid-seat doors.

“I have an idea,” Barbara offers. “Why don’t we have the adults sit in the middle row and the
young
adults sit in the way back? So you guys can talk and get to know each other. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“That’s a
wonderful
plan, Mother,” Penelope says. “I can hardly wait to hear all about their fascinating lives.” She then proceeds to climb into the backseat and crack open her book.

I surreptitiously sniff my underarm, wondering if my skunkiness has abated a bit. It has not.

“Actually,” I say, my eyes watering. “I think, you know, we should probably sit with our own groups.”

“Oh . . . well . . . yes . . .” Hank’s eyes dart between me and Barbara: BO or TMI, it’s a difficult decision. “And actually, I wouldn’t mind getting to know Charlie a little better. Maybe he and I can sit beside each other on this leg of the journey.”

“Oh, no,” Charlie says. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Langston. This trip was meant as a birthday bonding experience between you and Dan. A nice close and cozy van ride is the perfect opportunity for a little
tête-à-tête.
” He grabs my hand, places the bottle of pomegranate juice in my palm, and looks me straight in the eyes. “You know, a nice
confabulation
?”

Confabulation.
Great. As if smelling like a yeasty foot in Penelope’s presence wasn’t bad enough. Now she’s going to see me screaming a rainbow?

“Hey, back there!” Monty calls over his shoulder. “How’s about concludifying the seating summit and climbing aboard so we can get a move on. I don’t want to point no fingers, but we got some time to make up here.”

Hank sighs and clambers into the van. He takes the middle-row window seat. Charlie shoves me forward so I can get in and sit next to Hank, which I do, awkwardly juggling Robbie and ducking out of my sling bag as I crunch over all of the crap on the floor: paper bags, empty cans, Styrofoam coffee cups, dirty clothes, a dancing Santa Claus . . .

Barbara and Charlie climb in the backseat with Penelope, sliding the door shut behind them.

I twist around and give Charlie a death stare, but he just shrugs and pinches his nose.

“Okeydokey. Let’s make like a fetus and head out.” Monty turns the key. The engine wheezes, clinks, and clangs like a garbage disposal with a spoon caught inside.

“Excuse me,” Charlie calls out. “Are we absolutely certain that we wouldn’t be better off hiring a car?”

“Life’s filled with uncertainties, honey,” Fay says. “Sometimes you just gotta grab your dangle-down and hold on for the ride.”

“Your engine sounds flooded,” Hank offers.

“Nah,” Monty says, his fingers twisting the key. “This is normal. She just likes a little foreplay. Come on now, Bessie.” He rocks back and forth in his seat like he’s revving himself up along with the engine. “Come on, baby. I know ya got it in ya. Giddyup.”

Finally, the van roars to life.

“Woo-hoo!”
Monty slaps the dashboard lovingly. “This old broad’s got some life in her yet.”

It’s clear the second we jerk forward that while the van may have some life left, it sure as hell doesn’t have any shocks. We all bounce around in our seats like we’re racing over a series of speed bumps.

Now that we’re all shut in, my bleu-cheesy stench starts to permeate the cabin.

Hank’s nose twitches. He tries his window switch, but it only clicks and whines.

“Can we, uh, get a little fresh air in here?” Hank asks.

“No can do,” Monty calls back. “’Lectronics shit the sheets ’bout a year ago.”

“Lovely.” Hank casually places a finger under his nose and turns toward the window.

The rattling of the van shakes my insides like a badly built carnival ride. Between my ever-thickening BO and this violent juddering, I may not need the doctored pomegranate juice to start
confabulating.

“How far to the plane?” I ask, sounding like someone is beating on my back with their fists.

“Not too far,” Monty says into the rearview mirror. “’Bout an hour and a half if we don’t hit no traffic. You just settle in and enjoy the drive.”

I stare at the wine-red Pom-Licious sloshing about. If Charlie’s plan works, this is going to be one miserable ride.

For me
and
for Hank.

Charlie pokes my shoulder. “Don’t be shy, Daniel.
Confabulation
is all about
projecting
how you’re feeling. If the stale airport air has dried out your vocal cords, perhaps that juice might offer some relief.”

“Perhaps,” I say through gritted teeth. “But really, I have to look after Baby Robbie. I don’t want my neglect score going up. Maybe the
confabulation
can wait until later.”

“Oh my God.” Penelope groans. “Is this the word-of-the-day or something? Might I suggest a discussion, a debate, or a colloquy on the merits of using a freakin’ thesaurus.”

“Let me guess,” Charlie mocks. “
Merriam-Webster’s Intermediate
?”

“I wouldn’t want to tax your limited intelligence,” Penelope says. “Perhaps you could begin with
My First Ladybird.
”

“Anyway,”
Hank says, his face practically squashed against the window. “We don’t have to force anything, Dan. We’ll chat later. When the baby’s asleep.”

Charlie looks over at Barbara. “Oh, I’m certain Mrs. Halpern wouldn’t mind looking after Baby Robbie for a short spell. Would you, Mrs. Halpern?”

“Ms.”
Barbara smiles. “And no, actually, I wouldn’t mind at all. It brings back memories.”

“Are you sure?” I say, hoping she isn’t. “He can be pretty fussy.”

“Not to worry. I have experience with fussy kids.” Barbara leans forward, and as she does, her face contorts. “Wowza. They really go for the realism, don’t they? Smells like someone’s made luckies.” She takes the doll from me and checks its diaper. “Oh. Nope. Clean as Cling Wrap. Huh.” She starts rocking the doll in her arms, a goofy smile on her face. “There really isn’t anything as sweet as a newborn.”

“There,” Charlie says. “All is resolved. Let the
confabulating
begin.”

I glower at him, then turn back around. I open the bottle and raise it to my lips, pausing a second before I take a heavy slug, sucking in my lips as I swallow. Pom-Licious it is
not.
More like Pom-Nasty. It tastes like cranberry juice mixed with grapefruit rind.

I start to cap the bottle, but Charlie does his violent throat-clearing act again.

“I cannot overstate the benefits of complete hydration, Daniel,” he says.

I grimace and stare at the near-full bottle of bitterness. I sigh. Take off the cap again. Drink a bit more. God, it’s so awful. My tongue shrivels up in my mouth like a salted slug. I don’t care what Charlie says; there’s no way I can choke all of this down.

“So, Dan,” Hank says, turning to me, a smile twisted on his face, “what are your plans after high school?” He takes a few quick breaths through his mouth. “You thinking about college at all?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Probably.”

Hank nods. “Great. Any idea”— he coughs, his eyes starting to water —“what you might want to major in?”

“Not sure,” I say. “I guess I could try for —”

“Fine arts,” Charlie interjects from the backseat. “At least, that’s what you told me. Daniel fancies himself quite the
aesthete.
Don’t you, Daniel?”

Yes. Right. Of course.
Aesthete.

“Art, yeah,” I say. “I’d like to go for that but, you know, it’s a pretty competitive field these days. Plus, I don’t even know if I’m any good.”

“Well, your mom certainly thinks you have talent,” Hank offers.

“Yeah, but she has to say that.”

“No, no.” Hank slips a thumb under his chin and crooks a finger below his nose, like he’s pondering this — rather than fending off my ferocious fragrance. “Not necessarily.”

“Yes, necessarily,” I insist. “I love her and everything, but she’ll lie to me if she thinks the truth would hurt my feelings. I don’t want to waste my time if I don’t have a shot.”

“You should show Hank some of your drawings,” Charlie suggests. “Get an objective opinion.” He looks at Hank. “You’ll tell him the truth, right?”

Hank laughs nervously. “Well, I’m no art critic.”

“No,” Charlie says. “But you
are
a doctor. You deal in cold hard facts.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on. Show him. This is the perfect opportunity. This kind of feedback could change the entire course of your life.”

“OK now.” Hank holds up his free, non-nostril-shielding hand. “Let’s not put too much weight on just one opinion.”

“You’ll be truthful?” I ask, bending over and reaching for my bag, grabbing my dummy sketchbook. “You’ll give me your honest opinion? No bullshit?”

“Uhhh, sure.” Hank clears his throat. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what he
needs,
” Charlie says.

“Thanks so much, Hank!” I say, flipping to the first page of my dummy sketchbook. The one that is filled with drawings I did in a single night. Using crayons. In the dark. With my left hand.

Hank takes the pad, looks down at the first picture, and blinks. It’s a particularly terrible scrawl of a stick monkey sitting in a stick tree and eating a stick banana. Think early Picasso.
Extremely
early Picasso. Perhaps his preschool period.