“I’m doing a post-doctoral study on how people relate and interact within intense, enclosed structures,” she told Ripped, “and I was hoping, over the course of your stay here, you’ll allow me to observe and interview you.”
He shrugged. “Do I have a choice? I’m trapped here, you’re trapped.…”
She smiled. She had a very nice smile, he thought. She was a plain-looking girl with long brown hair pulled back in a tail. He couldn’t tell what her body was like because she wore frumpy, baggy sweaters and pants. With some make-up and fashion sense, he decided she could be hot on the outside world. “You do have a choice,” Kate said, “because ethics requires I obtain your consent to be a subject of my study, and you can choose to decline…if you so choose.”
He shrugged. “Why not. All in the name of science, right?”
“Science,” she said distantly; “yes.”
There was a well-stocked library of videos and books. Ripped spent a lot of time in the library. After watching the 213 available movies three times each, he started reading the books. There were 2,417 books, ranging in fiction, poetry, scientific studies, and memoirs. Ripped had never been much of a reader—he was a surfer, after all: waves before books. Now that he had the time, now that he had nothing better to do, he found the act of reading enjoyable. He learned some things.
He started to grow a beard. There was no practical reason to shave and a beard helped keep the face warm. Now he knew why all the other men had thick beards. He had never had a beard before, always kept at least a three-to-five day stubble because the image consultant his manager had hired told him that was sexy, it looked good, that's what the cameras and women wanted to see in a surf hero.
“Cheers and all that,” Ripped said.
“Salut,” said Kate Drew.
They were drinking tequila shots and she was interviewing him for her project. She turned on her minitape recorder. “Third interview with Ripped van Wrinkle, American surf hero, stranded here on Ice Station 33.”
“‘Stranded’ is such a—harsh word,” he said.
“Circumstantial guest?”
“I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking,” he said. He poured them both another tequila shot. “I have been thinking about fate,” he said, “and how there is an order to the universe.”
“You’ve been reading those books.”
“More than the books,” he said. “I’ve been thinking I’m here for a reason, like maybe I’m meant to be here.”
She poured another tequila round.
“Interesting,” she said. “Have you always had this belief or is this something new?”
“Good question. I’m not sure. I think I always have, but I never thought about it. I never, um, put it into words. Like, ever since I was a kid I knew I would be famous somehow. I didn’t know how—actor, politician, surfer. I just knew.”
“Interesting,” she said. “What religious background did you have?”
“My parents were Zen Buddhists.”
“Ah.”
“Hippies.”
“Of course.”
“More?”
He grabbed the tequila bottle.
“Oh,” Kate said, “I’m getting drunk.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
They drank another shot.
“I notice people drink a lot here,” he said.
“It helps,” she said.
“It's a lonely place.”
“No kidding.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did you choose this place for your research?” he asked.
She looked uncomfortable. “I’m the one asking the questions,” she said. Ripped thought he touched something touchy. “I’m the interrogative one,” she said, and she thought that was funny because she let out a small laugh and a small burp “Excuse me,” she said.
“What about sex?” he said.
“What?”
“Do people have sex here?”
“Oh, Rip, I thought you’d never ask!” she cried and jumped into his arms, curling up like a small child, kissing him all over his face.
“Wow,” he said.
She stopped. “Is this okay?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Do you want this?”
“Sure,” he said.
“I’ve been wanting this since the day you got here,” she said.
Then they fucked.
They fucked a lot, hours and hours every day because, like drinking and growing a beard, there wasn’t much else to do. When the others on the station found out, which they did pretty fast, they were jealous at first, and then they didn’t care.
Outside, the night was clear as Siberian grain alcohol and a trillion stars twinkled in the dark sky like a trillion stars twinkling in the night sky. The southern lights—the aurora australis—danced across the heavens like a French ballet company on tour in New Zealand. Inside, our hero had a birthday but he did not tell anyone this because he did not want anyone to know, to make a fuss, and he did not care.
“What do you mean you did that about what you did and all that!” said twenty-eight year old Ripped van Wrinkle as he sat upright in Kate's small bed in her small quarters, waking her up; she was just as started as he about the sudden outburst.
“Hey, what's wrong?” she said.
“What?”
He was disoriented.
“Are you okay? Rip-o?”
Took him a moment to get his bearings. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird dream I guess.”
“Guess so.”
“I’m okay. Let's go back to sleep.”
They snuggled.
“What was that you said?” she asked. “What did that mean?”
“What?”
“What you said.”
“What did I say?”
“You said.”
“It was dream talk,” he said.
“The language is in code, only the subconscious can comprehend,” she said, to herself really.
“What?” he said.
“Never mind,” she said; “give me a kiss, honey.” They snuggled, which lead to making love, and then they went back to sleep.
A month later.
Outside, near the station, a helicopter malfunctioned and crash-landed in the snow. The pilot smashed his head against the windshield, very hard. His helmet was inferior and he cracked open his skull and broke his neck and died on the scene.
There were three passengers: Henri, Axel, and Paul: French-Canadian documentary filmmakers in their mid-30s. They were scouting scenery for their current project, looking for the perfect setting in the Southern night.
The weather was harsh and the situation frightening. The three men wandered in the ice and the winds. They thought for sure they were going to die.
Then they came across the geodome …
“You’re lucky,” said Dr. Mann; “damn lucky.”
“We know, we know,” said Henri.
The doctor was examining the three men in sickbay, making sure they didn’t have frostbite on any parts of their bodies, any signs of ill health.
“You could have died out there, fast,” she said.
“We know, we know,” said Axel.
“The hell you doing way out here anyway?” she asked.
“Documentary,” said Paul.
“On what? Extreme survival?”
“Penguins,” said Henri.
“Penguins? How original.”
“Penguins are very commercial, very hot, very in right now,” said Axel.
“Jump on the bandwagon,” the doctor said.
Ripped and Kate walked in.
“I heard we have visitors,” said Ripped.
“All the way from Canada,” the doctor said.
“I love Montreal!” Kate said.
“I love Canadian bacon on my pizza,” Ripped said.
The three documentary filmmakers looked at each other, then stared at Ripped.
“What?” Ripped sai
d, feeling on the spot.
“Good God, it is you,” said Henri.
“Me?”
“Tu,” said Axel.
“Eh?”
“Ripped van Wrinkle!” said Paul. “The missing world famous surfer!”
“Missing?”
“You did vanish off the face of the earth,” Kate said.
“And wound up here,” Dr. Mann said; “this place is becoming rather popular.”
“You were all over the news,” Paul said, “months ago.”
“The whole world wondered where you were,” Axel said.
“Didn’t know the world cared,” Ripped said.
“Awww, the world wuves you,” said Dr. Mann.
Kate took hold of his arm. “The world can get in line.”
Ripped felt loved and it was a nice, warm, alien feeling.
The three French-Canadians all looked at each other, and then stared at Ripped.
“Thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Axel.
“Oui,” said Henri.
“This is perfect,” said Paul.
“This is destiny,” Paul said.
“Manifest destiny,” Axel said.
“I agree there is some greater meaning, greater plan in the course of events,” Henri said; “there can be no other logical or spiritual explanation.”
Ripped thought these French-Canadian fellows talked the funny talk, especially with their accents, but they seemed to be all right.
He was sitting with the three men in the cafeteria, eating lunch and listening to what they called their “pitch.”
“Fuck penguins,” Henri said.
“Penguins are getting boring, anyway,” Axel said.
“And they stink something bad,” Paul said.
“I like them,” Ripped said; “they saved my life.”
“Ah, yes, I love that angle!” Paul said.
“It is a wonderful angle,” Henri said.
“The perfect angle,” Axel said.
The three nodded in agreement.
“That would be the title,” Henri said: “Saved by Penguins.”
“Or: It's Very Cold Down Here,” Paul said.
“Magnifique!” cried Axel.
“Um,” said Ripped.
“The hell with the penguins, Mr. van Wrinkle,” Henri said; “we want to tell your story. It is a story the whole world will want to see.”
“What story?”
“Of your disappearance,” Paul said.
“How we found you,” Henri said.
“How you got here,” Axel said.
“And your eventual return to civilization,” Henri said.
“It will be like when Hemingway crashed his plane in Africa and was lost, and emerged from the mighty jungle with a bottle of booze in one hand and a bunch of bananas in the other.”
“Hemingway,” Ripped said. “I know that name! I read one of his books in the library. A Farewell to Legs.”
“Arms,” said Axel.
“Legs, arms,” Ripped said with a shrug; “it's all limbs.”
“Of course,” said Henri, “as you need your arms and legs to surf.”
“Um, yeah,” said Ripped.
The three filmmakers looked at each other, and then they stared at the surfer.
“So what do you say?” they asked.
“It's almost like an ethnography of you,” Kate said, as they were in her bed. “Your unique story. You should let them do it.”
“Um.”
“You’ll be famous.”
“I am famous already,” he said; “am I not?”
“I keep forgetting that,” she said, thinking about what that meant.
“My story,” he said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t do it,” she said.
“Make up your mind.”
“Don’t listen to me. It's your life.”
“You’re part of my life now,” he said. “If they make this documentary, you’ll be in it too.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, thinking about what that meant.
“They’re here, I’m here, we’re here,” he said. “What else we gonna do down here?”
“Make a movie,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll get my own star, near Hollywood and Vine,” he said.
Outside, light gradually crept into the night sky like a stalker on the Internet with an old modem and a slow connection.
“What do you mean by that when you said that about what you meant about that!” said Ripped van Wrinkle when he woke up from another crazy dream.
He caught his breath.
“Hate it when that happens,” he said.
He was alone in the bed. Kate was in the bathroom, on the floor, vomiting into the toilet.
“Babe,” he said, “you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, and puked some more.
“What is it? Did you eat something bad?”
“No,” she said. “I seem to be pregnant.”
“You’re what?”
“Knocked up.”
“Say what?”
“Of all the women you’ve had, you never impregnated one?” she asked, and puked.
“No,” he said. No, he never had. He either wore a condom or the women were on the Pill or took the Morning After thing.
“Congrats,” Kate said; “I broke your cherry.”
Ripped smiled. He had always wanted to be a daddy.
Summer arrived like the placenta from a once-pregnant female sea lion—slow, big, and wet. The ice began to melt. More people arrived to the South Pole, and some departed.
Back in the United States, it was a media circus. Missing surfer Ripped van Wrinkle was back from the dead, and on his arm was a pregnant academic he said was going to be his new wife! Supermodel Jolene Nemolavokis (AKA “Captain Nemo”) told the press: “What's the big deal? I showed the press the e-mail he sent me from Antarctica. I told you guys and you didn’t listen. Did you think I made it up? You did! You thought I was lying! I am an honest person! I never lie! The hell with you people!”
Jolene was not happy.
Ripped's friends and family were happy, however, especially his manager, who wanted Ripped to get back in shape and get back on the board. “You got a little soft down there in the snow,” his manager said, pointing out the twenty-five pounds Ripped had gained around his stomach. “Good eating,” Ripped said with a bright smile, “and lots of tequila.”
The cable news and entertainment programs ran numerous clips from the documentary footage that Henri, Axel, and Paul had shot. Most were interviews with Ripped, talking about his past, his life, his childhood, on being a celebrity, being in the South Pole, and being in love.
“My coming here was a blessing,” Ripped said, “and providence. I found love here. I never knew love. I thought I did, but I realized I never did. And now, here among the penguins, I have my cherished one, and I have my child coming … ”
Kate Drew, Ph.D., almost thirty and seven months pregnant, was still getting used to the changes in her life: living with Ripped at his beachfront house in San Diego, dealing with his luminary status, dealing with other women who wanted him, dealing with having a lot of money and no financial worries, dealing with cravings for strange foods and the fetus kicking inside her like a giant butterfly wanting out of a cocoon.
She was home alone the day Jolene Nemolavokis paid a visit.
Kate thought it was Fed-Ex, delivering some books she had ordered from Amazon.com.
At the door stood this very tall, very tanned, very beautiful, very blonde, exotic-looking super model in designer clothes, shoes, and sunglasses.
“May I help you?” Kate asked.
“Is Ripped here?”
“No he's not.”
The woman walked past Kate, letting herself in. “Ripped, yo, Ripped, yo, you around, babycakes?”
“Babycakes,” Kate said under her breath. She knew who this woman was. Ripped had talked about her, and Kate had seen her on the cover of Maxim. “Excuse me, I said he was
not here and I did not invite you inside my home.”
“Invite me in,” said Captain Nemo, rolling her eyes. “Ha. Funny. I used to live here, you know. Sorta. I had a key. I still have a key. I could have just come in.”
“We changed the locks,” Kate lied.
“We?”
“Oui.”
“Look at you, look at your belly,” said Nemo. “How quaint. How middle America. Ripped van Wrinkle, breeder.”
“Can I help you or are you going to insult me and my…?”
Her what? She and Ripped hadn’t gotten married or set a date. Ripped said Nemo was going to get married, too, but it didn’t work out and she was regretting dumping him, especially since he was back home.
“Okay, he's not here,” said Nemo, “where is he?”
“He's in L.A., for an interview.”
“No shit,” said Nemo, “I just drove down from L.A. Perfect.”
“In fact he should be on now… ”
Kate turned on the large-screen plasma TV. Both women sat down in the living room and watched the afternoon talk show that Ripped was a guest on. He looks so handsome, Kate thought, in his tight jeans and white silk shirt.
The talk show host, a well-known former model and actress in her late 50s, handed Ripped a large stuffed penguin when he came onto the set and sat down next to her.
The audience went, “Awwwwwwwwwwwww.”
“You read my brain matter!” he said. “Cool!”
“Does it remind you of the penguins who saved your life?” the host asked, joking.
“I wish I remembered,” he said, serious, very serious, “I wish I could find them and buy them a warm beer and some tasty fish.”
The audience laughed.
“So tell us, Ripped van Wrinkle,” said the host, “is it possible for a womanizing hunk like you to settle down, be monogamous, and become a family man?”
Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories Page 7
