Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

And just like that, the baby sprays a gusher of whiz into Hank’s eyes.

  “Jesus,” Hank splutters, grabbing a Duke of Donuts napkin and swiping at his face.

  Charlie quickly raises his camera and snaps a dozen more shots. “Good thing my Nikon is waterproof.”

  The doll is screaming again, shrieking like we’re stabbing it repeatedly with a butcher knife.

  Another one of Charlie’s hacks: making the cries infinitely louder and more shrill.

  “Hank,” I plead, pointing to my ID bracelet. “We have to get him dry and dressed.”

  “We will, we will. Give me a clean diaper,” he says, blinking wildly as he mops the baby’s nether regions with the doughnut napkin. “Quickly. Before he erupts again.”

  I hand him the disposable diaper that Charlie and I superglued shut. Hank snatches it from me and starts to wrestle with it, trying to pull apart the cemented tabs.

  Baby Robbie lets out a long, hoarse screech that sounds like a Godzilla roar.

  “Goddamn it.” Hank’s face is red, his fingers contorted. “Something’s . . . not . . .” He yanks the diaper hard, tearing the thing in two. “Another one.” He holds out his shaking hand. “Hurry. Before it wakes your —”

  “What’s going on down here?” Mom stands in the doorway, her eyes half shut, her bathrobe clutched around her. “Did we have a baby that nobody told me about?” Her voice is groggy. And more than a little annoyed.

  “It’s OK, hon.” Hank waves the diaper at her. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got it covered.”

  “It’s a school project,” I say. “I have to take care of a Baby-Real-A-Lot doll for a week.”

  “This week?” Mom says. “On your trip?”

  “Believe me,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

  “Hah! Got it!” Hank shouts, flicking the diaper open. He makes fast work of getting the baby swaddled.

  And finally Robbie is silent once more.

  “Well,” Mom rasps. “Good luck with that. I’m going back to bed. Have a safe flight.”

  She starts to go.

  “Sarah, wait,” Hank says. He looks at me, then looks at Mom, who’s turning back toward us.

  “Yes?” Mom says.

  “Uhh, I’m just . . . thinking out loud here, but . . .” Hank looks at me again. “What if . . . what if your mom looked after the baby this week?”

  “Excuse me?” Mom says, her eyes suddenly wide.

  “Yeah, what?” I say. Mom can’t take Baby Robbie. That’ll ruin everything!

  “It is Dan’s birthday present,” Hank explains. “This trip. And I can’t imagine this is what you had in mind when you set it up. So maybe, well, maybe you taking care of the baby could be part of the gift.”

  “I have work, Hank,” Mom states. “I can’t be looking after a toy baby.”

  “It’s just a little feeding.” Hank says. “A little changing.”

  Mom laughs. “Tell that to your sweaty brow.”

  “Well, that’s just because I’ve never done this before,” Hank says. “But you have. And I bet you were great at it!”

  “I don’t know.” Mom looks at me sympathetically. “I suppose I could. Since it is your birthday gift —”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Weekes, but I can’t let you do that,” Charlie interjects, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. “I hate to put a damper on these plans, but, technically, it would be cheating for you to take care of the doll.”

  Hank laughs. “Come on, Charlie. You have to admit that we have extenuating circumstances here.”

  “Yeah, Charlie,” I say. “If Hank’s OK with cheating, then I’m OK with it.”

  “Now, hold on.” Hank raises his hand. “I didn’t say I was OK with cheating.”

  Mom smirks and crosses her arms. “What were you saying, Boogabear?”

  “I was saying . . .” Hank wafts his hand in the air. “That . . . given the situation we’re in . . . and the fact that we were afforded no prior notice of having to look after this baby . . . I think that we have just cause in making other arrangements for . . . little Robbie.”

  I stare at Hank long and hard, well past the point of comfort, trying my best to look like I’m searching my soul. Finally, I shake my head and turn away, like I’m ashamed. “Charlie’s right. I’m supposed to look after this baby. A little help is OK, but the main responsibility has to fall on me, or I won’t be learning anything.” I look at Mom. “I appreciate you considering it, Mom. But I can’t just take the easy way out when things get hard.”

  She smiles at me. “That’s very mature of you, Dan.” She gives Hank the stink eye before heading back upstairs.

  Mature? Right! If she only knew . . .

  I stand with my arms outstretched and my legs splayed as a shark-eyed TSA officer runs his scanner wand up and down my body. I’ve already been through the metal detector four times. Each time the beep went off and the red light flashed. Each time I removed some piece of metal I “forgot” I had on me.

  Keys. Nail clippers. A bottle opener. A piece of hematite that Charlie gave me.

  Charlie and Hank wait off to the side, Hank checking his humongous watch for the umpteenth time. When the TSA dude finally waves me through, I go to grab Baby Robbie and my sling bag from the conveyor belt.

  “May I look in this?” a bushy-browed guard says, gripping my carry-on with his blue-latex-gloved hands.

  I’d been worried that they wouldn’t flag my bag for inspection and that all of our careful planning — and packing — would be for naught. But obviously I worried for nothing.

  “Why?” I ask, cradling the whimpering Baby Robbie.

  “The machine is showing some suspect items inside,” he says.

  “Suspect? Like what?”

  “That’s what I need to identify.” He lifts my bag. “May I?”

  Hank and Charlie approach.

  “What’s going on?” Hank asks.

  “Can you hold Baby Robbie, please?” I say, thrusting the doll into Hank’s arms.

  “Uh . . . sure,” Hank says, reluctantly. “But what’s the holdup?”

  I gesture at the TSA officer. “This guy wants to look in my bag.”

  “Well, let him,” Hank says, holding the baby in one arm and glancing at his watch on the other. “We don’t want to miss our flight.”

  “Yeah, come on, Dan,” Charlie says. “What’s the big deal?”

  “It’s just . . . There’s . . . I don’t . . .” Finally, I sigh. Throw my hands in the air. “Whatever. Fine. Go ahead.”

  The guard unzips my bag, reaches inside, and pulls out a Swiss Army knife.

  “We’re going on a survivalist camping trip for five days,” I say. “That’s gonna come in real handy.”

  Hank winces. “You can’t take that on the plane, Dan.”

  “What? Why?” I say, looking between Hank and the TSA officer.

  “It’s a prohibited item, sir,” the officer explains. “No sharp objects allowed.”

  “But . . . it’s my dad’s,” I lie.

  The officer looks over at Hank, who laughs nervously.

  “His . . . other dad,” Hank says. “I’m the step- . . . or . . . will be . . . soon . . . eventually.”

  The agent puts the knife aside and reaches into my bag again.

  This time he removes a large bottle of Jergens Soothing Aloe hand lotion. Followed by . . . a second large bottle of Jergens Soothing Aloe hand lotion.

  The TSA officer gives me a look.

  I swallow nervously, gesturing at the lotion. “That’s —”

  “An emollient,” Charlie interjects.

  “I have . . . eczema.” I stare at the ground. My insides twisting up.

  “Eczema?” The officer raises his thumb-thick eyebrows as he puts the two full bottles of lotion next to the knife.

  “It’s a skin condition,” Hank says. “I told you to put those in your checked baggage, Dan.”

  Well played, Hank. He’s keeping it surprisingly cool. But I’m struggling to hold up
my end of the performance. My toes curl thinking about what’s coming next.

  The TSA officer says nothing. Just peers back into my bag, then pinches up a giant wad of stuck-together tissues, the crumpled mass doing a little slow-motion pirouette in the air. The officer wrinkles up his nose.

  I wrench a smile onto my face. “Those are . . . my, uh . . .” I sniffle. “I’ve got, you know, bad allergies.”

  The agent drops the clump of tissues onto the metal counter with a muffled thump. He scans the inside of my bag and removes a family-size box of Kleenex Ultra Soft.

  “I like the, uh, the softer ones,” I mumble, my chest tightening up. “They’re gentler on my . . . nose.” Another swallow.

  I glance over at Hank, whose face is bright pink. He’s looking down, acting like he’s tending to the baby’s needs.

  The TSA officer clears his throat.

  I look back at him. Force a laugh.

  “We’re going to have to confiscate the knife,” he says. “And the bottles of lotion. You can keep the box of tissues and”— he looks down at the mass of stuck-together Kleenex —“that. But everything else has to stay here.”

  “What?” I blink. “I get the knife. I wasn’t thinking. But . . .” My head starts to spin. I feel like the whole world is staring at me. “How am I supposed to, you know”— I lower my voice — “moisturize?”

  “I’m very sorry,” the TSA officer says, not sounding sorry at all. “But the bottles far exceed the permitted three-point-four-ounce limit.”

  Just then a no-nonsense female voice comes over the loudspeaker: “This is the preboarding announcement for Alaska Airlines flight number two-four-zero-four to Boise. Those passengers with small children and anyone requiring special assistance should begin boarding at this time through gate twenty-eight. Regular boarding will commence in approximately five minutes.”

  Hank finally looks at me, his face still cherry-pie-filling red. “Come on, Dan. Just leave it. We don’t have time for any more delays.”

  And just like that, Robbie rips a mighty wet rumbler, the entire contents of his belly slopping from his ill-fitting diaper all down the front of Hank’s pants.

  We are running. The three of us. Tearing through the terminal at top speed, dodging suitcase draggers, sunglasses kiosks, shoe-shine stalls, and special-offer credit-card vendors.

  We’ve each got our carry-on bags in tow, and Hank, the front of his pants drenched from the clean-up, has the yowling Baby-Real-A-Lot doll tucked under his arm like a football.

  Once again it took much longer to change Baby Robbie than it should have — thanks in large part to several more doctored diapers. Hank was practically pulling his hair out with frustration as the three of us stood around the changing table in the men’s room, tossing aside diaper after useless diaper, all while Baby Robbie screamed bloody murder and I fretted loudly about the neglect points I was racking up on my ID bracelet. I’ve never seen Hank so close to losing it.

  “This is the last and final boarding call,” a female gate attendant announces, “for Alaska Airlines flight two-four-zero-four to Boise. All passengers should board at gate twenty-eight. Final checks are being completed, and the captain is about to order the doors of the aircraft closed.”

  “Hurry!” Hank shouts, pumping his arms faster. “We miss this flight, we miss the trip.”

  I look down at my ID bracelet strapped below my dad’s old Timex. “You’re shaking Robbie too hard. I’m getting mistreatment points.”

  “Aw, Christ.” Hank takes the baby from under his arm and holds him against his shoulder, like a real baby.

  Baby Robbie immediately stops crying.

  We sprint past gates seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .

  “Jesus,” Hank huffs, his head twisted toward the gate numbers. “It has to be at the end of the terminal, of course.”

  Just then Charlie trips and goes flying, his body and his backpack tumbling over each other like he was thrown from a speeding car.

  I stop. Look back.

  Charlie reaches a hand in the air like he’s drowning. He wheezes, “Go on . . . without me! Don’t miss . . . the plane! I’ll get . . . a taxi home.”

  “Like hell!” I race back to Charlie, grab his outstretched arm, and yank him to his feet. “You’re not bailing on me now.”

  “Stop messing around!” Hank hollers over his shoulder, still trucking it toward the far end of the terminal, the baby jiggling on his shoulder. “Move!”

  “You have . . . the list. And my . . . supplies,” Charlie says. “You don’t . . . need me anymore.”

  “That stuff is useless if I freeze up,” I say. “I need you egging me on. Besides, you owe me, remember?”

  Charlie sighs and hoists his backpack onto his shoulders. “I guess . . . it’s nice to be needed.”

  I stagger off once more, dragging a stumbling Charlie behind me.

  “Wait!” Hank bellows to the Alaska Airlines agent as she’s shutting the doors to gate twenty-eight. “Don’t close that! We’re here. We’re here.” Hank turns and waves Charlie and me forward toward the empty waiting lounge. “Come on, guys.”

  The agent tsks us. “Cutting it pretty close, aren’t we, fellas?” But she pulls the glass door open again, then stands behind the podium to scan our tickets.

  “Thank you . . . so much,” Hank says, trying to catch his breath.

  “Cute . . . doll?” the attendant says, furrowing her brow.

  “Oh.” Hank flushes. “Yeah, it’s, uh, a school project. My stepson’s. Here.” He passes Baby Robbie to me, then pulls our boarding passes from his pocket and hands them to the agent. “Thanks again. We really appreciate it.”

  The agent takes the tickets, scans them, and gives him a twinkling grin. “My pleasure.”

  I guess these are the times when it really helps if you look like a handsome movie star.

  “Holy moly.” Hank huffs and puffs as we head down the Jetway and wipes his sweaty brow. “That was too close for comfort.”

  “Truly,” Charlie says, fastening a surgical mask over his nose and mouth. “Let’s just hope this doesn’t augur a disastrous trip.”

  “What’s with the mask, Charlie?” Hank asks.

  I guffaw. “Yeah, you planning on performing an operation on the flight or something?”

  “How very amusing, Daniel,” Charlie says as we step onto the plane, his voice muffled through the mask. “Airplanes are one of the world’s largest breeding grounds for bacteria and germs. You’re one hundred and thirteen times more likely to catch rhinovirus or influenza during a flight than during your normal daily life.” He tugs a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and snaps them on as we make our way down the aisle. “I’m just taking the proper precautions.”

  I shrug, watching the other passengers stare at him. “I guess if you don’t mind looking like a freak.”

  “Yes, Daniel, I’m the freak.” Charlie shoots me a look over his shoulder. “This from the person cradling a relentlessly defecating toy child. The same individual who tried smuggling a year’s supply of hand lotion onto the plane.”

  “All right, guys,” Hank says. “Enough. How about we just relax and have some peace and quiet for the rest of the flight, hmm?” He rubs his temple. “I could sure use a break.”

  Fat chance of that, buddy. We’re just getting started here.

  We find our seats and strap in. Charlie takes the window so I can sit across the aisle from my future stepdad.

  I settle Baby Robbie in my lap, then take out another bottle filled with chocolate Yo-Gulp and shove it into his mouth. He starts to drain the thing dry almost immediately.

  Meanwhile Charlie is swabbing his video screen, tray table, seat belt, and armrests with a handful of disinfectant wipes. The harsh bleach smell burns my sinuses.

  I cough. “Jesus, Charlie. Really?”

  “You should do the same,” he says. “Sanitizing your surroundings is the first line of defense.”

  I give my seat belt the tug t
est as the plane backs away from the gate. “I’m more worried about falling out of the sky than catching a cold,” I say, loud enough for Hank to hear me.

  “Excuse me?” A female flight attendant with big hair and too much makeup stands over me. “I’m going to have to ask you to put your little dolly either in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you.”

  “Oh,” I say, flushing. “Yeah. This isn’t a doll. It’s a Baby-Real-A-Lot. It’s for school. If I put him under the seat or in the overhead, he’ll start crying.” I hold up my wristband. “And I’ll be docked compassion points.”

  “I see.” She fake-smiles at me, her makeup mask cracking at the corners of her mouth. “Well, then, I’ll have to ask you to hold him like a real baby when we take off, OK? In the burping position, with your hand supporting his head. Would you like me to show you how?”

  I shake my head. “Nah, I got it.”

  Another foundation-fracturing grin. “Excellent.” She pats my shoulder and continues down the aisle.

  I pull the empty bottle from Robbie’s mouth and return it to my bag. Then I turn to Hank. “Can you show me the burping position?”

  Hank’s got a camping magazine open in his lap. He looks over at me. “I thought you told the flight attendant you knew how to do it?”

  “Yeah.” I twist around and look back down the aisle. Then whisper, “But that’s because I was embarrassed.”

  “Well, just turn him around,” Hank says. “So he’s looking over your shoulder. Hold him to your chest. Support his head and bottom with your hands.”

  I furrow my brow. “I don’t get it.” I hold up the baby. “Can you just show me, please?”

  Hank exhales. Shuts his magazine. “Sure.” He reaches out and takes the doll from me. “I’ve never really done it myself. But I’ve seen my sister do it.” Hank turns Baby Robbie toward him and does exactly what he told me to do. “See. No big deal.”

  “Why does she want me to hold him like that?” I ask, stalling for time.

  “I don’t know,” Hank says. “I guess so he doesn’t go flying across plane if we stop suddenly.”

  Baby Robbie starts to whine.

  “Dang it. Again?” I look at my ID bracelet. “Could you pat his back a little? Before my neglect score goes even higher.”