by Don Calame
“Ooof !” Hank folds over and hacks.
“Oh, God,” I say. “Sorry-sorry-sorry. Are you OK?”
I lean over to help, planting my polluted underarm in his face.
“I’m fine,” Hank rasps. “Please. Just . . .” He staggers backward. “I think we . . . should stop.”
“I can do better,” I say, taking a step toward him. “I just need to practice.”
Hank holds up his hand to ward me off. “It’s not your dancing.” His whole body shudders. “Listen to me. I don’t . . . I don’t mean to offend you or . . . insult you in any way, but . . . we seriously need to talk about your . . . your body odor.”
“Uh-oh,” a girl’s voice says from behind me. “Is someone suffering a bout of apocrine bromhidrosis?”
I whip around and come face-to-face with one of the cutest girls I’ve ever seen in my life. She’s got geek-chic black specs, has a blunt-cut hairdo, and is wearing a skintight Himura Kenshin T-shirt.
It’s as if someone plucked the perfect girl from my mind and plopped her down in front of me. The kind of girl you dream about running into at Comic-Con.
The kind of girl who makes glasses look hot.
The kind of girl who will talk to you for hours about Hayao Miyazaki’s films, and Fullmetal Alchemist, and the influence that medieval history has on Game of Thrones.
And I have just made the world’s worst first impression on her.
“If I were you,” the girl says, arching a heavy brow, “I’d be less worried about your disagreeable pong and more concerned with those two left feet of yours.” She nods at Baby Robbie on the bench. “Nice doll, by the way.”
“It’s not a doll,” I explain, blushing as badly as if she’d caught me looking at porn. “It’s a Baby-Real-A-Lot.”
The girl looks me up and down. “Smelly, clumsy, and puerile. Now there’s a winning trifecta.”
A short, stocky woman with stringy bottle-blond hair and the face of a bull terrier clomps into the baggage claim area. She’s wearing a bulging backpack like a turtle shell and is hugging another giant bag in her arms. “Please forgive my daughter. Besides being lazy”— the woman drops the bag to the ground for emphasis —“Penelope has a unique affliction whereby she is unable to filter her thoughts before they reach her mouth.”
“Ah, yes,” Charlie says. “An acute lack of discretion, the absence of social skills, and the use of an inflated vocabulary. Medically, I believe that’s known as Asperger’s.”
“Oh,” the woman says, smiling. “So you have that condition too.”
“I don’t have Asperger’s, Mother,” Penelope snaps, then turns on Charlie. “And neither does this ass burger.”
Charlie smirks. “How exceptionally witty of you. Perhaps you can take your insolence and your homonym-heavy humor to another part of the airport.”
“Homophone-heavy,” Penelope says, crossing her arms. “A homonym is a word that’s both pronounced and spelled like another but has a different meaning.”
Charlie laughs. “I suppose you know better than the OED, which clearly states that a homonym can be either a homophone or a homograph.” He cocks his head defiantly.
Penelope sneers disgustedly. “Seriously? The Oxford English? You’re not actually referencing that overblown, outdated abortion, are you? Not when the unabridged Merriam-Webster is the most respected American English dictionary in the country.”
Charlie cough-mutters, “Xenophobe.”
Penelope’s mother marches toward Hank and shoots out her thick, callused hand. “Barbara Halpern. So very, very nice to meet you.” She smiles and bats her false eyelashes.
Hank shakes Barbara’s hand. “Nice to meet you too. I’m Hank.” He nods in our direction. “This is Dan and Charlie.”
“Lovely,” Barbara says, waving at us. “And, of course, you’ve already met my highly opinionated daughter, Penelope.” She gestures to Penelope, who merely grunts and rolls her eyes.
“Wonderful to make your acquaintance,” Hank offers.
“Speak for yourself,” Charlie grumbles, snatching a magazine from his bag and snapping it open.
“So.” Barbara claps her hands together. “Which way to the Adventure Van?”
“I’m sorry?” Hank says, raising his eyebrows.
Barbara points a stubby finger at us. “My Woodland Trek Adventures, right?”
“Uhh, yeah,” Hank says. “That’s . . . who we’re waiting for.”
“Oooooh.” Barbara smiles at Hank. “My apologies. Between the backpacks and your rugged, outdoorsy look, I thought you were My Woodland Trek Adventures. But I guess we’re going to be travel companions instead. Even better! Five days alone together in the Frank Church wilderness . . .” She turns to Penelope. “And you said there wouldn’t be anyone your age going on this trip. Exciting, huh?”
“I’m bursting with jubilation,” Penelope says. She drags her backpack over to an adjacent bench, unzips the top, and tugs out a dog-eared copy of Infinite Jest.
“Holy cannelloni,” Barbara says. “You brought that behemoth with you? No wonder your bag’s so stinkin’ heavy.”
Penelope sighs, ignoring her mother.
I watch her as she leans back and cracks open her gigantic book, wondering if my life has taken an incredibly lucky turn — or if my plans for scaring away Hank have just been spectacularly shat upon.
Over the next half hour, the five of us — six, counting Baby Robbie — sit in baggage claim and continue to wait.
And wait. And wait. And wait.
I use the excuse of needing to pacify Baby Robbie to stand well away from Penelope, so as not to assault her pert little nose with my moldering odor. It’s also the perfect opportunity to devour all of the snacks I bought at the newsstand well away from any curious eyes.
Meanwhile, Charlie and Penelope continue to read as a way of violently ignoring each other. And Hank gets his ear chewed off by Barbara, who sounds like she’s training for the Ironman World Championship: apparently she bikes thirty miles a day, has hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, has kayaked the Outer Hebrides, and has climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. I’m out of breath just listening to her:
“. . . and the views, oh-my-God!” Barbara says. “The mountains. The clouds. The colors. It was like I was standing in heaven. Seriously. I could have died right then and there and been, like, ‘Thank you, world! Good night and good-bye!’ I mean, you could see forever. Literally, forever. I mean, look at that.” She turns her phone toward Hank, then toward me, then toward Charlie, who doesn’t look up from his magazine. “Is that something or is that something?” She stares at her own picture, looking wistful. “Gorgeous. Best time of my life. Well, unless you count the time Pen and I ran the rapids at Cataract Canyon.” She twists around to look at her daughter. “Wasn’t that a hoot and a half, Pen?”
Penelope doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even blink.
Barbara turns back. “Definitely a hoot and a half. Talk about an adrenaline rush. And the endorphins! Better than sex. Literally. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Hank.” Barbara slaps Hank’s thigh, causing him to levitate. “But this was something else, let me tell you. The rapids, they run for fifteen miles at least. And fast. Yowza wowza! This is not like some amusement park ride, Hank. ‘You may get wet?’ Uhhhh, no.” She howls. “You will get drenched. I was soaked to the bone. Literally. To. The. Bone.” Barbara whoops and slaps Hank’s thigh again, though this time he merely flinches. “This was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. You have to use every single one of your muscles just to keep your balance and stay inside: your biceps, your quads, your traps, your glutes. It was seriously strenuous. And talk about sore. Woooosh! I’m telling you. I could have used some firm hands and a deep, penetrating massage that night.”
“Jesus, Mom, really?” Penelope snaps.
“Oh,” Barbara says. “Look who’s awoken from the dead and decided to join the conversation.”
Hank uses this break to leap from the bench.
“I t
hink I’m going to, uh”— he reaches for his belt and unholsters his cherished phablet —“try giving the agents another call.” Hank dials, puts the phone to his ear, and forces a smile. “It’s ringing.” A moment later he frowns. “Voice mail. Again.” He leaves a rambling message, then clicks off his phone. “Right. So, hopefully they’re checking their messages.”
Barbara laughs. “No hurry, right? The wilderness isn’t going anywhere. Come on. Sit.” She pats the bench beside her. “We can use this time to get to know each other before the big expedition. Have you done a lot of camping?”
“Hank’s a big-game hunter,” I say, feeding Barbara’s growing interest in Hank. “He’s like a mountain man.”
“Oh, really?” Barbara smiles. “That’s fascinating. Do tell.”
“Yeah, um, maybe . . . later,” Hank hedges. He waves his phone. “I’m just going to give my fiancée a ring. Tell her about the delay.”
“Oh.” Barbara’s shoulders slump. “Fiancée. How . . . nice.”
“She’s Dan’s mom,” Hank says, as though he feels he needs to explain himself.
Barbara turns and glares at me, like it’s my fault Hank is marrying my mother. If only I could tell her that I’m as opposed to the union as she is.
Soon enough, though, she’s back to smiling. “So, is this like a bachelor party sort of thing? Sowing a few final wild oats before you tie the noose — knot?”
“Actually,” Hank says, “this trip is something we’re doing for —”
Just then the skinniest man and woman in the world burst through the doors, careening around, whipping their heads this way and that, looking everywhere but at us.
The man is sporting torn, mud-stained jeans and a see-through orange rain poncho with the hood down. His straggly ponytail is sopping wet. He looks like a drowned chipmunk.
The womanlike creature beside him is missing several of her front teeth, as well as a good deal of her hair. She’s draped in a patched-up green rain slicker and wears a pair of too-large, ragged sneakers.
If you looked quickly, you might mistake her for a very large, very weary vulture.
I instantly know these are our greeters. Even though they bear absolutely no resemblance to the pretty people on their website.
Here are the folks who will be escorting us to the lake, where we will either find a bush plane and a pilot, or a hell cabin where we will be systematically murdered, chainsawed, and served as slop to these maniacs’ pet pigs.
“Oh my God,” the man-rodent rasps when he finally notices us. “Please tell me you are the My Woodland Trek Adventures guests.” He hawks up something thick and phlegmy, then swallows it, his giant, pointy Adam’s apple bobbing.
“We are indeed.” Hank holds out his hand. “Hank Langston.”
“Monty Zoster,” the man says, pumping Hank’s hand. “Thrilled to meet you.”
Charlie has his camera out and is shooting pictures like he’s capturing shots of wildlife.
“Barbara Halpern,” Barbara says. She shakes Monty’s hand and nods toward Penelope, who still hasn’t budged. “And my daughter, Penelope.”
“Awesome,” Monty says. “I’m so glad you made it. That you’re here. And everything.”
The bug-eyed lady standing next to him clears her throat loudly.
“Oh. Yes.” Monty indicates the woman at his side. “This here’s my wife, Fay. We are My Woodland Trek Adventures. The two of us.” He gestures at himself and the bird-lady. “CEO and COO.”
Fay flashes a witchy grin and extends her bony hand. “Pleased to meet you folks.” She speaks with a slight lisp, her voice cigarette-and-whiskey gruff. Like Tom Waits wearing a retainer.
Hank takes Fay’s hand, then gestures toward Charlie and me. “This is Dan. And Charlie.”
“Ah, yes, the birthday boy and his friend,” Fay croaks.
As I shake Fay’s and Monty’s cold and clammy claws, both of them wrinkle up their noses and step away from me.
“Whoa!” Monty coughs and blinks his eyes like he’s been skunk-squirted. “OK, then.”
Fay makes a move toward Charlie, but he holds his hands up like he’s being arrested. “Sorry. I don’t shake. Eighty percent of all germs are transmitted by the hands. Kissing is actually more hygienic. It’s nothing personal.”
“Why don’t you kiss them, then?” Penelope says, stuffing her book into her backpack. “If it’s really nothing personal.”
Charlie shoots her a look. “I simply stated that kissing is more hygienic than a handshake. I never said it wasn’t a perfectly outstanding vehicle for the transmission of disease.”
Monty laughs. “I see. You’re one of those germinators. I seen a lady like you on the TLC once. Took twenty showers a day. Opened doors with her feet. Nutty stuff, that.” He knits his brow. “You do know you’re about to go on a wilderness excursion, right? Lots of dirty dirt out there.”
“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 whi
ch 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?”
