Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

  I press the power button on my ID bracelet. It lights up like a Christmas tree, showing a strong heartbeat, a yellow smiley face, and all my care scores in the green “pampered” zone.

  Incredible.

  I pull the filthy, tattered, and torn sweater from my pocket and put it back on Baby Robbie. My eyes start to well. It’s stupid, I know, but I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life.

  We gather up Clint’s parachute and drag it over to our pile of firewood.

  “All right, we need to make a plan for getting rescued,” Max says, switching into guide mode. “This pile of wood is a good start. Should make a nice signal fire.” He turns to Clint. “Now, who knows where we are?”

  “Besides myself?” Clint asks.

  Max frowns. “Yes. Besides you, who are stuck here with us. Who did you tell?”

  Clint shakes his head. “No one. I mean, the Zosters know we’re out here . . . somewhere. But, as to our exact location . . .” He shrugs.

  Charlie gawps. “Are you telling us that our lives now rest in the hands of those maladroit ignorami?”

  “Ignoramuses,” Penelope corrects. “The word ignoramus is a Latin verb form meaning ‘we do not know’ and therefore has no Latin plural noun form.”

  “Really,” Charlie scoffs. “And yet your own beloved Merriam-Webster lists it as an acceptable plural form of the word.”

  Penelope laughs. “So you admit it, Merriam-Webster is the superior lexicon.”

  “Regardless,” Hank says. “I’m sure once the ignoram — Zosters show up at Clint’s place and realize we haven’t returned, they’ll send someone to find us.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Max runs his hand through his hair. “The Zosters are not the most trustworthy people on the planet. Or the most intelligent, for that matter. There’s a good chance they’ll convince themselves that they just missed us, or that we found our own way back — if only to avoid getting mixed up in a messy situation. And possibly to get out of paying me.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe anyone would do such a thing,” Barbara says.

  “I’m glad you have such faith in humanity, hun-bun,” Max says. “I, however, have had dealings with these . . . ignoramuses and am not so optimistic.”

  “My mom will call the police,” I say, cradling Baby Robbie, “if we don’t show up.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Max says, “but with two-point-three-six-seven million acres to search, it’s going to take some time before anyone finds us.”

  “What do you suggest, then?” Hank asks.

  Max sighs. “We have to be prepared to be here for the long haul. Days, at least. Possibly weeks. Let’s start with the basics: shelter, fire, water, food. Who wants to do what?”

  I’m on shelter duty with Clint. We have been informed by Barefoot McWrinklenuts that the shelter must be large enough to house all seven of us because “this is the most efficient use of our time, energy, and supplies” and because of “collective body heat” and whatnot.

  This has turned out to be a colossal pain in the ass. The structure keeps collapsing, despite the fact that we’ve been following Max’s detailed sand drawing to the letter — well, until Clint stepped on it and left a size-eleven footprint in the middle of the schematic.

  I am tired. I want to quit. But I chose this task. It was the lesser of four evils — or at least, that’s what I thought at the time.

  I could have teamed up with Max and Barbara, who were headed out to scavenge for edible plants together. But I really don’t want to spend too much time in their company; Barbara keeps “sneakily” pinching Max’s butt, which only serves to sear the disturbing images of them deeper into my mind.

  I could’ve helped Penelope and Charlie to get the signal fire lit. Except that they’re all shoulder bumps and Shakespeare insults and etymology jokes now, which makes me feel like a vestigial organ.

  Or I could have gone fishing with Hank.

  “Come on,” he’d said shyly. “I’ll show you how it’s done. It’s the one thing my father actually taught me.”

  But I’d told him “No, thanks.” I didn’t give him an explanation — just turned away and sidled up next to Clint, gave him a high five like we were best buds, thanked him again for saving Baby Robbie, and asked him how he wanted to divvy up the hut-building tasks.

  I could tell I hurt Hank’s feelings. I didn’t really care at the time. But I feel sort of bad about it now — and not only because I’m exhausted and sweaty and hate what I’m doing at the moment. It’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I keep glancing over at him, knee-deep in the lake — casting the fishing line he prepared from vines, gripping the pole he fashioned from a live branch, jiggling the hook and lure he made from one of Barbara’s earrings.

  He’s trying so hard.

  Has been trying so hard all along.

  With everything.

  Yeah, he lied to me. And he lied to Mom too. And that sucks. But he didn’t really mean it. He didn’t set out to deceive us — not like Dad, who’d disappear on payday, stay out all night, and come home the next morning smelling like a recycling bin and saying he had to work late. And not like most of Mom’s other boyfriends, who lied in order to get something from us, from her: money, a place to crash, free booze, and pay-per-view porn . . .

  And it’s not like I’ve been so truthful with him. I mean, I concocted a whole list of lies to tell and pranks to pull, for Chrissakes. And Hank put up with it all. If I’d been in his shoes, I would’ve taken off after the tiny-testicle talk at the hockey game.

  But he didn’t leave then, and he didn’t leave after I puked in his lap and farted up the hut and shot him in the leg with a frickin’ arrow.

  Though Charlie’s right: he probably will leave now.

  “Hey, fella,” Clint says, breaking my trance. “This shelter ain’t gonna build itself.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry,” I say, picking up a branch. I arrange it on the support pole, then glance back over my shoulder at Hank. He’s still standing there, waggling the fishing line, his cheeks red with sunburn, his expression full of hope.

  Just then Hank’s hands jerk forward, his pole bending. He’s got something! A monster one, from the looks of it.

  I turn around and watch as he peels his shirt off, then slowly pulls the line in — gingerly, cautiously . . .

  He leans forward, the pole in his left hand, his shirt in his right.

  Suddenly, he lunges down, water splashing everywhere, and scoops up a huge fish. Its long, thick body thrashes inside the cloth.

  Hank grins hugely. He turns toward shore and sees me watching him. He holds the fish over his head like a trophy and does a little triumphant dance.

  I smile and give him a thumbs-up. Oddly, I feel tears pooling in my eyes.

  And that’s when it hits me.

  Hard.

  In the gut:

  I like Hank.

  And I’m going to miss him.

  The fish tastes good, but I don’t say anything. I just choke it down with my emotions and the bitter greens that Max and Barbara have gathered. Baby Robbie provides a nice distraction, grasping my index finger with his powerful grip and cooing things like “I wuv you” and “Wanna play?” and “Let’s be friends to the end.”

  I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to explain Robbie’s newfound dexterity and elocution to Ms. Drizzler, but I’m going to have to come up with something before we get home.

  If we get home.

  I take another bite of food and glance down at my sketchbook on the ground, then at the fire, at the lake, everywhere but at Hank. I can’t look at him. I feel so rotten. How ridiculous is it that I was so worried about him abandoning us that I did everything to push him away — and now I’m all torn up to be losing him?

  “This is really something,” Clint says, laughing, flecks of salmon flying from his mouth and getting stuck in his beard. “I never eat this well at home! Only fish I e
ver consume comes in a can with a cartoon fish named Charlie on the label. Ha-ha.” Clint swats Charlie’s leg. “You think that’s where your ma got your name from?”

  “I cannot think of anything less likely,” Charlie states. “And, just for your information, canned tuna is a Clostridium botulinum disaster waiting to happen.”

  “Not to mention,” Penelope adds, “the increased risk of methylmercury poisoning.”

  “Which”— Charlie gestures with a piece of salmon —“now that I think about it, would actually explain quite a few things about you, Clint.”

  Clint’s brow furrows. “I don’t follow.”

  “Exactly,” Penelope and Charlie say in unison. They fold over and crack up.

  I hug Baby Robbie closer.

  “Owie!” it mewls.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, relaxing my hold. Great, not even Baby Robbie wants anything to do with me.

  “All right,” Max says. “I think we should discuss what the next few days are going to look like in terms of setting ourselves up for a rescue.”

  “No!” Charlie suddenly jumps to his feet and scurries backward.

  Max narrows his eyes. “What do you mean, no? It’s imperative —”

  “N-n-not a-g-g-gain!” Charlie stammers.

  “What?” Hank asks. “What is it?”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . !” Charlie splutters, pointing down the beach.

  Six heads turn to follow Charlie’s finger.

  Oh my God.

  It’s a bear.

  Our bear. Scarface.

  How is that possible?

  I get to my feet, clutching Baby Robbie tighter than I’m sure he’d like, and join Charlie in backing away.

  The bear casually strolls along the shore toward us — like it’s been invited for dinner and has brought only its appetite.

  “Must have been attracted by the fish smell,” Clint says, remaining seated. “Stay cool. It’s just curious. Don’t blame the critter, tasty food like this. But it won’t approach. There’s too many of us.”

  But the bear is approaching. And continues to. Steadily. Confidently.

  There is something bone-chilling about the animal’s calm, as though it has all the time in the world to reach us, like it knows that eventually it will eat each and every one of us.

  Some of us today.

  Some of us tomorrow.

  But eventually it will get us all.

  “Owie!” says Baby Robbie.

  Oh, honey — you have no idea.

  Penelope, Hank, Barbara, and Max all stand up slowly and start stepping away.

  Clint laughs and shakes his head. “Just ignore it. You know that, Max. It’s Wilderness 101: Wild animals are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

  How many times have I heard that on this stupid trip?

  “That bear’s attacked us before,” Barbara croaks.

  “Multiple times,” Charlie adds.

  Clint looks over at us, still chewing. “That so? Well, you must have done something to provoke it: Left food out? Maybe tinkled near your camp?” Clint stands up with his bark plate and wipes a hand on his jeans. “Black bears don’t just come after people for no good reason.”

  Suddenly, I remember the doe pee. I lift my shirt to sniff it. Is it possible my clothes retained some of the essence of it, even after being rinsed in the stream and soaked by the rain? It was pretty potent. And Charlie did douse me with it. Maybe Clint is right — maybe the bear isn’t interested in us, just the doe in heat it thinks is nearby.

  I quickly nestle Baby Robbie in the sand and start shucking off my clothes.

  “Dan, what are you doing?” Hank asks, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have. But I’m not going to risk being the reason that any of us gets eaten by this bear.

  “It’s me!” I shout, standing in my smiley-face boxers, clutching my clothes in my fist. “The bear wants me!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?!” Hank cries.

  Before anyone can stop me, I hurl my T-shirt and sweats onto the fire, sending a spray of sparks everywhere.

  “Hey, now!” Clint says, jumping back, his plate of salmon dropping to the ground. “What’s the big idea?”

  “M-my clothes,” I say, shivering from equal parts fear and cold. “I think . . . I think there was something on them that was attracting the bear. That’s why it’s been after us.”

  My gaze shoots to the bear, a football field away. It’s still eyeing us but has stopped moving, probably wary of the fire’s leaping flames.

  “On your clothes?” Hank furrows his brow. “What’s on your clothes?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie blurts, glaring at me. “Dan’s just hysterical because of the reappearance of the bear.”

  “It’s pee,” I say. “All over my clothes. In my hair. In my mouth.”

  “Urine could certainly attract an animal,” Max says. “But how —?”

  “It was Charlie,” I say.

  “Charlie peed on you?” Hank asks.

  “He sprayed me with doe-in-heat urine,” I confess, my heart thumping hard. “I was supposed to be attacked by a buck, not a bear!”

  “I don’t understand.” Hank shakes his head. “Why would you want to be attacked by a buck?”

  “Clearly he would not,” Charlie says. “This is obviously a desperate ploy to get your attention, Hank. I did tell you he was feeling rejected by you.” He turns and stares hellfire at me. “I think we can now abandon this line of discussion.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I can’t. No more code words. No more pranks.” I look at Hank. “It was all part of our plan to scare you away.” The words come out in a torrent, like water rushing through a broken dam: “The deer pee, the vomiting, the diarrhea, dropping your phone, losing my doll, breaking my nose. All those supposed ‘accidents’ weren’t accidents at all.”

  Hank’s gaze drifts down to his bandaged calf.

  “Except that,” I insist. “That was a real accident.”

  “But . . . why?” Hank asks.

  “I wanted to get you to take off before you hurt Mom. And me. I didn’t want you to get married and then break our hearts. And I didn’t want to move and leave my school and my best friend and the girl I’ve been in love with since third grade.”

  “Wow,” Penelope says. “How sublimely Tom Ripley of you. Have his tactics succeeded, Hank? I ask for personal reasons.” She looks sideways at her mom and Max.

  But Hank doesn’t seem to have heard her. “I don’t know what to say, Dan,” he croaks.

  I shake my head. “I know. I’m so sorry. I lied even worse than you. I wish I could take it all back. It’s horrible. And I certainly never meant for us to get attacked by a ravenous killing machine.”

  “Ah, pshaw!” Clint says, breaking the mood and grabbing a nearby stick. “You all are talking about this bear like it’s some kind of psychopath or something. It’s just a dumb animal.” He marches past us toward the bear, swinging the stick in the air. “Yah! Yah! Scat! Get outta here! You can’t have my supper, big boy. Go on, git!”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Hank says.

  “’Course you wouldn’t,” Clint calls back, continuing to walk forward calmly, waving the stick around. “And that’s why the animal has had the upper hand to this point. It’s like a puppy: it’ll chase you if you want to be chased.”

  The six of us stand stock-still as we watch the bear and Clint approach each other like two gunmen meeting at high noon for a shoot-out.

  “Oh, Christ,” Max mutters.

  I cringe and hold my breath.

  The bear stops first. It lowers its head and slaps at the ground, then snaps its teeth and lets out a series of loud snorts.

  Clint keeps striding forward, saying nothing, staring the beast down.

  Barbara’s taken to intoning positive thoughts, like she did when our plane nearly went down: “Love, peace, charity,” she chants. “Calm, restful waves of energy.”

  C
lint plants the stick right in front of the bear and puffs up his chest. He juts his chin forward and growls at the animal.

  The bear blinks and takes a step back.

  “Oh my God,” Hank says. “It’s working.”

  “Of course,” Barbara says, her eyes still shut. “The human capacity for love knows no limits. Keep sending compassion and goodwill their way! Warm, wonderful light. Peace and love.”

  “Get the fuck out of here, you stupid lummox!” Clint bellows, grabbing his stick and leaping forward. “I’ll shove this branch so far up your ass, you’ll never be able to walk on all fours again!” He shows his teeth and growls some more.

  Barbara’s eyes pop open. “Well, that’s certainly not how I would have gone about things!”

  But the bear takes another step back.

  Clint raises the stick and brandishes it in front of the bear’s face.

  “I suppose his approach is working too,” Barbara acknowledges grudgingly. “Still, it can be dangerous to fight fire with fire. Love is really the best means of battling aggression.”

  Clint waves his weapon back and forth, hopping forward and shouting, “Hah! Hah! Git! Git!”

  The bear lowers its head like a submissive dog.

  I stare. “I can’t believe —”

  Then, all of a sudden, the bear lashes out with its giant paw, smacking the stick right out of Clint’s hand.

  “Oh shit!” I say.

  For an incredibly tense millisecond nothing happens.

  Then —

  “Run!” Clint screams. “Get in the water! Hurry! Bears can swim, but they ain’t that fast.” He tears toward the lake, splashes in, and starts to paddle like a maniac.

  The bear charges. But not after Clint.

  Instead, it comes straight for us.

  Max grabs Barbara’s and Penelope’s hands and yanks them toward the water.

  Charlie stumbles backward, panic in his eyes.

  “On my back!” Hank shouts, squatting in front of Charlie.

  Charlie doesn’t hesitate. He leaps up, his legs wrapping around Hank’s waist, his one good arm hugging Hank’s shoulder.

  “Dan, in the water now!” Hank orders, piggybacking Charlie toward the lake.