Ray Vs the Meaning of Life

by Michael F Stewart

  There’s a knock at the door. Uncle Jamie.

  “Wanted to say good morning to Ma,” he says.

  For a second I don’t know what he means and then the air from outside hits me, the pine and crisp freshness of late spring, and it’s sweet. The door slams shut and the air in here turns not-so-sweet once more.

  Uncle Jamie steps into the trailer. Grandma’s arms lowered over the course of the night, and she no longer looks as though she’s ready to pop out of bed. But the rest of her hasn’t improved any.

  “Uncle, what’s the meaning of life?”

  He pauses. “This about the will?”

  “Well, yes, mostly. It is, but . . . why am I here?”

  “I can answer that one. Your mom went and met a man who—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “What do you think the meaning of life is?”

  “Honestly?” Uncle Jamie sags a bit. “To not leave much of a mark. I mean there’s only so much of everything. Who am I to take it?”

  “So, no meaning.” His response is actually sadder than that. It’s like he feels he’s a tax on the planet and it would be better off without him. “Why the fireworks then? They’re not really good for the environment or anything.”

  He flushes and waves me off. “Need a job, don’ I?”

  I’ve never seen him sell any of his fireworks. There’s more to it than that. “You could do a different job.”

  “Closest thing I can get to magic . . .” He’s gone totally red. “Don’t want another job because this one’s the closest thing I can get to magic.”

  I’m about to ask him what he means, but his eyes have settled on Grandma. He’s not ready to let her go.

  Back at the screen I read a few quotes. Arnold Schwarzenegger says the meaning of life’s to move ahead, to achieve, to go up. To conquer. Uh, conquer what? Life?

  The meaning of life is to give life meaning. What the . . . ?

  These people are crazy; why do I even bother? Crystal was right. After surfing some jobs in town, I bring up the game, Arcane Dynasty, and start casting fireballs at dragon hybrids. My speakers blare with lightning bolts and clashing swords. Uncle Jamie shouts for me to shut it down. I mute the volume and then fumble for my headset. Dragon spawn are everywhere, and I’d forgotten how far I’d gotten before succumbing last time.

  I’m playing for Grandma. This morning I will level up.

  Plugged in, I don’t even notice my uncle leave, but the sweet outdoors washes over me before I’m back in rank dead Grandma and congealing Kraft Dinner stink.

  Chapter 9

  I’m opening the pool because that’s probably the meaning of life. Next I’ll flip meaningful burgers. Today’s a big day for the park—you could say it’s its meaning of life. The first official day that we’re open for the summer. Crystal’s burnishing toilet seats. I don’t want my mom bugging me about smoothing the road ruts, which has to be one of the worst jobs ever now that Grandma doesn’t need me to hold her wood. Road ruts and the pool, those were the chores I said I’d keep doing for as long as I stuck around. Crystal and Mom do everything else: all the bills, reservations, cleaning trailers, emptying trash, washrooms, showers, and, with Grandma dead, they’ll have to cut the wood too.

  Despite the importance of the day and the pickups with trailers winding their way up Sunny Days’ drive, my mom’s spending the morning clearing out Grandma’s trailer with Uncle Jamie. I hear her crying sometimes, and I wonder how that’s possible. For the last three years she’s only scowled at me. Never even reminded me to eat my fruits and vegetables. I only started eating lettuce and tomatoes on burgers after Doc diagnosed my bleeding gums as a vitamin deficiency. Who gets scurvy?

  As I skim leaves off the top of the rubber pool cover, Deneze—pronounced Den-knee-ze, one of the guys from the garbage truck—comes up to the pool fence.

  “Sorry about the old lady, huh,” Deneze says. “Wanted to stop by to see everyone’s okay.” A shock of black hair hangs down his back, his face stoic with pronounced smile lines despite his being only a few years older than me.

  “Thanks, Deneze, wasn’t your fault. Bear got her.”

  “Weird, huh? Bears are known in my tribe to have powerful wisdom. Sometimes we consider them elders.”

  I pause mid-skim. My grandma wouldn’t be happy to know she was killed by a reborn First Nations elder from the neighboring reservation. But maybe there was a reason for it all. I mean, if I believe we have a purpose, then maybe the whole fireball/squirrel/dream catcher/bear thing had meaning too. “What’s the meaning of life for you?” I ask.

  He bursts out laughing. “Garbage collecting, obviously.”

  “Seriously.” I pause.

  Both of us stop to listen to the honks of irritated drivers trying to reverse into tight slabs.

  “I don’t know,” Deneze replies, “but if I ask an elder they’ll probably send me on a vision quest.” He’s laughing again, but he didn’t answer my question, and I have only twenty-nine days.

  “A vision quest’s a bad thing? I’ve heard about them on, you know, on television and in books. But how do I take a vision quest?”

  For a moment he hesitates, as if caught out. Even looks angry for a second, but I’ve known Deneze ever since his father started letting him ride the backs of the trucks a decade ago. “I dunno actually, I never did one, but my dad did. Said he went into the woods and lived there until he had a vision and the vision gave him his totem and what he was supposed to do.”

  “Whoa.” That sounds pretty easy actually. “So what did he do?”

  Deneze shrugs. “Started a paving company.”

  It seems weird that an owl or coyote or something would appear to a human and suggest that what they really need are more roads and parking lots; still, a vision quest seems better than what I found on the Internet.

  “Can I go on a vision quest?” I ask.

  “Don’t white people have their own version?” he snaps.

  “Sorry. I know it’s kinda racist, assuming First Nations to be mystical and all, but you do seem more . . . I don’t know. White people have to wait until half their life’s gone before they sort it out.”

  Deneze shrugs. “Okay, well, anyone can go on a vision quest, but there’s a lot of preparation.”

  “I was thinking about climbing the Big this summer. How does your quest work?”

  “Well, first you have to fast for four days.” A dragonfly hovers over the pool and draws Deneze’s gaze.

  “Fast, like not eat much?” Half my attention’s on the pool and avoiding the block of ice filling it, the other half on the conversation.

  “Fast—meaning don’t eat at all. Nothing but a little water.”

  I dump a scoop of leaves on the poolside. “For four days? You guys are crazy.”

  “And climbing a mountain’s smarter? At least I know how to not eat.”

  “I can climb. I’ve been watching YouTube videos.”

  Deneze laughs. “What’s the meaning of life for white people then?”

  I shake my head. It’s actually pretty obvious what most people think. “Make lots of money. Get famous.” That’s pretty much my plan, isn’t it? To become a gamer extraordinaire.

  “My father’s the richest in the tribe, owns the garbage company now, too.” This seems to sadden him for some reason. “He nailed it.”

  “So you’re set then,” I say.

  He flushes crimson. “So are you, I hear—old lady left you everything.”

  “Yeah, just need to tell the lawyer the meaning of life.”

  “Oh.”

  We both fall silent, watching the dragonfly hover amid the bangs and shouts of opening day.

  “Don’t think ‘make lots of money’ will be the answer, do you?” Deneze asks.

  “Nope.” I sigh because deep down something tells me gaming isn’t going to be it, either. I go back to skimming, shooing the dragonfly over the fence and back into the forest.

  “Let me know when you have
the answer,” Deneze says. “Maybe the mountain will share it. But no one can take a pee for you.” The son of the richest man in the area disappears back toward a gate plugged with RVs. After a minute his ATV rumbles to life.

  I scrape at leaves half-stuck in the ice and know I’ll never get them all . . . and that the ice will just melt and scatter more leaves into the pool.

  The whole thing seems so pointless.

  Chapter 10

  Maybe Tina or Salminder know the meaning of life. Salminder’s really religious—he’ll have stuff figured out. I’d gone looking for him earlier, but no one answered when I knocked on his trailer.

  Campfire smoke infuses the air as campers settle into their new homes for the next couple months. As if on cue, mosquitoes have descended. It’s like they were breeding their army, like Sauron his legions of orcs, off in the oily swamp that runs from the edge of camp to beneath Big Mountain. In its stagnant waters, the mosquitoes congregated, sharing food, sharpening their needle mouths, teaching the youngsters swarming techniques, where the sweetest blood is and the myth of how, every year at this time, a feast is prepared for them at Sunny Days RV Park—their meaning of life—swarm on!

  Thoughts like this might be why I don’t have a girlfriend.

  So far this spring, the black flies had been a typical nuisance, but I’ve never seen this many mosquitoes. Their high-pitched whines are steady. I pass campers decked out in full netting, others bathing in Muskol, and the rest flailing at the near-invisible insects bent on achieving their destinies.

  After seventeen springs here, I still hate the mosquitoes just as much and smack and swipe at my arms and neck in a near continuous frenzy as I jog toward Pulled Beef to take my shift. The line’s already across the patio stones, tables filled with a dozen campers who bury their faces in burger buns. Tina beams at a new customer as I arrive, arms windmilling and spackled with tiny bloody carcasses.

  Tina laughs at me. “You started searching for your Zen yet?”

  “Zen’s not the same as meaning,” I reply.

  Opening weekend’s tough at the grill. Most campers rush to claim the best berths before doing their grocery shopping. It’ll be nonstop all day at Pulled Beef. On the plus side, with the grill going full fry, the mosquitoes keep back, even with the hole in the trailer. I quicken my pace across the patio, and the pursuing mosquito horde scatters to mow down on the waiting campers.

  “Where’s Salminder?” I ask, breathing heavily and cocking my ear for the telltale approach of the enemy bugs.

  “Nice to see you, too. You’re late.”

  “Am not,” I retort. “Not as late as usual, anyway. That’s saying something because this morning I reached the next level in Arcane Dynasty. I’m officially a Mage.”

  “My dad’s in town getting more patties before it gets busy.” Another three people join the line as we talk. A weight pulls at my shoulders; I’d hoped Salminder could help. He’s the father I never even knew, doubt my mother even knew, and has been at the camp for who knows how long. He drove me to the hospital in town when I broke my arm. He convinced me to stay in school when I wanted to drop out last year—jury’s out on if that was the right call. I have one year left, and the only thing holding me there now is Salminder’s suggestion that I keep my options open.

  If I’m kicked out of camp, I know what I’ll need to do: make money to eat.

  On the grill, flames lick the edges of twelve patties at various stages of being turned into the consistency of shoe leather. I pick up the spatula and start flipping, sending columns of flame toward the ceiling. In a small space at the corner of the grill, I make up Ray’s special sauce—a mess of mustard, onions, ketchup, relish, garlic, mayo, and hot sauce, all fried to a thick goo.

  Tina cringes from it. “Just don’t serve that to an actual customer by mistake.”

  I lean over the grill and let the grease and scents infuse me. There’s a Zen to burger flipping. For one thing, no matter how large the line is, I can only cook twelve burgers at a time. It took me two summers to stop fretting about the line and to focus on the cooking. Under food safety laws, I must cook the meat until the patties could be used as lethal weapons if thrown hard enough. In other words, I can’t rush the burger. For another thing, the flames are mesmerizing. Maybe this is why Uncle Jamie likes fireworks too.

  The business of dealing with customers fades to the background as I flip, flip, flip, flip. And then thunk, four ready patties into the steel dish.

  Done, done, done, done.

  The grill’s the bottleneck. Tina’s fast. At the condiments command center she deals out cheese, pickles, onions—I said hold the onions!—mustard, relish, and ketchup.

  Sometimes if I’m lucky she’ll sing a little. Never a pop tune, always something I’ve never heard, and I’d swear it’s timed to the rhythm of the flash and sizzle of me at the grill. We’re in sync. Today she’s quiet and somehow darkened. Normally, she’d be excited about the start of a new summer, talking about school and everything that’s happened since. That’s okay because I have lots to think about.

  Tina and I work as a team, but it’s the first day, and I’m rusty, missing, scraping, burning, swearing. It’s been an hour at the grill already and if anything the line’s longer, when this guy asks for “Swami Raymond.”

  “You mean Ray?” Tina asks and looks back at me, where I shake my head.

  “Swami, wah?” I wipe my hands on my apron and turn the grill down before approaching the counter. “I’m Ray,” I say, leaning out. The day’s warmed, but the air’s still cooler than the inside of the fry-truck.

  “Okay, Swami Ray then, what’s my fortune?” About two-thirds of the campers look like jacks. Bearded, denim-wearing, plaid-jacketed. Half of these are miners, half cut trees. I can usually tell the difference because of the sawdust in their beards or the oily shine of their foreheads, but no one’s had their first shifts yet. This guy is one of those types. He slides a five-dollar bill onto the counter.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  He hands me a coupon that’s been run through the office photocopier. I can tell because Crystal scratched a penis into the glass of the photocopier when she was a teen, and now every copy that comes out of the office has a penis. All the handouts have it. Fun at the Campfire—penis. Camp Amenities, pool, play park—penis. I wonder if I would have gotten along better with teenager-Crystal than I do with twenty-five-year-old Crystal.

  The coupon has a black border, and written in thick black type is: “This entitles the bearer to one fortune telling by Swami Raymond the Magnificent, Knower of the Meaning of Life.* With purchase of burger”—penis.

  “The girl at the office gave it to me, said it comes with the site.”

  Tina sniggers. “Crystal—okay, that’s a pretty good one. Have a bite, learn the meaning of life. We should be charging more.”

  At least three others in line are holding the same coupon I hand back to the guy.

  There’s something about the desperate sheen to his eyes though. Every other part of him looks bagged. The swathes beneath his eyes. The bloodless lips and blotchy skin above his furry cheeks. His plaid sweater-coat has patches and the hems of his jeans are frayed. But his eyes sparkle with expectation.

  “Sorry, I don’t tell fortunes. That’s just my sister making fun. What do you want on your burger?”

  His gaze saddens before dipping down to the coupon. The fiver disappears back into his jean’s pocket, and he starts to leave. He wanted the future more than the burger? It’s stupid but shame fills me, disappointment in my disappointing the guy.

  “Come on, Ray,” Tina whisper-urges.

  The light’s back in her eyes, the smile full again, so I know I have to try. I scour my mind for something pithy. “It’ll be fine, you know,” I say. He glances back over his shoulder. “Life—today at least,” I hedge. “It’ll be a good one. A bit noisy tonight and be sure to get up early for the showers. Hot water runs out.” Are camping tips the same as fo
rtunes? “If the bear’s brown lay down, if it’s black fight back. Oh, and wear light-colored clothing to keep mosquitoes away.” Half the jacks in line groan.

  The fortune seeker doesn’t come back to buy a burger, but his chin lifts as he moves away. I return to the grill, trying to find that elusive Zen.

  Flip, flip, flip, flip.

  Done, done, done, done.

  Chapter 11

  After standing over the grill for seven hours, I step out of the trailer with oil dripping from my chin. In one hand is a Ray Special and in the other are the crumpled fortune coupons of some dozen disappointed customers. They all got the same one from me—things’ll be fine. But they won’t, will they? Of the twelve, someone will get cancer, a couple will have heart attacks. Maybe one will become mixed up in drugs or alcohol. Not a one will strike it rich, half will get married and have kids. And then die. I want to read the rest of the will, to figure out if those double asterisks are important. I still don’t trust my mother’s, “Oh, that’s nothing.”

  Customers who arrived later got better fortunes from Salminder. He shouted from where he stocked the freezer: “Can’t have rainbows without rain.” Or, “Success has no elevator—take the stairs.” But he didn’t stay long, saying he saw a nap in his future.

  I go to slick my hair back, my fingers catching the hairnet and pulling it off. I drop the coupons in the overflowing trash, pause, knowing I should help Salminder by emptying the garbage. But I hear another request for Swami Raymond and so hurry away toward my mom’s trailer before Tina can call me back.

  Instead I hear her shout, “Great things always seem impossible until they are done.” I grin because I feel as though she’s talking to me.

  The camp’s transformed since morning. I like this time of year. Not the mud, or the bugs, but the influx of fresh blood. Or maybe’s it’s just Tina occupying more of my thoughts than normal. I can still feel the heat of her hand over mine from the campfire.

  If two-thirds of campers are lonely jacks of the miner or lumberjack kind, there are a few who are joined by their spouses and, once in a while, a screaming kid. These rare families are tired, tired, and they are the most demanding campers because someone’s at the trailer all day, and camp’s boring, the swimming pool isn’t open, the playground is a hundred years old, and the only games you can play on the rusted structure are, “Get tetanus. Loose a limb. Crack your chin.” It should be condemned, but that would mean losing a key selling feature for the trailer park.