Ray Vs the Meaning of Life

by Michael F Stewart

  The rest of the campers are like a box of assorted chocolates: An old retiree who’s run out of savings and is headed back here for seasonal work. A few outsiders who just aren’t good with people, real loners dressed in black and camouflage, survivalists fading as much as possible into the landscape. I spot a family that mistakenly thought this was good place to “get in touch with nature,” and finally an immensely fat man who’s saying to a jack that every year the camp hosts a great monster truck rally—which isn’t at all true.

  A web of wash lines is strung between trees with some Christmas lights. Patio furniture is laid out. A few campers put up signs: Welcome to the Jones’. This is how we roll. Home is where we park it. The scents of cooking meat, popcorn, bug spray, and stale campers permeate the air. The sun dips to the treetops, but every day we get a few more minutes of light. This far north, it’s nearly midnight before full dark at the solstice.

  Tires have turned the road into an even soupier mess. I know full well what my mom will ask me to do this evening. I listen at the office door to make sure she’s not around and hear my sister on the phone. I plan to snoop around and search for the will.

  Even so, I rap twice. The office doubles as my mom and sister’s trailer, and Lord knows I don’t want to catch them naked or anything, so knocking’s a good idea.

  “It’s open,” Crystal calls, and I haul open the door. “Oh, it’s you. What’s the meaning of life, Swami Raymond?” Her lips clench, and I can tell she’s barely holding back her mirth.

  I crumple the coupons stacked on the kitchen table, which is also covered in paperwork.

  Crystal bursts into laughter.

  “It’s bothering Salminder,” I lie. “Slows down the line.” That part’s true.

  “You only have one thing on the menu,” she says. “Who cares?”

  “Pool still isn’t open,” my mom adds, stepping out of the washroom. She’s rubbing her towel at her hair and totally nude. Everything jiggles. I twist away.

  “Aw, Mom,” I say and claw at my eyes as if I can rid them of the memory. My heart sinks. She won’t hand me the will, not without a fight.

  “You can turn back now, I’m covered. When you opening that pool?”

  I crack an eyelid. She has a towel wrapped around her. It’s not enough. “Has an iceberg floating in it still,” I say. “Where’s the will?”

  “Why?” she asks and glances back toward her bedroom. Their trailer is much larger than mine and has two bedrooms, a washroom, kitchen, and living area. The whole place smells of potpourri and doesn’t rock with every movement. Above the floral curtains hang my sister’s rifles. On the opposite wall a crossbow.

  “There was another asterisk, two of them. A footnote or something that I never read,” I say.

  She shifts uncomfortably. “I’ll get it to you later, if I finds it.”

  “Finds it? What’d you do with it? Burn it too?”

  Her face keeps twitching, but I’d caught that look back to her bedroom. “Yeah, I burned it. I did it. Was mad, see.”

  I pause, wondering if I should call her bluff. I could hitch a ride into town to find Sam Peregrine, but I won’t have a chance for a few days. Or I can sneak in here and take it back. It’s mine anyway. No need to tip her off that I know she’s lying though. “You remember what it said?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. I know it’s a lie again because she’s never quiet about anything.

  “I need you to smooth that road tonight or it’ll be concrete when the rain stops. Road grader costs money.”

  “Crystal can,” I say. In Arcane Dynasty, the rest of my party, which includes people from all over the real world, are waiting to take on our first dragon. I might even save my first princess. They’ll do it all without me if I don’t get back to my screen soon.

  “Crystal is helping settle the campers and cleaning bathrooms.”

  “The ruts just keep coming back anyways,” I say.

  Her fists find her hips. “So does mold and dirt and grime,” she says. “And what’s supposed to happen when you figure out the meaning of life? You going to let the washrooms go? Stop paying Deneze?”

  “You can stay and help,” I say, and her eyes narrow. “Fine, I’ll just sell it then.”

  My mom’s lips stretch into a pencil-thin line. Then comes this smile that scares me. She begins stabbing a finger toward me. “Crystal, how’d you like a vacation?” she asks.

  Crystal looks up from where she’s frowning at bills. “Like to a beach?”

  “No, a staycation,” Mom says. “The entertainment will be right here.”

  “What’re you talking about, Mom?” I ask, but I already know that I don’t want an answer.

  “I won’t need to scrub none of the toilets?” Crystal asks suspiciously. “No toothbrush on the shower mold? Or scraping that stuff I-never-know-what-it-is that hangs from the ceiling?”

  “None of that,” my mom replies.

  “Who’s gonna do it?” Crystal scratches at her bleached hair.

  I know what my mom’s thinking, but I don’t know why she thinks it’s right.

  “You’re mulling the meaning of things, right, son?” she asks, still stabbing her index finger at me. I nod. “So that you can win the trailer park.”

  “It’s not winning, Mom, it’s what Grandma wanted and I would’ve given you—”

  She holds up her palm. “So why am I busting my butt for your park?”

  “It’s not my park yet.”

  “It’s not mine either. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat.”

  “What?”

  “I dunno. I only know I’m not taking care of something you could own. And you gotta run it until you lose, or you give up.”

  I stand there dumbfounded, and finally Crystal gets the joke or at least realizes enough of it that she leaps up from the chair and starts jumping up and down.

  She whoops.

  “Get out the lounge chairs, Crystal, this is gonna be something to watch.”

  “Who is going to run the park?” I ask. “Who is going to do everything?”

  “Here’s the keys, son,” she says.

  She tosses an imaginary set that I go to catch like an idiot.

  “I won’t be paying you then,” I say. “You won’t have anything to live on.”

  But she’s ahead of me because she’s still smiling.

  “I have enough squirreled away, Ray, and none of that will matter in a month. After that I’ll be rich.”

  “I’ll just walk away then, if you don’t want to stay. I’m just selling the land anyways.”

  That smile’s stuck on her face, and I so want to peel it off.

  “Don’t know how you’ll feed yourself then,” she says. “Can’t sell the park until you know the meaning of life.”

  “What do you mean? Salminder pays me.”

  “And if you walk away how’s Salminder going to make money? Hmm? Or Tina?”

  I don’t know what she sees in my face at the mention of Tina, but both she and Crystal giggle.

  “I’ll have time to go back after that bear, Mama! I knows it’s out there watching and waiting, just like it did for Grandma.” Crystal grins.

  “How’s Jamie going to eat? He’s got nothing,” my mom adds. “If you don’ like it, give me the keys and forget about ever finding the meaning of life.”

  I clutch the imaginary keys, wanting to throw them back. “But—”

  She has me. I own the park until I can’t tell the lawyer the meaning of life, then I can finally let it go again. I could forfeit. Let it go right now and not look back, but then they’ll have won, and I’ll be out, homeless, penniless, and directionless. The reality is, I can’t let Tina down.

  I shove the keys into my pocket. My boots have never felt so heavy as I slog out of the trailer and into the muddy mess of the trailer park. My trailer park. I step into a tire track, the sheer sides up to my knees. On the road ahead a pickup spins its wheels, spewing blue exhaust and spraying mud. I’m gonna hate
this time of year.

  I grab a shovel from the equipment shed and start filling ruts.

  Chapter 12

  I wake to banging.

  It’s dark. It smells . . . better.

  I flip onto my side. Grandma’s gone.

  My first thought is: Grandma’s now a zombie or a vampire, risen from the dead, and storming the camp. A were-bear? No, it’s not a full moon. Zombie then, since she’s missing her brain. But that’s ridiculous, because why would she have left without eating my brain first?

  Bang, bang, bang.

  “Hey!” A voice like oil sands.

  I switch on my light. Still looking for Grandma. How did I not hear someone sneak in and steal her? And why would anyone do that?

  BANG, BANG!

  Sporting only my undies, I open the door.

  A man stands there, blinking. Bugs cloud the yellow porch light.

  “No hot water,” the man says.

  “Go talk to the office,” I mumble and shut the door.

  BANG, BANG—

  Halfway to the bed, I stumble back to the door.

  The man’s brow’s furrowed, and he points to the side of my trailer. I lean out. Someone’s spray-painted OFFICE in big black letters.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Four. First shift at the mine’s at five.”

  “Well . . .” I think hard for a way to get back to bed. “We don’t have hot water here.”

  “What’re you talking about?” The voice rises.

  “Yeah, this here’s an eco-friendly camp,” I say.

  “Eco?”

  “Yeah, environmentally friendly. Heating the water takes energy. And we don’t believe in wasting all that fuel. Warming the Earth and killing everyone. Do you want to kill everyone?”

  “I jes’ want a shower’s all.” He looks chastened for a second and then glances back up. “You know that everyone here either mines oil all day or chops down trees?” I swallow as the man’s face reddens, and then comes his tentative smile. “Wait a second, you’re joshing with me.”

  I’m not. I really, really want to go back to sleep, but the glow of another flashlight sways up the trail.

  “Yeah, joshing.” I pull on pants and a hoodie and then lead the growing number of annoyed campers back toward the showers. “I can try to fix it, but the water’s not gonna be hot for a while.”

  Their faces droop with the realization that I’m right and no amount of complaining will help reheat the hot water tank. At the back of the shower building hunkers a concrete block shed that holds the tank and cleaning supplies. I go inside and plug the propane ignition button a few times to ignite the pilot. Never goes out like this, so I don’t know what happened. Anyway, I stomp back toward bed, while campers grumble inside and gasp under cold spray. A pickup truck starts and someone shouts for quiet, but it’s too late for that. I pause at the entry to the path to my trailer. A picket sign points out: Office.

  I pick up the shovel I dropped last night and go to take a swing at the sign before realizing that it’s only going to lead to people wandering around looking for who’s in charge and being even more angry when they finally find me.

  I hang my head. I could just leave, hitchhike into town, sleep on a bench somewhere, find work where I can. But then what about Tina? What about the princesses that need rescuing and the dragons that need slaying in Arcane Dynasty? My fans? I shake my head. I’ll give it the month. Twenty-eight days.

  I turn back to where I stopped filling ruts last night and start digging. Sun will be up in an hour.

  ***

  “I need my cash,” Uncle Jamie says.

  I shake awake. I fell asleep leaning on the shovel. Sun’s up. I vaguely recall someone taking a selfie with me, but other than that I don’t remember much.

  “Crystal says you have the cash now,” he says.

  “What? I don’t have anything. Stop believing Crystal. And why does my mom give you cash anyways?”

  He flushes. “Always does, every month, five hundred for expenses.”

  “Expenses.”

  “Fireworks.”

  “You said you sell them.”

  “I will. Still working on the right recipe.”

  “Right, well, I have to get money from my mom. She gave me the imaginary keys but no actual cash.”

  Uncle Jamie shakes his head as I go to bang on her trailer.

  “Why you bothering the tenants?” Crystal squints at me through a mud mask.

  “You’re not a tenant,” I say. “I thought camo-paint was your beauty regime.”

  She squints and the mask cracks. “We don’t work here no more, but we live here. So we’re tenants.” She starts to pull the door shut but I catch it with my boot.

  “I need the money,” I say. “How am I supposed to run the park without money?”

  “Go make some. Oh, right, you’re not used to having to do stuff yourself, are you?”

  “Where’s Mom?” I demand. Crystal’s hauling on the door and kicking at my toe. “Mom!” Mom stumbles out of her room buck naked and giggles. “Aw, stop doing that.” I slap my palms across my eyes. “I need the checkbook.”

  My sister stops fighting, turns away and pushes past my mother to go to the washroom. They have hot water.

  “I got a towel wrapped.” My mom scratches at the fuzz growing on her chin. “Bank will need to change everything, not worth doing for a month,” she says. “How’s this? I’ll sign the checks for you.”

  “Fine. Jamie says you give him money.”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. He always asks though. Let him steal the food he needs.” She shuts the door on me.

  “I’m filing a complaint with management.” The door muffles Crystal’s voice, but their laughter’s loud and clear. I slump into one of the lawn chair’s sagging webbing.

  “You the manager?” It’s a young woman with a little girl in pigtails. The girl’s wearing a swimsuit, and the mom has towels over her shoulder.

  I sigh. “Yes.”

  “I’m going swimming!” the girl exclaims.

  “When will the pool be open?” the mother demands.

  “Soon,” I say. “Soon.”

  The trailer door reopens and out topples a mop, a bundle of rags, and pails.

  “Toilet’s plugged,” someone shouts from the washroom.

  “Plunger’s in the shed with the rest,” my mom hollers from the trailer. Crystal bursts back into laughter. I’ve never heard them laugh so much.

  The mother of the girl purses her lips as I gather up a couple pails filled with gear and shuffle off, the handles biting into the pads of my fingers.

  Chapter 13

  Plunge the toilet.

  Clean the toilets. Someone vomited on the floor.

  Scrub the showers.

  Repair the water line. Duct tape!

  Fill the ruts.

  Chip at pool berg.

  Late for lunch shift—flip a couple hundred burgers while arguing with Tina about how I’m never on time. I don’t remember fighting with her so much. Every time I talk to her she either tears up or grits her jaw like she’s ready to deliver a right hook. I wish I could tell her that she’s half the reason I’m still here, but that’s a bit too much honesty.

  Clean the rental trailers.

  Take reservations.

  Calm the wannabe nature-loving family.

  Give non-nature-loving family money back.

  Chop wood for campfire.

  Return phone call from propane guy, the garbage company, and the funeral parlor . . . this one’s worth elaborating on. I’d forgotten about Grandma’s early morning departure, and it suddenly seemed obvious to me how it had happened. If not resurrection, or a zombie apocalypse, there really could only be one alternative.

  “We’ll be by to pick up your grandma around four,” the cool voice says. “I’m so sorry for your loss. She was a delight. A lovely lady. A pillar of decency.”

  Everything’s such a blur that I almost agree w
ithout thinking and then stop. “You already have her,” I say.

  There’s a pause. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.” There really are no other options—the funeral parlor must have arrived in the dead of night and collected her body.

  “Nope.”

  “If you don’t have Grandma, then where is she?”

  I’m sitting in Mom’s trailer since it has the only landline. I can hear my mom outside telling people the manager will be right out.

  “Would you like to cancel the appointment?” The voice on the phone cools further.

  I can’t imagine how she’s looking round about now. I sense her statue staring. Her brain’s still there—I checked on the green bars.

  “Hold on,” I tell the funeral man, jog to the door, and shove it open. “Where’s Grandma?”

  My mom looks at me. “Yer the one sleeping with her.”

  The big bear of a lumberjack man waiting for the manager covers his mouth.

  “Isn’t like that,” I tell him. “She’s dead.”

  He gags a little.

  “I mean we just slept together is all, with her dead . . . aww, forget it.”

  The man must no longer need to talk, because he runs off toward the washroom.

  “Grandma wasn’t in my bed this morning,” I say. “She’s missing.”

  “Not like she wandered off,” my mom scoffs.

  “I have to go flip burgers,” I say.

  “Sites twenty-nine, eight, and sixty-five all want to see you,” she says. “Don’t know where that jack was from.”

  “Can’t you—” I begin, but she’s put on sunglasses and lies back down in the chair beside Crystal, who snores.

  “If I have to keep taking messages like this, you’re gonna have to start paying me,” my mom says.