Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  I’d die.

  Some other time, she typed, mustering a wan smile. Now, help me get G&P off my back, ’k, Uglymug? I gotta go walk my turtle.

  Sure, Squatchy. Love ya, furball! A pause. And really, seriously…happy birthday. Marcus turned to Pierce and Gwendolyn. “Why don’t we let Merry-Contrary do her thing for a little while longer?” He threw an arm around each parent and smooched them loudly on the cheeks. “You don’t want to see her until autumn anyhow. You know how frizzy she gets in the summer.”

  “Well…” Gwendolyn melted under her son’s winning smile. She was clearly not pleased, but the prospect of Merry with frizzled hair seemed to give her pause. “I suppose we can put off our rendezvous until Thanksgiving, but no later. Understood, Meredith?”

  Merry nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

  “And Meredith…” Her mother paused delicately. “Those brows. Really, dear. They have tools for that.”

  Merry hit “Escape.”

  And started thinking about her next escape.

  We’re renaming your column,” Joel announced. He kicked feet shod in painfully fresh-out-of-the-box Converse up on his desk and beamed at Merry as though delivering the best news imaginable.

  “Uh…we are?” Merry slung her bag off her shoulder and slinked over to the visitor’s chair in her editor’s office. A sign reading “Entering Upper Slobovia” was taped to the open door, and it wasn’t kidding. Joel’s den of iniquity/place of business was a graveyard of dead computer equipment, obsolete file folders, and crusted-over coffee cups into which Merry preferred not to look too deeply. With two fingers, she picked a gym sock off the chair’s seat, searched in vain for a place to put it, then gave up and set it on the floor at her feet, nudging the dingy cloth aside discreetly with her toe.

  Her editor didn’t take offense. “Yup.” Joel’s smile grew, if that were possible. “From now on, we’re calling it, ‘Don’t Do What I Did’!” He spread his stubby arms in a “ta-da!” gesture and looked at her expectantly.

  Merry got a bad feeling in her tummy. It was not an “I shouldn’t have eaten that sausage-egg-and-cheese dollar breakfast special from the roach-coach downstairs” feeling. No. This was more of an “Oh, fuck, am I out of a job?” bellyache.

  “And, uh…why are we doing that?”

  “Well, Merry,” Joel said, putting on his Serious Editor face, which didn’t quite jibe with his cherubic, triple-chinned features. “We’re in a recession, you know.”

  There seemed no safe response to this, so Merry just waited.

  “And in a recession, do you know how many people are spending money on high-end travel?”

  This time, Merry suspected she was supposed to answer. “Well, I, ah, don’t have solid statistics, per se, but—”

  “Fuck statistics. The answer is less. Fewer. Whatever.” He scowled, which suited his face better than the jollity of a moment ago.

  “But, Joel,” Merry began, dredging up her most unflappable voice—the one she’d learned early on to employ whenever her mother went into rant mode over Merry’s unacceptable hair/clothes/shoes/general lack of social grace. “I’ve been getting great responses from my readers lately. I can hardly keep up with the comments on my page, and my Twitter feed totally blows up every time I publish a new piece. I know I’m still finding my sea legs, but I thought ‘On My Merry Way’ was starting to go pretty well.”

  Her editor was unmoved. “Have you seen the numbers from your most recent series?”

  Merry’s stomach was definitely in “I’m getting shit-canned” territory now. She dug into her bag for her trusty Tums and crunched down. “I actually hadn’t had a chance to run the analytics…” she admitted. Damn it, I should’ve done that first thing, she thought. Gotta stop making stupid mistakes like that.

  “Uniques were down a full fifteen percent,” Joel said. “And click-throughs are thirty percent lower than this time last year. Sponsors are threatening to pull out, Merry.”

  Where had she heard that one before?

  “We’re sorry, Ms. Manning. Mountain Sports is all about freedom, excitement, healthy competition. Not…” The advertising rep, visiting Merry in the second of her long-term sports rehab centers, had paused delicately, then waved at the cast that had encased Merry’s leg all the way up to the hip. He’d avoided looking at her swollen, stitched-up face.

  Not losers.

  They’d been the first of her sponsors to pull out after the accident, but they hadn’t been the last. Endorsement deals had dried up faster than well drinks at a frat house happy hour. The loss of income had hurt—badly—but the shame of failure had hurt even worse. Merry swallowed hard. “Does this mean you’re dumping me?”

  Joel looked at her a bit more kindly. “Not dumping you. Just…retooling you a little bit. You’ve come a long way this past year. You still sound like you’re trying to write the great American novel instead of a quickie service piece sometimes,” he hastened to add, “but you’ve been coming along great. You’re polling well personally, and the comments are as positive as ever. People still love to read about your travels. They’re just not following in your footsteps the way they did when times were better—which means they’re not buying what our ads are selling. Frankly, four-star resort and spa advertisers were never really our demographic to begin with, and sales is having more and more trouble landing them lately.” He sighed. “What I’m trying to say, Merry, is that corporate ripped the ed board a new one over the latest quarterly figures, and if we don’t keep Five-Second Sally happy, Pulse will go the way of the AOL home page.” He looked down at his pristine Chuck Taylors, sparing a longing glance for the well-worn loafers that lolled exhaustedly under his desk. “We’ve all got to think younger. More hip. Less moneyed.”

  “Ah ha.” And that means?

  Joel seemed to read Merry’s thoughts. “That means twentysomethings who can’t afford pedicures at the Parker Meridien, or a private cruise on the Caspian Sea. Millenials who fancy themselves adventurers, but still probably siphon cash off Mom and Dad to finance their backpacking expeditions. You know…hipsters.” He shook his head. “I fought for you, Merry. The board was all for replacing you with someone…more relatable, if you know what I mean, but I told them you had what it took. That you were a team player. And you’d play ball.”

  Team player? Is he kidding? I was captain of the women’s US downhill ski team.

  Operative word: was.

  Sure, she’d been put up in some pretty swank hotels when she was being wined and dined by advertisers eager to score her for a commercial or a sports drink endorsement. And yes, she’d grown up traveling in style as her father’s diplomatic duties took the family all over the world. But did that make her unrelatable? The thought stung. I work hard, damn it. I’ve always worked hard. I’m not some entitled, whiny rich girl.

  Yeah? Well, hard workers don’t bitch when their bosses give them bad news. Suck it up, Merry.

  “Okay…” she said warily. “I appreciate that, Joel. I know you’ve always had my back.” When it was convenient. Joel was supremely self-interested, a fact which hadn’t bothered Merry previously because he was also a brilliant editor and a shrewd manager. He had to be, to have reached his fifties and remained relevant in the cutthroat world of digital media. “But what does that have to do with renaming my column ‘Don’t Do What I Did’?”

  Joel’s grin returned. He lumbered to his feet and rummaged around in one of the precariously balanced piles cluttering the storage closet behind his desk. With a triumphant grunt, he pulled out a long, narrow object and held it up for Merry to see. It looked to be…

  A canoe paddle?

  Somehow, Merry wasn’t surprised—she’d seen him pull weirder items out of those depths. She looked at him with an expression halfway between a raised brow and a full-on cringe.

  “Here you go, kid. You’re gonna need this.” He handed her the paddle.

  Merry stared down at the splintered wood in her hand, holding it as if it might bite.
“Dare I ask why?” she asked faintly.

  Joel paused as if he were waiting for an invisible bandleader to give him a rim shot. “Becaaaaaause,” he drawled, “next stop is Shit’s Creek.”

  As you’ll have seen, my faithful readers, your favorite travel series is sporting a new look as of today. Note the bold header, the change of title—my dashing new photo.

  “Why the change?” you may be asking.

  Well, the answer is, it’s time to spice things up. After a year of leading you through once-in-a-lifetime river cruises, toting your lovely selves in my metaphorical back pocket to some of the finest restaurants, coziest inns, and palatial…well, palaces…this world has to offer, I thought it was time to take a look at the other side of travel.

  The down and dirty side.

  No more spas, no more beachside resorts. Instead, I’ll be returning to my badass roots, charging headlong into new experiences just like I used to speed down the slopes.

  What does that mean? Well, for starters, instead of dabbling my toes like a dilettante into the waters of the places I stay, I’ll be getting into the nitty-gritty, taking on outlandish jobs from all around the world to pay my own way. Maybe I’ll be a short-order cook in Bhutan for a week. Or a gator tagger in rural Louisiana. It’ll be rough, tough, and potentially dangerous.

  Hence “Don’t Do What I Did.”

  Pretty cool, huh?

  As before, I’ll be selecting my missions with the greatest care, forethought, and research. Only now, I’ll be scouring the globe in search of the shit you simply wouldn’t do, the shit you wish you had the guts to do, and the completely ridiculous shit that just needs somebody to do it, so I might as well be the one.

  Crazy? Possibly. Unhygienic? Probably. Fun? You bet your bippy.

  I’ll try to choose wisely…yet in the end, gentle readers, it is you who will decide my fate.

  That’s right. You get to choose between two one-of-a-kind adventures, and I, ever your servant, shall undertake the winning entry with “full devout corage” as old Chaucer would say.

  So what’ll it be for our maiden voyage, mates? The Pit and the Pendulum? The Lady or the Tiger? (Or in this case, the llama?) Here are this month’s choices, culled from real rough-and-tumble opportunities our staff has researched.

  This?

  Bat Tagging in Belize!

  Volunteers needed to help scientific expedition count and tag endangered sac-winged bats in the jungles of Belize. These unique creatures almost single-handedly keep in check the population of insects that are harmful to humans and livestock. However, white-nose syndrome is decimating bat populations worldwide. Our vital research may be the key step toward eradicating this pernicious fungus and preventing outbreaks of mosquito-borne illness.

  Applicants must have spelunking experience, undergo a full course of antimalarial drugs, and be prepared to collect daily guano samples. College students welcome!

  Or this:

  For the Love of Llamas…Help!

  Needed: Temporary ranch hand to pitch in at our llama rescue/tourist outfit/fiber farm forty miles east of Taos, New Mexico. Our regular fella’s off getting hitched and we need someone while he’s finally making an honest woman of Rosie. She’s been plenty patient.

  The job: Help care for our herd of sixteen rescue llamas, thirty prize-winning alpacas, plus eight chickens, six goats, and two dogs (the cat looks after herself). Oh, and the bunny.

  If that ain’t exciting enough, my pal Jane says to tell you we’ve got spectacular views of the Taos Mountains, and our ranch offers thirty acres of wide-open wilderness to explore (but not exploit!). Nearby hot springs help you soak your bones after a long day of honest work.

  Enthusiasm, spirit of adventure more important than experience. You bring a love of furry creatures and a willingness to learn, and we’ll tell you what needs doing.

  No smokers, please. I just quit.

  Okay, readers! Record your vote below:

  Bat shit

  Llama shit

  >>Vote now!

  Merry took her fingers off the keys and sighed. Forget the exotic animals. She was the one full of shit. Her chipper, gung ho attitude? Lie. Her balls-out dedication to her new mandate? Phony as a three-dollar bill. “Care and forethought” my ass, she thought, finishing off the entry and hitting “Publish” only with the greatest reluctance. But there’s no going back now. Her new job was officially a reality.

  And perhaps, for someone with her physical limitations, an impossibility.

  She’d never dream of letting her editor—or her readers—know how daunting she found the idea of charging into these so-called adventures Joel had cooked up, but…yikes. Joel thought tossing her into the pit with the lions for the amusement of Pulse’s snarky audience would create buzz, and he was probably right. He had no idea how ill equipped she was to actually fight those lions. He knew she’d been injured—the whole world had witnessed her near-fatal wipeout—but she’d kept the long-term repercussions of those injuries to herself. Partly, it was self-preservation—a competitor since early childhood, her instinct was always to hide her vulnerabilities. And in the Manning family, weakness had not exactly been welcomed with an understanding hug. But the rest was pure pride.

  Because if there was one thing Merry Manning hated, it was being bad at shit.

  It wasn’t a side of herself she showed many people—in her skiing days, she’d shrugged off her rare losses with a laugh and a wink—but inside, it rankled to be anything but the best. If she couldn’t do something well…she didn’t do it.

  Lately, Merry didn’t do a lot of things.

  “Don’t Do What I Did”? she thought. How about “Don’t Make Me a Laughingstock”?

  It had been uncomfortable enough learning to write for the magazine this past year. She’d taken great pains to teach herself about finding hidden gems and exclusive, one-of-a-kind events, but honestly, given her upbringing, that hadn’t really been so hard. When her editor had told her of this new cockamamie scheme, however, she’d had no idea how she was supposed to find the kind of missions he had in mind. Nothing about her upbringing or experience had taught her how to navigate, as Joel so charmingly put it, “Shit’s Creek.”

  Her editor had been the soul of helpfulness—as well as brevity.

  He’d pointed to the Wheel o’ Craigslist.

  This jury-rigged cardboard contraption was the Pulse staff’s idea of a great way to procrastinate when they didn’t feel like facing their deadlines. An intern with a couple of paperclips, a bicycle gear, and too much time on his hands had MacGyver’d the Wheel o’ Craigslist, which consisted of an outer ring of city names drawn in Sharpie marker, taken from the many the anything-goes site served, and an inner ring of categories from jobs to housing, casual encounters to garage sales and more. A pointer made from a well-chewed pencil stub determined the result, and whoever was spinning the wheel had to respond to whichever ad was currently at the top of that category.

  The point of this—if there was any point at all—was pure fun-pokery. The variety of human experience exposed by Craigslist was eye-opening, to say the least. Some of the ads they’d found had been laugh-out-loud hilarious. Others had been dubious, even pathetic, and some flat-out sketchy. Don, Pulse’s resident cartoonist (and donor of the masticated pencil) bragged he’d found a half-decent, bedbug-free sofa after one enthusiastic spin. Glenn, the copyeditor, had gotten a date with a woman named Beauregard, about which he had said little.

  But Merry was pretty sure the Wheel o’ Craigslist had never been used to send a reporter into certain career suicide before.

  There’s a first time for everything, I guess. And if Merry didn’t want to be out of a job, she’d be having a lot of first times from now on.

  I’ll be fine, she told herself firmly. Hey, I survived childhood in the Manning household, right? And I’ve turned disaster into triumph—or at least a reasonably satisfying substitute career—once before. Screw the bad leg. I can do rugged. I can do advent
ure. I’m the Millennium Falcon.

  Her mind flashed back two years. The mountaintop in St. Moritz. The time trials. “Don’t worry,” she’d told her coach as he taped her knee that fateful day. “She’ll hold together.” It was an old joke between them.

  “Please, baby,” Jim had said, putting his mouth close to the joint in question and doing his best Han Solo, “hold together!”

  It hadn’t. But Merry would. She had to. She’d rub some damn dirt on this situation and make the best of it, faking fun for her fans, grinning and bearing whatever came her way. Because unless she wanted to go crawling home to Gwendolyn and Pierce, she had no other choice.

  And speaking of choices…which would be worse? she wondered. Spelunking into the pestilent, guano-caked caves of the steamy Central American jungle, or hauling hay and shoveling manure at the back-of-beyond farm laborer gig? Squeaky, rabid flying rodents, or playing zookeeper to a flock of fuzzies? Fuzzies to whom, not incidentally, she was sure to be allergic. Merry and wool were a toxic combination.

  Well, it was out of her hands. Within an hour of her posting, she had more than enough comments to seal her fate.

  Tony Bored-anus: ’Bout time you took it to the peeps, Miss Merry! Love the new format. Get down ’n’ dirty! I vote llama-love.

  Travelbiatch: Make with the fluffies, Merry!

  Troll-lolz: No batz, plz. I read a post-apocalyptic vampire novel that started that way.

  Snark442: That’s why she should do it.

  SniffyKazoo: Totally. Zombie vampire brain-eating Merry would be a trip.

  GrlyGrl: Oh, please, please, please pick the ’packies!

  HomerSimpleton: Farmer Merry FTW!

  It went on like that for several scrolls of her mouse.

  Alrighty then, Merry thought, popping three maximum-strength Tums. Wild and woolly times, here I come.

  * * *