by McSweeney's
Where was his wife, where were his children?
Fortunately for him, his wife and children were not at the bottom of the pile of smoking ash, but sprinting joyfully up the road, relieved to find that he wasn’t at the bottom of the pile of smoking ash.
But the damage had been done: He was now excessively fearful.
When he rebuilt the house, he made some changes. The new house had no fireplace. No matches were allowed inside. The house had no stove, and all cooking was to be done in a little shack several hundred yards away. The family was not allowed inside the Cooking Shack. Every hour, one of the servants was required to walk around the house, dousing the walls with water from a special Fire-Dousing Bucket, just in case.
Then, doing some further research on fire, Farf learned that fire was caused by friction. After that, no friction was allowed in the house. Special smooth shoes were bought to slide across special smooth floors. Nothing was allowed to be cut or scuffed or even rubbed slightly against any other thing. No cheek-kissing, back-patting, or book-sliding was allowed, and if your bottom itched, you had to step outside to scratch it. All friction-generating activities were to be done in the Friction Shack, next to the Cooking Shack, and family members had a thirty-second limit, after which they had to come out so Farf could ensure they weren’t on fire.
One day, reading the newspaper, he read about a great flood. A great flood, he learned, involved huge amounts of water all of a sudden. That night he dreamed that his family was happily thanking him for their fireproof house, when suddenly a great amount of water came, and as his family was swept away, he heard them pathetically calling his name.
Next morning, he had all the plumbing removed from the house, as well as all sinks, bathtubs, cups, and sponges. The dog was no longer allowed to drool inside the house. All crying, sweating, and drinking had to be done in a third shack, built between the Cooking Shack and the Friction Shack, called the Wetness Shack.
Still, he worried. He had taken care of fire and floods, yes, but surely these weren’t the only bad things that could happen. How could he prevent all bad things from happening when he didn’t even know all bad things that could possibly happen?
So he bought a book called Tragedy: A Compendium, and began studying.
* * *
The first thing he did was raise the house two hundred feet above the ground, to make it truly flood-proof. But because this brought the house closer to the sky, which was where lightning came from, he built a special anti-lightning canopy, and because the anti-lightning canopy was so heavy, he had to put in special thick canopy-supporting beams, and to prevent the canopy-supporting beams from falling on, crushing, and killing his family, he built special beam-catching devices, which he installed between the tornado-predicting modules, and to keep out bands of Evil Marauders, he hired a special team of eleven Reformed Evil Marauders, and to keep an eye on the Reformed Evil Marauders, in case one of them went back to marauding, he hired a team of twenty-two Marauder Assessment Specialists, and to keep out poisonous snakes and/or rabid dogs, he hired a team of ditch-diggers to dig a two-hundred-foot deep anti-snake/anti-dog trough around the house, then installed a bear-discouraging gate across the hurricane-proof bridge spanning the anti-snake/anti-dog trough.
Now it was Mrs. Farf and the Farf children’s turn to worry. They wished Farf would go back to being the man he’d been before the fire, a round cheerful guy, only normally fearful, who kept them awake at night with his booming laughter, which filled them with irritable confidence as they lay there wishing he would get tired and go to bed.
But even with all the new improvements, Farf was not at peace. He stayed up nights, rushing between the Fire, Friction, and Wetness Shacks, checking the various canopies, beams, modules, Marauders, and Marauder Assessment Specialists, on the lookout for genius snakes and/or dogs who had somehow defied his trough.
Then one day Farf had a revelation. Nothing could possibly happen to his wife or children if they were enclosed in elevated, impervious, uncrushable Personal Protection Pods. So he hired a team of carpenters to build five heavy oak Personal Protection Pods, with copper Food Slide-In Chutes and Oxygen Supply Vents and tiny glass Outviewing Portals so the family, while being kept completely safe, could continuously scan the area for potential threats.
Once his wife and children were safely inside, the Pods were raised to a level well above Bear and/or Wolf Level, but low enough to prevent death if one of the three Failsafe Hoisting Ropes snapped and the Pod crashed to the ground.
Finally everything was perfect. Nothing bad could possibly happen to his family, ever. Of course, nothing good could ever happen to his family, ever, either.
But to Farf, who had finally begun sleeping through the night, this seemed a worthwhile tradeoff.
For the first time since the fire, life felt good.
Until one afternoon he found two of his Marauder Assessment Specialists playing checkers when they should have been Assessing his Reformed Marauders. Suddenly, he didn’t entirely trust his Marauder Assessment Specialists. So he hired a team of Marauder Assessment Specialist Observers, to watch the Specialists. Then, not entirely trusting the Marauder Assessment Specialist Observers, he hired a team of monks to watch the Observers, and, not entirely trusting the monks, who were suspiciously bald and never spoke, hired a team of levitating holy men to watch the monks, then made all of them—the Marauders, the Marauder Assessment Specialists, the Marauder Assessment Specialist Observers, the monks, and the levitating holy men—wear a system of leg irons and concrete shirts, so they couldn’t make any sudden moves if they suddenly decided, all at once, to betray him. Also he hired some Snake-Dog-Bear-Wolf Monitors, to make proactive Scouting Missions into the woods around the house, and hired a team of optometrists to constantly check the eyes of the Snake-Dog-Bear-Wolf Monitors, so the Monitors wouldn’t miss anything, and issued an order that not only must all snakes, dogs, bears, and wolves be apprehended, but anything even vaguely resembling a snake, dog, bear, or wolf must be apprehended, including, but not limited to, all snake/dog/bear/wolf-resembling sticks, branches, stones, and/or boulders.
Then, one fateful day, a cry came from Personal Protection Pod #4, which contained Gwen, the middle Farf daughter. Upon closer investigation, Farf determined that Gwen had run her hand over the inside of her Personal Protection Pod and gotten a splinter and was bleeding, the poor thing! What a fool he’d been! What kind of inattentive, reckless father builds a Personal Protection Pod out of oak, which, being wood, not only tends to splinter but could also conceivably burst inexplicably into flames?
Stupid, stupid, stupid, thought Farf, rushing off to town to commission five new Personal Protection Pods of metal.
Town was a nightmare. Everywhere people were brushing against one another, mopping things with water from buckets, sweating right out in the open. He saw a child, who must have had some sort of death wish, rubbing two sticks together in close proximity to a very dry-looking old man reading an extremely flammable newspaper.
What were people thinking?
Did no one love life?
Meanwhile, back at the Farfs, the levitating holy men, taking pity on the Farfs, had released the Farfs from their Personal Protection Pods for the afternoon. The Farfs were having a party, which was getting, for them, a little wild. They drank glass after glass of water (some of which they purposely spilled on the floor), danced without their anti-friction slippers, flamboyantly scratched even though nothing itched, and, when it got dark, brought up the Fire-Dousing Bucket, filled it with hay, made a fire, and stood roasting marshmallows over it.
Which was when Farf arrived home.
It would be hard to express just how shocked he was to see his family behaving with such utter disregard for their own safety.
He rushed them into their new Personal Protection Pods, which, in addition to being made of gleaming friction-resistant metal, had improved Reilly Padlocks, and also the Outviewing Portals had been eliminated, since it was c
onceivable that, looking out, the Farfs might see something that would frighten them.
With respect to the elimination of the Outviewing Portals, Farf soon noticed another advantage: Not only could his family not see out, he could no longer see in. Not seeing his family, he was reminded less and less of his deep love for them, and, loving them less, grew somewhat less worried that something terrible would happen to them.
Which was when he discovered what eventually came to be known as the Farf Hypothesis.
Love, he discovered, causes Fear. Loving someone, we fear the Loss of them. Stop Loving, that Fear decreases. Hence, to eliminate Fear, it was only necessary to stop Loving.
Which is what Farf now attempted to do.
He stopped going from Pod to Pod every hour, verbally confirming, through the Oxygen Supply Vents, that all was well, since he found that hearing the voices of his wife and children every hour tended to keep his Love Index elevated. Instead, he hired a Verification Associate to perform the hourly Verbal Confirmation and deliver the family’s meals and tiny thimbles of water.
But Farf soon found that the very sight of the Pods reminded him of his wife and children, so had the Pods shrouded with huge swaths of cloth, but soon found that the very sight of the swaths reminded him of the Pods underneath, so had the Pods relocated to a spot behind the house.
With his family safely inside the Pods, behind the house, under the swaths, Farf felt his Love Index steadily declining.
Soon, entire days passed when he didn’t worry about his family at all.
For the first time since his marriage, Farf felt almost completely free from Fear.
Then one morning the Verification Specialist rushed in to report that Gwen was dying.
“Who?” said Farf. “Who’s dying?”
“Gwen,” said the Verification Specialist. “Pod #4.”
“I don’t know any Gwen,” said Farf.
But the Verification Specialist saw that Farf’s eyes were full of tears.
“What is this Gwen person dying of?” asked Farf.
“Boredom, loneliness, I’m really not sure,” said the Specialist.
Pod #4 was opened, and Gwen was removed.
Seeing her, Farf’s Love Index spiked, and he realized with a sinking heart that had just undone months of hard work. Then, as predicted by the Farf Hypothesis, there came a corresponding spike in his Fear Rating, related to how pale and weak Gwen looked, and the fact that, even after months in the Pod, she still seemed happy to see him.
“Open the Pods,” Farf commanded, in a choked little voice. “Open all the Pods.”
And the Pods were opened, and the Farfs were brought out, looking pale and weak.
At that moment, Farf saw that the Farf Hypothesis was undeniably true: Love did cause Fear. The more you Loved, the more you Feared the Loss of the thing you Loved.
But what was one to do? Live with the Fear? Love in spite of the Fear? Wake up every morning knowing that today could be the day on which someone you Loved might be Lost?
Then Farf caught sight of himself in one of his Security Mirrors. He looked absolutely crazy. His hair was sticking up and there was a coldness in his eyes and because, for many weeks now, there had been no one to remind him to trim his beard, his beard hung down to his chest, and because there had been no one to cough softly and indicate, with their eyes, his beard, his beard had bits of bread in it, and also part of a candy bar and, somewhat inexplicably, a rubber doorstop.
Which was when Farf discovered the Farf Corollary, which, though less elegant than the Farf Hypothesis, was equally true: Living without Love, you get gross things in your Beard.
Farf very humbly kissed each of his family members on the head, asked for their forgiveness, then had the Pods destroyed, and the various Shacks, canopies, beams, and modules removed, fired his Marauders and Specialists and Observers, sent away the monks and levitating holy men, and filled the anti-dog, anti-snake trough with water, so the Farfs could, if they chose, go swimming.
But not when there was a thunderstorm.
Or the possibility of a thunderstorm.
And not without their life jackets, which contained special built-in Shark Alarms.
And not before they had signed the Swimming Log, which had to be signed again when one was done Swimming, even if one just got out briefly to eat something being cooked on the Outdoor Fire, which Farf tended very carefully, clenching the Fire-Dousing Bucket at all times, even on that rare occasion when—quickly, cautiously—he went for a swim himself.
MONSTER
BY KELLY LINK
Illustrated by Shelley Dick
No one in Bungalow 6 wanted to go camping. It was raining, which meant that you had to wear garbage bags over your backpacks and around the sleeping bags, and even that wouldn’t help. The sleeping bags would still get wet. Some of the wet sleeping bags would then smell like pee, and the tents already smelled like mildew, and even if they got the tents up, water would collect on the ground cloths. There would be three boys to a tent, and only the boy in the middle would stay dry. The other two would inevitably end up squashed against the sides of the tent, and wherever you touched the nylon, water would come through from the outside.
Besides, someone in Bungalow 4 had seen a monster in the woods. Bungalow 4 had been telling stories ever since they got back. It was a no-win situation for Bungalow 6. If Bungalow 6 didn’t see the monster, Bungalow 4 would keep the upper hand that fate had dealt them. If Bungalow 6 did see a monster—but who wanted to see a monster, even if it meant that you got to tell everyone about it? Not anyone in Bungalow 6, except for James Lorbick, who thought that monsters were awesome. But James Lorbick was a geek and from Chicago and he had a condition that made his feet smell terrible. That was another thing about camping. Someone would have to share a tent with James Lorbick and his smelly feet.
And even if Bungalow 6 did see the monster, well, Bungalow 4 had seen it first, so there was nothing special about that, seeing a monster after Bungalow 4 went and saw it first. And maybe Bungalow 4 had pissed off that monster. Maybe that monster was just waiting for more kids to show up at the Honor Lookout where all the pine trees leaned backward in a circle around the bald hump of the hill in a way that made you feel dizzy when you lay around the fire at night and looked up at them.
“There wasn’t any monster,” Bryan Jones said, “and anyway if there was a monster, I bet it ran away when it saw Bungalow 4.” Everybody nodded. What Bryan Jones said made sense. Everybody knew that the kids in Bungalow 4 were so mean that they had made their counselor cry like a girl. The Bungalow 4 counselor was a twenty-year-old college student named Eric who had terrible acne and wrote poems about the local girls who worked in the kitchen and how their breasts looked lonely but also beautiful, like melted ice cream. The kids in Bungalow 4 had found the poetry and read it out loud at morning assembly in front of everybody, including some of the kitchen girls.
Bungalow 4 had sprayed a bat with insect spray and then set fire to it and almost burned down the whole bungalow.
And there were worse stories about Bungalow 4.
Everyone said that the kids in Bungalow 4 were so mean that their parents sent them off to camp just so they wouldn’t have to see them for a few weeks.
“I heard that the monster had big black wings,” Colin Simpson said. “Like a vampire. It flapped around and it had these long fingernails.”
“I heard it had lots of teeth.”
“I heard it bit Barnhard.”
“I heard he tasted so bad that the monster puked after it bit him.”
“I saw Barnhard last night at dinner,” Colin Simpson’s twin brother said. Or maybe it was Colin Simpson who said that and the kid who was talking about flapping and fingernails was the other twin. Everybody had a hard time telling them apart. “He had a Band-Aid on the inside of his arm. He looked kind of weird. Kind of pale.”
“Guys,” their counselor said. “Hey guys. Enough talk. Let’s pack up and get going.” The Bu
ngalow 6 counselor was named Terence, but he was pretty cool. All of the kitchen girls hung around Bungalow 6 to talk to Terence, even though he was already going out with a girl from Ohio who was six-foot-two and played basketball. Sometimes before he turned out the lights, Terence would read them letters that the girl from Ohio had written. There was a picture over Terence’s camp bed of this girl sitting on an elephant in Thailand. The girl’s name was Darlene. Nobody knew the elephant’s name.
“We can’t just sit here all day,” Terence said. “Chop chop.”
Everyone started complaining.
“I know it’s raining,” Terence said. “But there are only three more days of camp left and if we want our overnight badges, this is our last chance. Besides, it could stop raining. And not that you should care, but everyone in Bungalow 4 will say that you got scared and that’s why you didn’t want to go. And I don’t want everyone to think that Bungalow 6 is afraid of some stupid Bungalow 4 story about some stupid monster.”
It didn’t stop raining. Bungalow 6 didn’t exactly hike; they waded. They splashed. They slid down hills. The rain came down in clammy, cold, sticky sheets. One of the Simpson twins put his foot down at the bottom of a trail and the mud went up all the way to his knee and pulled his tennis shoe right off with a loud sucking noise. So they had to stop while Terence lay down in the mud and stuck his arm down, fishing for the Simpson twin’s shoe.
Bryan Jones stood next to Terence and held out his shirt so the rain wouldn’t fall in Terence’s ear. Bryan Jones was from North Carolina. He was a big, tall kid with a friendly face, who liked paint guns and BB guns and laser guns and pulling down his pants and mooning people and putting hot sauce on toothbrushes.
Sometimes he’d sit on top of James Lorbick’s head and fart, but everybody knew it was just Bryan being funny, except for James Lorbick. James Lorbick hated Bryan even more than he hated the kids in Bungalow 4. Sometimes James pretended that Bryan Jones’s parents died in some weird accident while camp was still going on and that no one knew what to say to Bryan and so they avoided him until James came up to Bryan and said exactly the right thing and made Bryan feel better, although of course he wouldn’t really feel better, he’d just appreciate what James had said to him, whatever it was that James had said. And of course then Bryan would feel bad about sitting on James’s head all those times. And then they’d be friends. Everybody wanted to be friends with Bryan Jones, even James Lorbick.
