There were eighteen of us, plus the staff—Nelson Kendrick, the organizer of the IMMR, Bernie Majors, the fellow in camouflage gear who had checked us in, and our guest facilitator, Dr. Renquist Sampson, PhD. "Dr. Ren" for short. We were all sitting around the fire in plastic lounge chairs with more than a few extras piled up by one of the trucks. I was getting pretty comfortable and was thinking I could probably doze off for a few minutes and no one would notice.
"We are gathered around this bonfire," Dr. Ren began, "because we are men. We created this fire. The earth was given to man in Genesis; on that we can all be clear. Women came after."
I looked around the circle and across the flames at the heads nodding in agreement. Dr. Ren was a big man, about sixty, with a flowing white mane and a large round belly. He was wearing what looked to be a beaded deerskin shirt open to his navel and pants with fringe hanging from every possible seam.
"Did you all bring your stones?" Dr. Ren asked. Again, nods of ascent.
"I didn't know I was supposed to bring one," said Pete, raising his hand. "What's it for?"
"Tomorrow we will build a monument to Yahweh," said Dr. Ren. "You can find a large stone somewhere in the woods. Didn't you read your information sheet?"
"Alas, no," said Pete, trying his best to look chagrined.
Suddenly, Nelson and Bernie began beating on drums. I hadn't noticed the drums before.
"We no longer have images of real men," Dr. Ren said, as the drumbeat continued. "The tom-toms honor the body as opposed to the mind. God wants us to honor the body. One of the things we will do is go back to the very old stories, the stories of the Old Testament, five thousand years ago, where the view of a man, what a man is, is healthier. It is time to take back our manhood."
I heard some grunting coming from around the fire, but I couldn't tell if it was from the participants or being supplied by the drummers.
"God wants us to be real men. Wild men. God wants you to hooooooowl!"
A howl went up from around the fire. It started—this time I was sure—with the drummers, Nelson and Bernie, but the other men took it up with a vengeance. I looked over at Pete. He was grinning at me and howling for all he was worth. I shrugged and gave a half-hearted yelp.
"It is time to bring the Old Testament warrior back to life!" Dr. Ren shrieked. "You have to take back the power you have given to your mother. You must direct your energy away from pleasing Mommy."
He spread his arms and gave the command, "Reach under your chair and take up your Mommy-Stick!"
We all looked under our chairs and there they were—right on cue—our Mommy-Sticks. They were bamboo, about two feet long and painted different pastel colors. Mine, unfortunately, was pink.
Dr. Ren's was yellow and he held it out over the fire. "I shall begin," he said in a huge voice. "This Mommy-Stick is I can relate to that!" He snapped it in two and threw it into the flames amidst cheers from the men.
"Who's next," he bellowed. "Who will break their Mommy-Stick?"
I jumped forward. I had once been caught at this game when I was a camp counselor, the object being to take all the good quotations early and leave the last person struggling for something to say. I didn't want any part of that. Besides, I didn't want to have this pink Mommy-Stick in my hand any longer than I had to.
"This Mommy-Stick," I yelled, breaking it in half and throwing it into the fire, "is I just want you to open up!"
"Yes!" The other men yelled. "I just want you to open up!"
The floodgate was broken. Calls of "I feel your pain!" and "Let me share your space!" echoed around the campfire as the men jumped toward the fire and back again, the drums beating a rhythmic thrum and lending—yes, I had to admit it—a primordial atmosphere to the gathering.
"Why can't we discuss our feelings!" bawled a short, rotund, accountant-like man in a high-pitched wail.
Finally, the only person left was Pete. He was looking dazed and holding a lime-green Mommy-Stick. I knew he was desperately trying to come up with something to say without repeating one of the others. It's the very reason I went first.
All eyes were on Pete and the last Mommy-Stick. The drums were starting to get louder and the other men had taken up the chant "Mommy-Stick, Mommy-Stick, Mommy-Stick…" It was now obvious that it was Pete that had to bring a close to this ritual and he was close to panic.
"This Mommy-Stick…" he finally screamed over the din. The immediate silence was almost deafening. The drums stopped. The men became deathly quiet. The only sound we could hear was the faint crackling of the now diminishing campfire. I looked at Pete. He was shaking. I could understand it. The atmosphere was electric.
"This Mommy-Stick," he screamed again, "is Why can't you put the damn toilet seat down!"
"Hoooooooowwwwwwl!" went the men. The drums started up again, even faster than before and about half of the men started dancing around the campfire like the Wild Men they had become.
"The Great Mother's authority has become too great." Dr. Ren called over the howls. "Men's societies are disappearing, partly under pressure from women with hurt feelings. Too many women are raising boys with no man in the house. It is now time for you to reclaim your birthright. It is time for you to build your lair."
At this, the men who had obviously read their information sheets, or those that had come to the IMMR before, ran over to the pile of extra lounge chairs and grabbed as many as they could carry. Pete and I, along with one other confused soul, stood by and watched our cohorts shape the lounge chairs into small forts, which they then crawled into.
"That was a good one," I whispered to Pete, trying not to move my lips. "Why can't you put the damn toilet seat down! Outstanding!" I looked around for my chair, but it had been purloined by another fellow who was exercising his God-given, animal right to take whatever he could get away with.
"It's all I could think of," he whispered back.
"After three marriages, that's all you could think of?"
"What can I say?" Pete shrugged. "I froze."
"Come out of your lairs," called Dr. Renquist Sampson, Motivator Extraordinaire, as the drums began anew. "As you came out of the water at your baptism, now come out of your lairs and be transformed into the men God wants you to be."
The men who had hidden under their chairs now crawled out and stood in the circle around the fire. Dr. Ren slowly dropped to his knees.
"Some of you may want to temporarily leave the world of the two-legged, and join me in the world of the four-legged," he said.
One by one, all of us dropped to our hands and knees, following his example. I don't remember if I was the last to do so, but I caught sight of Pete dropping to the ground like a sack of doorknobs. I knew what he was thinking. He wasn't about to be caught again.
"You may find yourself behaving like these four-leggeds; you may be scratching the earth, getting in contact with the dirt and the world around you," Dr. Ren said. As he spoke, some of the men began pawing at the ground. "You may find yourself behaving like the most masculine of all animals—the ram," Dr. Ren said in a coaxing voice. "You may find unfamiliar noises emerging from your throats!"
There were gurgles, bleats, and a few more wolf calls. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the accountant coming toward me, head down, tufts of white hair ringing a bald spot. I shuffled myself around on all fours and looked at Pete.
"You look ridiculous," I said.
"Ditto," said Pete with a grin. "How did we get into this?"
I felt a slight presence at my rear, and turned to see the accountant beginning to sniff my buttocks.
''Woof!" he said.
* * *
"That was some night," said Pete as we collapsed onto the mattresses. "I'm really getting in touch with you-know-who."
"Yeah. My inner man is just itching to get out. I'm hoping this face-paint comes off with soap and water. Otherwise, we have to drive into town wearing this stuff. Do you think it's a sign of alcoholism that I really want a beer just about now?"
"I'm glad you were there for the trust-spin. That accountant was being way too friendly. I'm not sure he could have caught me anyway."
"What's on for tomorrow?" asked Pete.
"I stole somebody's information sheet," I said, pulling it out of my pocket.
"You stole it? You? A cop?"
"It's my right as a wild-man," I said. "I take what I need. Woof!" I held the paper up to the lantern that was lighting our tent. "Right after breakfast we build the altar to Yahweh. Then the Mud-Dance and the Naked Piglet Chase."
"The WHAT?"
"Just kidding," I said with a laugh. "No piglets. It ends with lunch and a big group hug."
"Thank God."
"See? You're getting religion after all."
* * *
The troop was awakened the next morning by the call of the ram's horn. We knew it was a ram's horn because it was printed quite clearly on our information sheet. I'm pretty sure it was a recording though. A ram's horn is a difficult instrument to play. I had a go at it once when I was playing the organ at a Jewish temple years ago. I'm not a proficient brass player by any means, but I had a brass methods class in college and I can still play a few tunes on a tuba. Yet the sound that came out of the ram's horn when I gave it my best honk might only have been appropriate to call together a convocation of flatulent band directors. Still, maybe Nelson or Bernie had been practicing. We exited our tent and saw that they hadn't. The ram's horn was still sounding and the two of them were standing at attention in front of the tents wearing nothing but loincloths and war paint and shivering like newborn pups.
"Aren't you guys cold?" asked Pete. Pete and I both had on our parkas. "The weather report said twenty-five degrees this morning."
"Breakfast is in a half-hour," managed Nelson, through chattering teeth. "You g-g-g-guys can use the facilities up at the main b-b-building."
"Can't we just go in the woods?" asked the accountant hopefully. We'd found out during the course of the previous evening that his name was Vernon Speck and that he wasn't really an accountant. He was a dentist. This was his fourth time to attend the Iron Mike Men's Retreat.
"No you c-c-c-can't," said Nelson. "There's a girl-scout troop in here this afternoon. They d-d-don't want any surprises like last time."
* * *
By the time breakfast was over, it had warmed up to a comfortable thirty degrees. Comfortable for Pete and I and one other man, that is. Our information sheet had informed us that loincloths were optional for the second day and since neither Pete nor I had remembered to pack our loincloths, we were in jeans and sweatshirts. The loin-clothed crew was still shivering and jockeying for position around the campfire.
"I packed mine, but decided I didn't want to wear it this morning," said a man named Jim, sidling up to us.
"A wise choice," I replied.
"My wife made it for me after she read the information sheet. This whole thing is the marriage counselor's idea. I think it's just weird, but I agreed to come."
Pete and I nodded compassionately.
"It's time to build our altar," called Dr. Ren. "Collect your stones and let us begin."
"Collect our stones," said Pete. "Now there's a Freudian observation if ever I heard one."
* * *
I had found what I thought were a couple of good-sized rocks behind our tent. They were maybe seven or eight pounds and as big around as grapefruits. They certainly were manageable enough that mindlessly tossing them a couple of inches into the air and catching them as we made our way from our tents back to the campfire wasn't a problem. We were astonished, therefore, to see the rest of the men, hunched over and lugging stones the size of microwave ovens. One stout fellow with the physique of a lumberjack had a stone on each shoulder—each one weighing at least eighty to a hundred pounds.
"I feel emasculated," whispered Pete. "Just look at the size of our stones compared to those other guys."
"We may be emasculated, but at least we're not herniated," I whispered back. "Pebble envy seems to be the point of this exercise. Anyway, mine's definitely bigger than yours."
"You wish! What did the information sheet say?"
"That we should bring the largest stone we could carry for the glory of Yahweh."
"Oh, man…"
* * *
We followed Dr. Ren, in procession, carrying our stones down a wide path into the woods for about three hundred yards until we came to the altar. It was more of a cairn, I thought, consisting of a six foot by six foot collection of stones rising in a pyramid, the top of which stood about five feet high above the forest floor. It had been built and added on to through the years by the past conference attendees.
"Let us begin," said Dr. Ren. "The smallest stones first."
Everyone looked at Pete and me. I gave him a nudge.
"That's you," I said as Nelson and Bernie began thumping on their tom-toms. "Yours is the smallest."
Pete sullenly made his way to the altar and placed his stone about a foot from the top.
"We build this altar to you, O Yahweh!" called Dr. Ren.
"We build this altar to you," the men replied.
I was next and the rest of the group followed in order of manliness. There were a few disagreements when the sizes were fairly close, but Dr. Ren was the final arbiter. He pointed to one or the other and they came forward as they were chosen. The chant followed the placing of each stone. Pete and I were actually glad that we had been first, not that it really mattered. Our stones were pretty light. The rest of the men were valiantly trying to keep their stones aloft for the entire ceremony. Most of them, the ones carrying the larger stones, finally had to drop them on the ground, picking them up again when it was their turn to approach the altar. A few stalwart souls held them the whole time.
The last one to place his stones was Lumberjack. He stood stoically and waited, never forsaking his burden, and by the end, sweat was pouring off him despite his loincloth, the fairly cold temperature and the wind that had begun to pick up. The rest of the loincloths were shivering shamelessly. Only Dr. Ren seemed to be immune from the cold. As Lumberjack's stones crunched into the side of the altar, a cheer went up from the men and they dashed back toward the campfire.
"Wait," yelled Dr. Ren. "We build this altar to you, O Yahweh." But it was too late. Most of his audience had turned tail and run for the fire. It was left for Pete, Lumberjack, Jim and me to finish up.
"We build this altar to you," we replied, half-heartedly. With that, the drums stopped, and Nelson and Bernie followed the others in quick pursuit as fast as their naked legs could carry them. Lumberjack just grunted. He was doubled over, still trying to catch his breath.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I…I…" wheezed Lumberjack.
"Everything all right here?" It was Dr. Ren.
"Don't know yet," I said, turning back to Lumberjack. "Talk to me, big guy." His answer was to pitch forward on his face and lay unmoving in the pine straw.
"Get the truck," I said to Pete, but he was already running full speed for the campsite.
"Be back in a minute," he yelled over his shoulder.
"Help me turn him over." Jim and Dr. Ren complied.
"He's not breathing," said Jim.
"You know CPR?" asked Dr. Ren, near panic.
"Yeah," I said. "Step back."
I was about three minutes into the CPR when Lumberjack started breathing on his own. Pete drove up just moments later.
"Let's get him into the truck and we'll get him to the hospital pretty quickly," I said, slapping the blue police light onto the roof of the cab.
"You're a cop?" asked Dr. Ren.
"Yeah. Let's get him in."
Four pairs of willing hands lifted Lumberjack into the cab. He was conscious now, but still too groggy to speak. Pete slid in beside him on the passenger side as I jumped behind the wheel.
"We'll be back for lunch," Pete called out the wind
ow as I gunned the old truck down the path and out of the woods.
* * *
"The doctor says you'll be okay," I said to Lumberjack as he "rested comfortably" in the emergency room bed. "I'm Hayden Konig, by the way. Pete Moss and I brought you in."
"My name's Jack Rutledge. And thanks. The doc said that he thinks I had a heart attack."
"I'm not surprised. Those rocks were pretty heavy."
"Ah," he shrugged. "They weren't that bad, but I may have overdone it. They think I might have a blockage and they're going to keep me in for some tests. Sorry you had to miss the rest of the retreat."
Just then, Pete came through the privacy curtain.
"How you doin'?"
"I'll be okay. I really want to thank you guys."
"No problem," said Pete magnanimously. "All in a day's work. Not only did we save your life, but we didn't have to do the Mud-Dance or the Naked Piglet Chase."
"Naked Piglet Chase? Oh man! Did I miss that?" Jack sounded despondent.
"I'm sure they'll let you go again next year," I said, "if you promise to bring smaller stones."
* * *
Pete and I got back to the retreat just in time for lunch. We had used the facilities at the hospital to take the opportunity to clean the paint off our faces. We drove up as the men were putting their bratwursts on sticks for grilling over the coals of what was left of their campfire.
"How is he?" asked Dr. Ren, the first one up to our truck.
"He'll be fine," I said, getting out. "The doctor thinks he had a heart attack."
"Thank God he's all right," said Nelson. "Nothing like that has ever happened before."
"It's a shame you missed the Mud-Dance," said Vernon Speck. I almost couldn't tell who he was. He was covered in dark brown mud from his white hair to his feet. His loincloth wasn't nearly as muddy as the rest of him. I suspected that he had removed it to perform his plastering job, but I didn't dare ask.
The Tenor Wore Tapshoes (The Liturgical Mysteries) Page 12