by Larry Doyle
My Pet Store
Big, happy dogs, not yippy rat dogs or saggy, sad dogs.
Permapup, a medication that keeps your puppy from developing into a full-grown dog.
All the monkeys allowed by law.
Celebrity fish.
A discount spider bin: one dollar buys you all the spiders you can grab in thirty seconds.
Only the most delicious rabbits.
Petsicle Maker, a home frozen sperm bank that inexpensively preserves your pet’s genes should you reconsider after cutting his nuts off.
Gerbils crossbred with phosphorescent algae so they glow in the dark and can be caught more easily when they inevitably escape.
Fur Doo, a pet grooming service that gives your pet the same haircut you have.
Hawks painted to look like friendly parrots.
Really big snakes.
Community Outreach to reduce the number of stray or annoying cats roaming the neighborhood (see above).
Sleeper Camp
We are under the impression that C. views our ownership of the house as a deviation from the original purpose of our mission here. We’d like to assure you that we do remember what it is. From our perspective, purchase of the house was solely a natural progression of our prolonged stay here. It was a convenient way to solve the housing issue, plus to “do as the Romans do” in a society that values home ownership.
—Accused spies Richard and Cynthia Murphy to their Russian contact, from the federal criminal complaint
Jul 25
Drop-off went according to plan. I’ve secured a bed in élite Cabin Eight [$50, gratuity] to better observe alpha camper R., as instructed. I am at present in a lower bunk, and will need to gain an upper berth to have access to the high-level talks that occur up there after lights-out.
A tense moment at First Fire. During the recital of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts, I sang “little dirty birdie feet” instead of the local perversion, “chopped up baby parakeet.” My error was pointed out by E., an overweight boy seeking to deflect negative attention from himself. My response, that E. had not heard me correctly due to the obstruction of his piglike ears with fatty fat, made E. cry, provoking hard laughter amongst the others. The head counselor gave me a demerit for poor sportsmanship, which is sure to put me in good stead with the most important campers.
To the greater glory of Sleeping Bear!
Jul 26
After only one day, I’ve isolated a crucial factor in Screaming Eagle’s continued dominance at All-Lake: the breakfasts are amazing! The eggs are fresh, not powdered military surplus; the bacon crumbles warm and chewy, not chemical pellets. There’s at least seven varieties of sweet roll—soft with no discernable insect parts—fresh fruit, and a nearly endless selection of brand-name cereals served with whole, reduced-fat, skim, and even soy milk upon request! If we were to institute such a hearty regimen, I believe our performance at All-Lake would dramatically improve, and there would be fewer swoonings.
After lunch (all-beef burgers with a choice of real cheese!), I was hog-tied on the orders of R. and stowed under my bunk, and thus am unable to report on the afternoon’s activities. My fears for the mission were allayed by counselor K., who heard my strategic whimpering and freed me before afternoon snack (pineapple on the husk!). He explained that the bondage and humiliation of new mates is a tradition in Cabin Eight and signifies my initiation into the group. Objective achieved.
To solidify my newfound position, following dinner (chicken cutlets—all white meat!) I treated R. to his choice of ice creams at Canteen [$24, entertainment]. He sampled several, tossing them unfinished to the ground, before settling on a Choco-Taco similar to his first selection. The obese E. watched us with growing fury. He may have to be neutralized.
On a separate but related matter, I wonder whether we might devise a better mode of exchange. It’s difficult to find fresh animal scat, especially after dark, and the monies I retrieved from your last drop raised questions at the Canteen. The designated old oak has several hollows and crannies that might equally suffice, I respectfully suggest.
Jul 27
I am under the impression that C. views my stay here as an indulgence, and that I’m being corrupted by bourgeois “treats.” I’d like to assure you that I remain committed to our goal of crushing Camp Screaming Eagle at the next All-Lake, and that I partake of their superior cuisine and comforts merely to not arouse suspicion. I would happily share a single desiccated carob biscuit with my Sleeping Bear brethren than partake in the whole of the Sundae Bar promised us this Thursday.
Now, if we’ve put that matter to rest, I am pleased to report a small but significant victory. Utilizing the warm-water torture technique from training, I induced L., my bunkmate, to micturate in his sleep. Having previously obtained an extra set of clean sheets [$20, laundry], I traded these and my silence for L.’s superior berth. I’m an Upper!
During archery today it became evident that Screaming Eagle would again take this event, and no wonder: their instructor is Park Sung-Hyun, the three-time Olympic gold medalist! I mean no disrespect to Captain F., our long-serving Survival Arts instructor, but it’s surprising how much can be accomplished in an hour session uninterrupted by digressions about ATF agents and former wives who may or may not be ATF agents.
I purchased Northwoods Canvas Utility Pants, Merrell Chameleon Gore-Tex Ventilator Hikers, Barz Cross-Sport Goggles, and an L.L. Bean Neoprene Wet Suit, from the camp’s pro shop, on the advice of R. [$289, equipment/camouflage]. These will allow me to move inconspicuously amongst the other campers, some of whom have made note of my attire. At morning roundup, fat E. commented cryptically that I “looked like something the bear dragged in.” I was forced to savagely pink-belly him as a diversion.
Jul 28
My infiltration of the upper sleeping echelon is paying dividends, well worth the additional outlay to Counselor K. to overlook bunk seniority regulations [$60, gratuities]. Last night R. regaled us for more than an hour after lights-out, artfully melding terrifying stories with ribald sounds, and then, as we were falling asleep, he quietly revealed the depressing familial circumstances that have resulted in his summer-long stays at Screaming Eagle, which he referred to as his “real home.” Then he farted to great effect.
Jul 29
I do remember why I am here.
Nevertheless, nothing of value was learned today.
In consideration of our previous communication, I only made two trips to the Sundae Bar this evening.
Jul 30
Despite strong reservations, I carried out the attack tonight precisely as directed. I am unable to report success.
While I did manage to replace the one hundred Hershey’s bars with Ex-Lax [$500, explosives] before the Great Bonfire, the rigged s’mores were quickly detected by the lardy E., who knows his chocolate. He attempted to blame me, having amassed an impressive dossier, including a murky cell-phone video of me inadvertently singing “Hail, Screaming Bear” at Sundown. (It’s the same melody, and I was loopy on tiramisu!) R. rose to my defense and, invoking the smelt-it/dealt-it rule, accused E. of the sabotage, and of being fat. The missing chocolate was found in E.’s footlocker, of course, and he took quite a beating.
Unfortunately, in the end, the Screaming Eagles, rather than being drained and debilitated on the eve of All-Lake, have emerged revitalized and determined to exact vengeance. And so it is with great regret that I must inform you that we’re going to totally kick your butts tomorrow.
Armchair Father
When I came down for breakfast that morning—Thursday morning—Dad was there in his chair in front of the TV room TV, asleep, or as it turned out, dead I guess. This wasn’t what you would call out of the ordinary, I mean him sleeping, except for the fact that the TV was showing some California beach guys playing volleyball, which wasn’t one of Dad’s sports, though he had been getting a lot less picky these last few months. I remember once I got up to get some juice or Coke to drink—it was pretty late—and
Dad was in there in his chair, half awake, watching a woman demonstrate how to turn your old dungarees into high-fashion designer jeans with something called a Gemm Gunn. And we have cable, so it wasn’t like it was the only thing on or anything.
Anyway, I turned the TV off on my way out to school, and when I got home it was back on, so the fact that Dad was asleep again wasn’t what you would call suspicious. But what was suspicious was that my sister Moll was in there, sitting on Dad’s lap, watching The Ping-Pong and Foamy Show. That was weird because Dad hates puppets in the first place, and especially weird in the second place because Dad had been pretty much a total grump since his unemployment ran out, and didn’t place a high priority on family togetherness like he once did.
—Hey, Roundbaby, you better hope he doesn’t wake up, I said to Molly. She put her finger to her lips, like to say shh to me, but instead she had her finger turned the wrong way around, like to button her own lip. She grabbed a hold of Dad’s old blue robe and cuddled up, pushing her head in close to his chest; then she turned to me and stuck out her tongue. Kind of sick, now that I think about it afterward.
I made Molly and me dinner, and then when Mom came home from work, I asked her if she wanted me to wake Dad up. (Mostly because my favorite show, Operation: U.S.A., was about to start and Dad refused to have it on if he was in the room.) But Mom just made that partway smile she sometimes makes.
—Leave your father alone, she said. He’s had a hard day.
So I had to watch TV upstairs on the dinky TV, which sucked.
The next morning, which was Friday now, Dad was still asleep in his chair in the TV room, with the TV blasting Sea Monkeys cartoons, which even Moll doesn’t watch. I was late for soccer practice, though, so I didn’t think about it too much until I got back home and Dad was still asleep in the exact same position in the chair, watching Chia Pet Adventures, yet with Moll nowhere in sight. I knew then something was wrong. I turned off the TV, and that’s when I noticed that Dad wasn’t snoring like usual.
—Dad. Dad, I said. But Dad didn’t say anything.
I went over and shook him. The remote fell out of his hand to the floor, but his fingers stayed in their remote-controller positions.
I told Molly to go to her room when she came in, and when she asked why, I screamed at her and she cried. Mom didn’t come home for another two hours, and I spent the whole time standing in the TV room, staring at Dad, hoping he would move or do something.
—Mom, Dad isn’t moving, I told Mom when she got home.
—Newsflash, Mom said.
—He hasn’t moved since yesterday.
—Oh, for godsakes, my Mom said, stomping out of the kitchen to the TV room. Brian, this has got to, a, you’re scaring the children now.
Mom shook Dad, a lot harder than I did, but it didn’t change Dad at all. She yanked Dad by his arm, and then she froze.
—Great, great, she said, slapping the back of Dad’s hand real hard. She grabbed Dad around the wrist, fumbling with it for a few seconds, before letting Dad fall back into the chair, into his usual position.
Mom stood there, looking at Dad, like I did, for the longest time, without saying anything. And then she started laughing; and then she started crying, still laughing; and then she told me to go get Moll and pack up to go to Grandmom’s for the weekend.
When we came back on Sunday night, Dad was still in his chair, which gave me the creeps right off, big-time. Dad was sitting straight up, with his eyes closed and this super calm expression on his face, like back when he used to meditate. He was wearing the velvety red-and-black robe Mom had given him for Father’s Day a couple of years ago, which he never wore because he said the one he had, the blue one, was all broken in. In his hand he had a remote control, but not the one from the TV room TV, but from our old TV broken down in the basement. Dad’s thumb was hovering right over the channel-changer button. His hair was combed, and it looked like he had a tan.
—So, what do you guys think? Mom asked. Doesn’t your father look nice in that robe?
—It’s a pretty robe, Mommy, Moll said.
Mom was standing behind me, with her fingers rubbing the top part of my chest, making little circles.
—What do you think, Stephan?
I said the only thing I could think of: He smells funny.
—That’s just the potpourri, honey. It won’t be so strong in a couple days. So, you kids, want to order a pizza?
—Yay! Molly said.
—We had a lot to eat at Grandma’s, I said. I’m not hungry. I have an algebra test tomorrow. I better go study.
I actually didn’t eat much at all at Grandma’s—which Grandma made a big deal about, taking my temperature all the time—but I did have an algebra test. I didn’t study for it, though. I kept trying to think of everything, but none of it would sit still in my head; I couldn’t even get it in the right order. I just lay in my bed, staring, getting hungrier and hungrier.
I felt sick the next morning and I didn’t want to go to school, but I didn’t want to stay home either, so I went. I felt dizzy all day, probably on account of the fact that I didn’t eat any breakfast, and also everything that happened. I wanted to tell my friend Gregory all about it, but I figured he wouldn’t understand and I couldn’t explain it to him either. Whenever my parents used to do something weird like this, they always said I’d understand when I got older, but I’ll bet that won’t happen in this case. I’m sure everybody thought I was acting weird.
When I got home, Moll was there with some of her friends, playing in the TV room with Dad, which I didn’t think was a good idea but she said Mom said it was okay, which, at that point, sounded like something Mom would say. They were all in the TV room, all giggles and squeals, taking turns sitting on Dad, and I couldn’t deal with that so I went up to my room. Well, before not too long, I heard all this shrieking and so I came back down. What happened was they were horsing around on Dad and tipped him out of his chair, knocking some of the stuffing out of him. I sent them all home, and that night Emily Barton woke up shrieking and the next morning the police came and took Dad away.
The police asked me where my mom was and I said she was at work, and they asked me where she worked and I wouldn’t tell them, but they found her anyway.
Uncle Tim came to stay with us while Mom talked things over with the police. It turned out that they had to let her go after forty-eight hours, since they couldn’t find any major crimes to charge her with. The TV made a lot of jokes about that, and not just on the local shows. One famous talk-show guy told a joke about how the police finally decided the only crime they could charge my mom with was practicing taxidermy without a license. Uncle Tim wouldn’t tell me what taxidermy was, so I looked it up in the dictionary. It was an okay joke, I guess. Another guy made a joke about how they weren’t going to charge my mom, but they decided to arrest my dad for impersonating a congressman. I didn’t get it. Uncle Tim laughed, but then he saw me and stopped.
I told him he didn’t have to not laugh, but he turned off the TV and came over and put his hand on my shoulder, like Dad used to when he had something he thought was important to tell me. Uncle Tim told me that sometimes people laugh when things are so horrible they can’t cry, which is something Mom told me once too, so maybe it’s sort of a family saying.
Anyway, after keeping my mom for forty-eight hours and not having any crimes to arrest her for, the police had to let her go. I watched it on TV. Mom was walking out of the police station with our lawyer, Uncle Chuck (he’s not a real uncle), when she was surrounded by all these reporters who were shoving microphones and things at her. One of the reporters kept yelling out, Why’d you do it? Why’d you do it? Finally my mom quit trying to push through them and stopped in middle of all the microphones.
—Can you tell us why you did it? the reporter asked again.
That kind of partway smile came on Mom’s face again. She said: I think it’s important to have a man in the house.
When Mom got h
ome, she went right to bed and took Moll with her.
Uncle Tim says I’ll have to be the man of the house now, because no matter what Mom says, there’s no way they’re going to give Dad back. I don’t know about that. Later that night I snuck down to the TV room to see if we made the eleven o’clock news, and it was like Dad was still there, sitting in his chair, as always. His chair still had his dent; it was deep and shaped exactly like him, fresh still, like he had just gotten out of it to go to the bathroom or something, and I was afraid that if I sat in his spot, he’d be back in a few seconds to yell at me to get out. It’s like Mom used to say: Dad made a pretty big impression on that chair.
Ecstasy
Dating Tips
First dates can be an uncomfortable experience for both parties, but here are a few things you can do to make it a fun, interesting experience for all.
Spit into a handkerchief every fifteen minutes or so.
If your date relates a particularly stiff anecdote, say, “That reminds me of a story,” and proceed to relate the exact same anecdote, only substituting yourself for your date in the story.
Don’t talk with your mouth full of blood.
Driving home, nervously glance in the rearview mirror and say, “Shit, it’s Mom. Hold on tight while I try to lose her.”
At the end of the date, tell your date you had a perfectly wonderful evening, while pressing a dollar bill into his or her hand.
May We Tell You Our Specials This Evening?
We have several.
For an appetizer, the chef has prepared a slaughter of baby salmon on toast points of nine grains—blue corn, barley, rye, chaff, stover, found rice, horse-rolled oats, balsa, and fermented teff flown in daily from Ethiopia—and fancy assorted nuts, which may contain up to ten percent peanuts. The salmon is very fresh; it was hatched just this morning.