The Bob Watson

by Greg Bardsley

  Mama says, “I think Ricky feels left out.”

  “No,” Ana shouts. “There’s no room in here.”

  “Ricky, you okay over there?”

  “Mama, no! He’s fine.”

  “I think he needs a hug, too.”

  Mama says, “Get in here, mijo.”

  I clamber over Papa and force myself in.

  Ana makes an Ooh-no moan.

  “Come on in. The more the merrier.”

  It’s a tight fit—with my knee pressing into Ana’s back—but Mama and I are already giggling. All of our arms and legs are interlocked, and soon we’re all laughing. Someone’s tickling my side, and I jerk uncontrollably.

  “Ow,” Ana says. “Calm down.”

  Papa says, “I say, we sleep this way every night.”

  “Manny, he’s gonna think you’re serious.”

  I can’t stop laughing. Papa’s laughing again, too.

  “Mama, I swear. His whole body is tensing up. He’s trying to fart.”

  Papa gets a breath, sighs, and tries to sound surprised. “Ricky can fart on command? We need to find this kid an agent, Lena.”

  My jaw is clenched, and I’m straining. And giggling uncontrollably.

  “He’s trying to push one out. I can feel him. Ricky, stop it. I swear.”

  Papa says, “Ricky’s don’t smell.”

  “Are you kidding me? Mama, stop him.”

  Mama says, “Come to think of it, Manny, you’re right.”

  I grunt and giggle and tense up.

  “Okay.” Ana tries to jerk free, but we’ve got her. “Let me out.”

  Mama says, “Accept your little brother for who he is, mija. Whether you like it or not, this is your family.”

  My grunt becomes a growl, and finally I push out a short, tight one. And I burst out laughing.

  “Let me out,” Ana says, defeat in her voice.

  “Do you think I could squeeze one out, Lena?”

  That gets me laughing so hard, I jerk back and forth.

  Mama grunts and gasps. “Well, what about me?”

  Ana screeches, tries to climb out.

  I keep laughing.

  Papa exhales, defeated. “Guess I don’t have Ricky’s kind of talent.”

  I keep laughing. Can’t stop laughing. It feels so good.

  Until it doesn’t.

  Oh, no.

  Mama sighs, says, “We should get to the river early tomorrow.”

  Ana cuddles closer to Papa. “Do you think we could hike to that spot you promised?”

  “We’ll see, honey. We’ll see.”

  My heart sinks. I try to wiggle out.

  “Where do you think you’re going, mijo?”

  “Let him go,” Ana says.

  “What is—” Mama stops herself, jerks away from me. “Rick, did you—”

  Ana feels the wetness and shrieks.

  Mama rushes to unzip the sleeping bag and sit up. “Get out,” she says, hushed. “Before it spreads more.”

  Ana scampers back to her bag, yells, “You idiot.”

  I climb out, my heart in my throat. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  Papa sits up, pats around. “What’s wrong?”

  “He peed his pants.” You can hear the tension in Mama’s voice. “There’s urine everywhere.”

  “What?” Papa unzips his side of the bag. “Are you kidding me?”

  My underwear and pajama bottoms are starting to get cold and uncomfortable.

  Papa sighs long and hard. “You have got to be . . .”

  “It’s all over the bags,” Mama says. “Damn it.”

  Ana is silent in her bag.

  “Ricky,” Papa snaps. “Get over here and help us figure this out.”

  I start to cry.

  More sighs.

  “Manny, he’s still a kid.”

  Papa’s voice softens a little. “I know, but he needs to—”

  “Papa,” Ana says from inside her bag, her voice tight. “You know it. Mama knows it. I know it. Even Ricky knows it.” Long pause. “Ricky screws up everything. Always.”

  Bob Watson Step No. 10:

  Lose Control of Everything

  We’re parked in the Robards International lot when Mama instructs Ernie to press his barbecue prongs into the back of my neck. It’s just enough to send razor-sharp ripples down my spine.

  I freeze. “Dude. Chill.”

  The prongs press a little deeper.

  “Okay, listen.” Mama lifts the Nike bag between us and drops it on my lap. “It’s pretty simple how this is going to happen.” She’s breathing hard. “Ernie is going to escort you back into the offices. Once inside, first you are going to find—now, listen to me—one of those red laser pointers. You understand me?”

  More pressure from the prongs.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “One laser pointer.”

  “Good. . . . Now . . .” She shakes the bag of cash on my lap. “Listen. . . . Number two, you’re going to locate Bobby Flanduzi, and you’re going to personally . . .” She pauses, then shouts. “. . . Hand. This. Over.” She drops her chin, gives me the eye. “You’re going to . . .” Another shout. “. . . Apologize . . .” She sighs. “. . . for your part in this. Meaning, you will acknowledge that you’re the biggest reason Bobby Flanduzi had to get involved in something like this in the first place.”

  “Mama, c’mon. The role playing is getting really old.”

  “Mama?” Cujo’s voice is soft and tender. “Was that really monkey drool?”

  “Shut up.” Mama sighs hard, looks around. “I’ll be at the Playroom with the boys.”

  The prongs recede.

  “One question,” I say, and the prongs return. “This Bobby Flanduzi?” I try to look at Mama without moving my head. “Does he know who I am?”

  “Of course,” Mama yells. “You’re Dick Rayborne. Mr. Paperwork. Master of the Goddamn HR Universe.” She puffs, looks around for the right words. “Master stripper of benefits and compensation. The Headcount cover boy? The man who’s made millions by lowering the average salary at Robards International.”

  “C’mon, Mama. Enough with the Dick Rayborne crap.”

  “You want me to call Sabine Rorgstardt in a sec?”

  “Okay, fine.” I close my eyes, take a breath. “Does this guy know that I’m going to be dropping off forty-five thousand dollars?”

  Mama looks at me, sunlight reflecting off her thick lenses. “Call it a bonus.”

  The prongs recede, and I rub my neck, and feel blood.

  Collin asks, “Can I come?”

  “No, honey.” Mama sweetens. “You and I are going to have some fun with Cujo in his secret playroom.”

  Collin brightens. “Cujo’s secret playroom? Really?”

  Mama bites her tongue and winks.

  “Where?”

  Mama nods to the large expanse of bushes to our right. “Right over there.”

  “The wild.” There’s wonder in Collin’s voice, and his eyes widen as he gazes into the bushes. “Of course his playroom is in the wild.”

  * * *

  Collin grabs his hair and pulls in opposite directions, a huge smile developing as he stands before the Playroom. It’s like he’s been presented a gift beyond his wildest dreams—nearly embarrassed, his legs spread wide, his mouth open. He releases an enthusiastic “wow” and laughs as he stands there and takes in the dirty mattresses, the glistening tri-tip perched over a bed of extinguished coals, the sea of empty beer cans, the dozens and dozens of strewn spare ribs and chicken bones, the tiny TV flashing a glimpse of Pops from the Regular Show.

  “Honey.” Mama yanks my arm. “Snap out of it.”

  I motion to Collin. “This is hilar——”

  “Shut up.” She points to the manhole, her hand shaking. “Grab Ernie and get in there.”

  Collin tugs on my arm. His eyes are serious, and his mouth is tight. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” His tone is hushed, and his lips are barely moving, and his eyes burrow
into me. “You truly . . . really . . . truly . . . I mean, really . . . legitimately . . . have found . . .” He nods to the barbecue, where Cujo has picked up the tri-tip with his hands and is eating it corn-on-the-cob style, pulling off pieces with his mouth as he stares blankly into space. “. . . a true descendant of the Neanderthals.”

  “Listen, buddy. I don’t think he’s really a—”

  “No.” Collin grabs my arm, pulls it softly. “Do you realize?”

  “What?”

  He whispers. “Do you realize this is exactly how they lived? Minus the Cartoon Network, of course.” He surveys the area again. “Caveman times? They had no concept of waste management.”

  “Honey, I think Cujo’s never learned to—”

  “Hey.” Mama stands over the manhole, and Ernie’s head eases out of the opening, that silent jolly look on his face. “Ernie’s waiting. C’mon, lard-ass. Let’s get the show on the road.”

  Cujo puts down the meat, wipes his hands on his jumpsuit, and slips into a tangle of brush with a deep giggle.

  “No way,” I say. “Absolutely no way. I’m not taking the drainage pipe back into the campus. We’ll just walk in.”

  From behind us, snapped twigs and rustling leaves. More deep giggling.

  Mama puffs her cheeks, shuffles over, and slaps me. Hard.

  “Hey.”

  “Listen, you twerp.” She slaps me again, and my cheek burns. “He’s not like you. He’s a conployee.” She pauses as if she’s waiting for it to sink in. “Conployees aren’t like you suits. They can’t just walk out of the office anytime they want. He’s supposed to be at the—what do they call it?—the day-care place.”

  A jolt ripples through me. “You mean, the Robards Happy Family Work/Life Balance Day Care Center?”

  She blinks hard, annoyed. “Yes, yes. That.”

  Gee, I wonder why that place is empty.

  “If they see Ernie walking into the office with you, he’s fired.” She slaps again, this time lightly. “You understand? He’s on third-degree probation in there. One more documented ‘escape,’ and he loses his job.” She pokes me with a bony finger. “If Ernie loses his job, the next thing that will happen will be that his parole officer will get a notice, and then it’s back to jail for . . .” She shifts into sweet voice. “. . . my little helper boy.”

  Crap.

  “Okay. Fine.”

  She shuffles around, swats me on the ass. “Get in there. See how the other ninety-nine percent live.”

  From behind, loud rustling and branch snapping. And then, a blur. “You’re it,” Cujo hollers as he explodes past us. Collin spins and wobbles from the tag, his arms out for balance, his mouth open in pure joy. Cujo explodes through the empties, a wake of aluminum rippling behind him, and launches himself into the air, hollering “Collin’s it” as he kicks his feet high and slaps his butt before landing on his ass, sending cans everywhere.

  Collin bolts after him, giggling.

  “Collin’s it.”

  Ernie giggles, climbs out of the manhole, and darts to the action.

  “Boys.” Mama fights off a smile. “We have work to do. Ernie, get back in that manhole this instant.”

  Ernie giggles as he prances through the empties taunting Collin.

  “Boys!”

  “Collin,” I say. “C’mon. Settle down.”

  “Document this, Uncle Rick. The Neanderthals engage in free play.” He turns and chases after Ernie. “Just like us.”

  Cujo circles the Playroom and comes up on Collin’s flank, grunting, “Time for the launch sequence.” Collin squeals as Cujo grabs him and flings him up. “Liftoff.”

  I jolt at the sight. “Collin.”

  Collin windmills his arms as he sails through the air. He shrieks and lands on one of the mattresses, causing a few empties to bounce.

  “Collin.”

  Collin picks himself up and throws his arms up, laughing.

  “The boys are active.” Mama puts her hands up, like it’s out of her control. “And they need to get their energy out.”

  Ernie spins in tight circles faster than I would have thought possible, rippling the empties.

  Cujo exaggerates a tiptoe attack, hands at his chin as he approaches Collin. “Gonna get ya,” he says, giggling.

  Collin backs up, smiles, bites his lip, and points to me. “Get my uncle.”

  Cujo stops in his tracks, turns, and looks at me. “C’mere, Warden.”

  “Cujo’s it,” Collin announces. “Cujo’s it.”

  “Guys, c’mon. We’ve got so much to do.”

  Mama shakes her head, folds her arms, and laughs. “They never get tired.”

  Cujo slinks closer, giggling.

  “Guys,” I say. “Seriously.”

  “Life’s short, Warden.” Cujo explodes toward me. Cans shoot everywhere. Up close, another deep, wet giggle. And then I’m weightless, flying through the air until Cujo somehow catches me and tosses me back up, spinning me and catching me until he slides me gently into the empties.

  I sit up in the empties.

  Holy shit.

  Everyone’s laughing.

  I shake my head, hoping for clarity.

  Ernie jumps onto Cujo’s back, and Cujo takes off.

  “Rick’s it, Rick’s it.”

  Cujo zips around the Playroom, Ernie holding on.

  Collin runs up to me, whispers, “C’mon, Uncle Rick.” He tugs at my arms. “How many times do you get to play with a real Neanderthal . . .” He tucks his chin and looks at me. “. . . in the middle of a school day?”

  Kid’s got a point.

  I get to my feet, pick him up, and hug him, and he squeezes me back. “C’mon, Uncle Rick.” He squirms in my grasp. “We need to get them.”

  Cujo buzzes us as Ernie holds on, still riding his back, giggling. I lower Collin, squat, and offer him my back. “Hop aboard,” I say. “And hold on.” There’s a tight squeal, and soon two little hands clamp on to my shoulders, legs gripping my waist, and I hear his sharp little voice in my ear. “Turn,” he shouts, and I do, until we’re facing Cujo and Ernie. “Charge,” Collin shouts. “Get ’em.” I lock my arms under Collin’s knees, tighten, and charge, nearly slipping on a can.

  “Get the prey,” Collin shouts, his voice rising.

  “Wait a minute.” I stop and turn my head back to Collin. “Prey? I thought we were playing tag.”

  “Same difference,” Collin says. “It’s just that Predator and Prey appeals to their . . .” He lowers his voice. “. . . preference for hunter-gatherer, survival-of-the-fittest games.”

  Cujo bounces past us with Ernie in his arms, making jet-engine noises. Ernie’s arms and legs are outstretched as Cujo twists and turns through the Playroom. Collin releases and slides off my back. “Airplane rides,” he gasps, the wonderment heavy. He looks up at me. “See? Here I was trying to adapt to Cujo, when he’s reminding all of us that—indeed—they’re perfectly capable of adapting to us.”

  Cujo turns Ernie for a dramatic bank. He lifts Ernie high into the air and lumbers toward us. “Dive-bomb,” he announces.

  Ernie makes shooting noises. Chicka-chicka-chick . . . Chick-chinnngg.

  Cujo intensifies the jet-engine noise.

  Chicka-chicka-chick . . . Chicka-chicka-chick . . . Chinnnnngggggg.

  Collin tugs on my arms. “Let’s get airborne. Now.”

  What can I say? I never could have guessed any of this. I never could have guessed the ensuing “aerial dogfight” between Ernie and Collin. I couldn’t have guessed reacting the way I would to Mama’s subsequent clicks—“I haven’t seen you boys play so well together in ages”—or asking for my own mini of Jack Daniel’s. I couldn’t have guessed taking a second mini after I got Collin airborne for another dogfight with Ernie that had us running out of gas quickly and making a rough emergency landing on one of the mattresses, followed by Ernie’s own emergency landing, the prongs nearly spearing me in the arm. I couldn’t have guessed Cujo picking up a beaming Mama
and carefully lowering her onto the “family bed,” where she slowly eased into the middle of the most absurd group hug I’ll ever be a part of, with Cujo wrapping a leg around us all, with Ernie still making gunfire noises, with Collin in the middle, laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming down his red cheeks, with Mama saying, “Still hate families, Dickie?”

  * * *

  I crawl into the darkness, the Nike bag slipping off my shoulder again and again. There’s no good way to carry a bag of cash when you’re crawling through a drainage pipe, and kind of buzzed.

  Never could have guessed any of this.

  At least Mama finally called and left a message with Sabine Rorgstardt. That’s progress, right? I mean, this Sabine woman still needs to call Mama back and agree to meet us, but there is hope. Right?

  I stop a moment. “Ernie?” I can’t see Ernie. Hell, I can’t see anything—all I have is the fading sound of his scampering and grunting as I crawl up the drainage pipe. “Dude,” I whisper. “Slow the fuck down.”

  The scampering stops, so I quicken my pace, hoping to catch up.

  “Ernie?”

  Up ahead, giggles.

  Cujo was right; it is remarkably clean in here. They really did come and clean it out; Cujo hadn’t been joking when he said, “Warden, what do you think would happen if one of your parole officers saw us walking around with muck smeared into our jumpsuits, old leaves stuck onto our asses?”

  I crawl until Ernie’s giggle seems closer. Thank God.

  “Wait up.”

  He scampers up the pipe.

  “Dude.”

  Up ahead there’s a heavy thunk—cement on cement—and then a burst of light. I squint at the rays flooding in, can’t see anything but white. “Ernie,” I shush and crawl ahead. “Wait up.”

  Finally my eyes adjust, and I can see Ernie’s legs dangling from an opening. God, yes, the manhole. I squat-run to the opening, growling, and Ernie’s legs disappear. When I reach the opening, I can hear people talking, someone laughing, and the hum of massive air conditioners. “Ernie,” I whisper-yell. “Don’t leave. Tell me how you—”

  “Hmmmmph.” Ernie drops his head back into the pipe, grins, and puts a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhhh.”

  He recedes, and I rise out of the pipe, the fresh air washing over me, and I feel like a kid again. Pure wonder. A sense of magic. The pride of doing something no one else is doing, something kind of cool that makes you feel you have powers the others don’t. I mean, a second ago, I was in a place that seemed so far away, in a secret “playroom” in the middle of “the wild,” and now I’m transferred back into Robards, fully formed, like I’ve teleported à la Star Trek.