by Don Calame
“Right.” I nod. “Good idea.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pant legs and look up at the clock. Three minutes twenty-four seconds left in the period.
I lean over. “Can I talk to you a sec, Hank? Out on the concourse?”
“Sure, bud,” he says, chin-gesturing toward the ice. “Period’s almost over.” He rubs his hands together. “Sharks are on a power play. They could take the lead here.”
“I know, but . . . it’s kind of important. And . . .” I lower my voice. “I don’t want anyone else to hear. If we go now, we’ll beat the crowds.”
“Oh, OK.” Hank’s eyes flit to the ice, where the Sharks are passing the puck around like crazy. “If you’re, uh, sure it can’t wait a few minutes.”
“It really can’t.”
Hank nods. “Right. Yes. Let’s do it.” He slaps his thighs and stands, then starts to gracefully sidestep his way down the aisle, his eye on the game as he goes. I trail Hank, making my way down the row. I trip on someone’s foot, fall, and brace myself on the pregnant man’s oddly firm belly. He grunts and shoves me away, causing me to butt bump the heads of the people in front of us.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say as I stumble on.
Finally, I make it to the stairs and follow Hank, who scales the steps like a mountaineer. He glances back over his shoulder one last time, catching a final glimpse of the game before heading through the doorway to the concourse.
“So,” he says when I catch up to him in front of Panda Express. “What’s going on?”
I look around. “Actually, I feel a little exposed out here. Could we maybe talk in the bathroom?”
“The bathroom?” Hank asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
I nod.
He sighs, which means I’m starting to annoy him. Excellent!
“OK,” he says, forcing a smile. “Sure. I can use the bathroom. Sounds good.”
The men’s restroom is all blinding white tiles and gray Formica. The whole place reeks of malty whiz, the ammonia cakes having raised the white flag sometime during the first intermission.
Hank quickly moves over to the urinals, unzips, and angles his ear, listening to the radio play-by-play of the game being piped in over speakers.
“Fifty-five seconds left on the power play,” the announcer calls. “The Sharks break out of their zone.”
There are a few other crowd-beating bathroom-goers straggling about, but the row of urinals is mostly vacant, leaving plenty of options for me. Still, I take up a position right next to Hank. He gives me a little acknowledging nod while still managing to keep his gaze directly forward.
I unleash myself and stare at the perspiring chrome urinal handle.
“Shot from the point, hits the crossbar,” the announcer shouts.
Hank winces. “Damn it.”
Do it now, I hear Charlie’s voice in my head. Right now. What we discussed.
Aw, crap. My heart hammers inside my chest, the back of my neck prickling.
I lean over slightly and whisper, “So, anyway, the . . . uh . . . thing . . . that I wanted to ask you . . .”
Hank’s eyes dart over to me, though his head remains dead straight. “Yes?”
“It’s . . . kind of embarrassing,” I say.
The sportscaster suddenly bellows, “He shoots, he scores!”
Hank’s shoulders slump.
“Oh,” I say. “We missed it. Sorry.”
Hank takes a breath. “It’s OK. This is more important. What’s on your mind, bud?”
Oh, good Christ. All right. Here goes.
“So, you . . . know . . . your, uh . . .” I say, glancing downward. “A guy’s . . . you know his . . . his . . . testicles?”
I look over at Hank. A mortified pink climbs his neck like the red in a thermometer.
“Yes,” Hank says with a curt nod. “What about them?”
Just then a middle-aged Indian guy in an age-inappropriate team hoodie steps up to the urinal next to Hank.
Abort! Abort! Abandon ship! Cut bait! Cease and desist!
No! Charlie’s voice drowns out my inner coward. Witnesses are a good thing. The more humiliating it is for you, the more embarrassing it is for Hank.
“Um, well . . .” I clear my throat, which is rapidly closing up. “I was just . . . wondering . . . are your”— I lower my voice —“you know . . . are they supposed to be . . . really small?”
“Really small?” Hank’s eyes dart over to the Indian guy.
“It’s just . . .”
Oh, shit, I can’t go through with this. Charlie, what the hell were you thinking?
Do you want this man out of your life, or do you not? Say it. And say it convincingly.
“I’m just . . . sort of . . . worried,” I croak. “Like . . . what size . . . is normal? For a testicle? Like . . . the size of a peanut? Is that normal?”
Hank squints one eye. “A peanut? Like, in the shell?”
Oh, Jesus, I think I might faint. Or throw up. Or both. I’m sweating through the pits of my shirt. Hank may be embarrassed, but I am beyond mortified.
“No . . .” I swallow. “A . . . cocktail peanut. That’s tiny, right?”
Hank blinks. “Listen, bud, maybe we should, uh . . . you know . . . Maybe we should talk about this later, in private.”
“Never mind.” I shake my head, starting to hyperventilate. “It’s OK. Forget it.” I zip up and head to the sinks.
A moment later Hank steps up next to me. I look in the mirror. I can’t tell whose face is burning redder, his or mine.
“Listen, Dan,” he says, soaping his hands. “It’s all right. You can talk to me. About anything. It’s good. That’s what, you know, a father — stepfather — is for.”
“It’s nothing,” I rasp. “I didn’t . . . it’s fine. Really.”
“We can take you to the doctor,” he says. “If you’re concerned.”
“No,” I squeak. “I mean. I’m fine. I’ll just . . . I’ll ask the doctor about it next time I see him. I’m probably just being paranoid.” I turn to him. “Please don’t tell Mom. Seriously. I’d die. Promise me. Please.”
Hank nods. “Sure, bud. Absolutely. Between you and me. As long as, you know, you’re sure you’re OK.”
“Totally, yes, I’m good, thanks,” I say, then bolt from the bathroom.
I take a tour around the entire concourse to try to gain my composure, pushing through the crush of people to buy a bottle of water. Letting the blood drain from my face.
That was way harder than I thought it was going to be. Stupid Charlie and his stupid ideas. I can’t believe I let him talk me into doing that. When I get home, we’re going to need to regroup and rethink our strategy.
When I finally return to my seat, Hank and Mom are pointing and laughing at the two guys dressed in giant plush sumo suits, battling on the ice. The referee counts one of the wrestlers out and a cheer goes up from the intermission-thinned crowd.
“Oh my God,” Mom says, shaking with laughter. She sniffles and wipes a tear from her cheek. “That was hilarious.”
I watch her carefully to see if she gives me any kind of are-you-OK-honey-I-didn’t-know-you-had-such-tiny-testicles look, but there’s nothing. So Hank must have kept his promise.
“Hey, do you want to open your birthday present from me?” Mom asks.
I shrug. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sounds good.” I kind of assumed that this hockey night was a present from both of them, but I guess we’re not playing the whole one-present-from-the-parents game yet. Which is good. It means the cement hasn’t completely hardened on this relationship, and I still have time to wedge my crowbar between them.
Mom reaches into her purse and takes out a gold envelope. She leans over Hank and hands it to me.
It’s light. Almost weightless. Which is curious because Mom’s not a check writer. She usually puts a lot of thought into her gifts. Even if they don’t always hit the mark. Like the time she bought me a framed 300 movie poster. Sure, I read the graphic novel, watched the film.
But did I want a life-size shot of a totally ripped dude in a loincloth hanging over my bed? Not really. Still, it’s sweet of Mom to actually pay attention to my interests.
“Go ahead, hon,” she says. “Open it.”
Inside the envelope is a green sheet of paper, which I unfold. It’s a homemade gift certificate of sorts, the message written with gold Sharpie in Mom’s greeting-card-quality cursive.
Mom is vibrating with excitement. “Read it out loud.”
I smile, her enthusiasm contagious. “OK.” I clear my throat: “‘Happy Birthday, my beautiful boy.’” I roll my eyes. It’s her standard birthday-card opening, and it’s getting a little old. Just like I am. I continue, “‘I know you’re sixteen now, but in my heart you will always be my adorable little baby bundle.’” I glare at her over the paper. “Thanks, Mom.”
She flushes. “Sorry. But it’s the truth. Keep going.”
“‘That being said, I love and adore the man you are becoming and continue to become. And it is with this knowledge that I have organized a very special trip: a survivalist camping adventure for you and Hank to share together.’”
My heart nosedives. Seriously? A camping trip? With Hank?
“A camping trip?” Hank says, sounding as flabbergasted as I feel. “You didn’t mention anything about —”
“Shh, Boogabear.” Mom pats Hank’s arm. “Let him finish.”
I keep reading, though I’m no longer here. No longer in my body. “‘Over Easter break, my two favorite men will get to know each other as you spend five days exploring the undisturbed backcountry of Idaho’s Frank Church – River of No Return Wilderness. There you can bask in . . .’” There’s a parenthetical CONT’D and a tiny arrow at the bottom of the page. I turn the sheet over and resume reading, “‘. . . two point three million acres of untouched forest and prairie, which is home to untold wildlife including mountain lions, gray wolves, black bears, coyotes, elk, moose, lynx, big horn sheep, and countless others. No tents, no prepackaged food, no electronics, no modern conveniences at all. Just you and nature!’”
In the small blank space under these words, Mom has attempted to draw some trees, a few blades of grass, a campfire, and what look like puffy clouds with four legs, eyes, and half-moon smiles, which I’m pretty sure are meant to be the big-horned sheep. A few tiny floating hearts pepper the bucolic scene like loving pixie dust.
Tear it up. Rip it into a million pieces, throw them into the air, and let them rain down like confetti. She doesn’t know you. If she knew you, she never would have done this to you — embarrassed you like this, put you in a situation like this. Invited this asshole into your life.
“Oh dear.” Mom bites her lower lip, her eyes big. “Did I goof up? I thought you’d be so excited.”
Ah, shit. She looks so vulnerable. Worried. Like I just told her I was thinking about spending Christmas at Charlie’s house.
“No. Yeah,” I say, twisting a smile onto my face. “I am. Totally. I just . . . wasn’t expecting something so . . . awesome. It’s great, Mom. Really. Amazing.”
“Oh, phew.” Mom lets out a relieved sigh, the excited glow returning to her face. “I mean, it took a lot of research, let me tell you. And quite a bit of money. But I found a company online that organizes the whole thing. The shuttle, the floatplane reservation, the guide, the permits, everything.”
Hank turns to Mom. “You really should have run this by me, Sweetums. I have work and patients and appointments and —”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. For both of you. Your receptionist, Sally, helped me arrange it. She’s rebooked all of your appointments that week, so you won’t even be missed! Except by me, of course.” Mom laughs.
“You talked to Sally?” Hank says, sounding dismayed. “She really shouldn’t have —”
“It’s going to be great,” Mom insists. “You boys’ll get some quality guy time in — you know, male bonding. Five days of hanging out, sleeping under the stars, fishing, cooking over a campfire. I’m telling you, I was pretty tempted to come along myself!”
Hank rubs his face. “It sounds . . . incredible. I just . . . I wish we could have spoken about this.”
“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” Mom’s body slumps a little. “I don’t know, I thought you’d be happy about it.”
“I am,” Hank backpedals. “Absolutely. I just . . . didn’t expect to be included in Dan’s birthday present, that’s all.”
That makes two of us.
“It was incredibly sweet and thoughtful of you.” Hank pats her arm. “It’s going to be amazing.” He turns to me. “Right, Dan?”
“Totally,” I deadpan.
Hank laughs. “I mean, who doesn’t love the great outdoors?”
Um, me. The birthday boy. I do not love, nor have I ever loved, the great outdoors. And I’d just assumed my own mother knew that about me. But I’m not going to be the one to break Mom’s heart. I’ll just have to find a way out of this: too much homework, the flu, a disfiguring bicycle accident. Something. Anything.
Mark my words: A survivalist camping trip with Hank is never going to happen.
Ever.
“Is your mother insane?” Charlie says. “Is she not aware of the innumerable ways a person can die out in the wilderness?” He’s hunched over a keyboard in the back corner of the dimly lit Computer Lab, the blue glow of the computer screen reflecting in his glasses. “We’re talking an incredibly high probability of parasitic infection: giardiasis, cryptosporidiosis, and toxoplasmosis, just to name a few.”
It’s an hour before first bell. Charlie and I have come in early and are scrambling to make this week’s newspaper deadline. Though I doubt anyone really cares. Circulation for the school paper is at an all-time low. Ninety percent of the copies wind up in the recycle bin, never having been picked up off the stacks in the lunchroom and library. The Oracle is on life support, and unless we find a way to turn things around, our principal, Mrs. Horvath, is going to pull the plug.
Not that it would be any skin off my nose. But it would completely devastate Charlie. He’s beyond passionate about photography, and the Willowvale Oracle is the one avenue he has to get his work out to the public.
Hence Charlie’s willingness to stoop so low as to start covering school athletics again.
“She was trying to be thoughtful,” I say, furiously finishing this issue’s comic. “But don’t worry, I’m not going. I just have to figure out a way to bail without hurting her feelings.”
“Wise decision.” He pushes his glasses higher up on his nose and goes back to work, typing away like a madman. “Seriously. Think about it. You accidentally drink contaminated water, inadvertently touch some infected animal excrement and rub your eye, get stung by a West Nile – infected mosquito, and it’s Happy Fucking Birthday, Dan. Enjoy sixteen because you can kiss seventeen good-bye.” Charlie removes an SD card from his shirt pocket and slides it into the side of the computer. “And infection is just the tip of the iceberg. We haven’t even discussed mud slides, hypothermia, flash floods, quicksand, lightning, snakebites, heatstroke, animal attacks, or — maybe worst of all — fecal impaction.”
I grimace. “Do I even want to know?”
Charlie glances over at me. “Let me put it this way. People don’t like egesting in the woods. They much prefer sitting on toilets and playing Angry Birds while they defecate. So they hold it when they go camping. For days. Combine that with extended bouts of physical activity, limited water intake, and the consumption of unfamiliar, high-fiber foods, and you get a GI tract full of hardened excreta much too big and fossilized to void. Thus, fecal impaction. And blocked bowels equals loss of circulation, which leads to a slow, agonizing — not to mention humiliating — death.” He grabs the mouse and starts uploading his photographs. “It’s nothing you ever want to experience.”
I erase an errant line. “Once again, your knowledge of the obscure and disgusting absolutely astonishes me.”
“Although,” Charlie says, c
licking on the picture of the wrestling team. “It would be the perfect thing to completely freak out your future stepdad. Nothing will have him screaming ‘I want no part of this family’ quicker than having to dig rock-hard feces out of his future stepson’s rectum with an index finger.”
I glance over at Charlie, who is going to town on the wrestling team photo with the healing brush tool.
“What the hell are you doing?” I say.
“If Rick can make you suck on a jockstrap, the least I can do is make him appear as ill-endowed as a Ken doll.”
I laugh and return to my drawing.
“You know,” Charlie says after a while. “The more I mull over this camping trip of yours, the more I’m thinking that it might just be exactly what the good dentist ordered.”
I look up from my sketchbook. “What are you talking about?”
“Think about it for a second. You’d get to spend almost an entire week with Hank. Alone. It’s uninterrupted freak-out-the-future-stepdad time. Perhaps your mom actually did give you the perfect gift.”
“You just got finished telling me I was probably going to die on this trip,” I say. “And now you’re telling me you think I should go.”
He shrugs. “It’s a gamble, for sure. But if you’re careful — and forearmed, which I can certainly help you with — it might be opportunity knock, knock, knocking on your door.”
Charlie grabs the mouse and starts scrubbing again.
“I don’t know. I barely survived trying to talk to Hank about my tiny testicles. I’m not sure I’m up to this scheme of yours.”
“Embarrassment is good, Dan,” he says. “The more embarrassed you are, the more believable your issues will seem. That’s why this plan is ideal for you. It works to your strengths.”
Charlie continues enacting revenge on the team photo: giving the players the slightest of potbellies, receding a few hairlines, adding some acne and a bit of protruding nose hair. As he does, he continues to talk about the opportunity that this wilderness trip could provide. And the more he talks, the more I realize that he might be on to something.