by Don Calame
Confabulation. Great. As if smelling like a yeasty foot in Penelope’s presence wasn’t bad enough. Now she’s going to see me screaming a rainbow?
“Hey, back there!” Monty calls over his shoulder. “How’s about concludifying the seating summit and climbing aboard so we can get a move on. I don’t want to point no fingers, but we got some time to make up here.”
Hank sighs and clambers into the van. He takes the middle-row window seat. Charlie shoves me forward so I can get in and sit next to Hank, which I do, awkwardly juggling Robbie and ducking out of my sling bag as I crunch over all of the crap on the floor: paper bags, empty cans, Styrofoam coffee cups, dirty clothes, a dancing Santa Claus . . .
Barbara and Charlie climb in the backseat with Penelope, sliding the door shut behind them.
I twist around and give Charlie a death stare, but he just shrugs and pinches his nose.
“Okeydokey. Let’s make like a fetus and head out.” Monty turns the key. The engine wheezes, clinks, and clangs like a garbage disposal with a spoon caught inside.
“Excuse me,” Charlie calls out. “Are we absolutely certain that we wouldn’t be better off hiring a car?”
“Life’s filled with uncertainties, honey,” Fay says. “Sometimes you just gotta grab your dangle-down and hold on for the ride.”
“Your engine sounds flooded,” Hank offers.
“Nah,” Monty says, his fingers twisting the key. “This is normal. She just likes a little foreplay. Come on now, Bessie.” He rocks back and forth in his seat like he’s revving himself up along with the engine. “Come on, baby. I know ya got it in ya. Giddyup.”
Finally, the van roars to life.
“Woo-hoo!” Monty slaps the dashboard lovingly. “This old broad’s got some life in her yet.”
It’s clear the second we jerk forward that while the van may have some life left, it sure as hell doesn’t have any shocks. We all bounce around in our seats like we’re racing over a series of speed bumps.
Now that we’re all shut in, my bleu-cheesy stench starts to permeate the cabin.
Hank’s nose twitches. He tries his window switch, but it only clicks and whines.
“Can we, uh, get a little fresh air in here?” Hank asks.
“No can do,” Monty calls back. “’Lectronics shit the sheets ’bout a year ago.”
“Lovely.” Hank casually places a finger under his nose and turns toward the window.
The rattling of the van shakes my insides like a badly built carnival ride. Between my ever-thickening BO and this violent juddering, I may not need the doctored pomegranate juice to start confabulating.
“How far to the plane?” I ask, sounding like someone is beating on my back with their fists.
“Not too far,” Monty says into the rearview mirror. “’Bout an hour and a half if we don’t hit no traffic. You just settle in and enjoy the drive.”
I stare at the wine-red Pom-Licious sloshing about. If Charlie’s plan works, this is going to be one miserable ride.
For me and for Hank.
Charlie pokes my shoulder. “Don’t be shy, Daniel. Confabulation is all about projecting how you’re feeling. If the stale airport air has dried out your vocal cords, perhaps that juice might offer some relief.”
“Perhaps,” I say through gritted teeth. “But really, I have to look after Baby Robbie. I don’t want my neglect score going up. Maybe the confabulation can wait until later.”
“Oh my God.” Penelope groans. “Is this the word-of-the-day or something? Might I suggest a discussion, a debate, or a colloquy on the merits of using a freakin’ thesaurus.”
“Let me guess,” Charlie mocks. “Merriam-Webster’s Intermediate?”
“I wouldn’t want to tax your limited intelligence,” Penelope says. “Perhaps you could begin with My First Ladybird.”
“Anyway,” Hank says, his face practically squashed against the window. “We don’t have to force anything, Dan. We’ll chat later. When the baby’s asleep.”
Charlie looks over at Barbara. “Oh, I’m certain Mrs. Halpern wouldn’t mind looking after Baby Robbie for a short spell. Would you, Mrs. Halpern?”
“Ms.” Barbara smiles. “And no, actually, I wouldn’t mind at all. It brings back memories.”
“Are you sure?” I say, hoping she isn’t. “He can be pretty fussy.”
“Not to worry. I have experience with fussy kids.” Barbara leans forward, and as she does, her face contorts. “Wowza. They really go for the realism, don’t they? Smells like someone’s made luckies.” She takes the doll from me and checks its diaper. “Oh. Nope. Clean as Cling Wrap. Huh.” She starts rocking the doll in her arms, a goofy smile on her face. “There really isn’t anything as sweet as a newborn.”
“There,” Charlie says. “All is resolved. Let the confabulating begin.”
I glower at him, then turn back around. I open the bottle and raise it to my lips, pausing a second before I take a heavy slug, sucking in my lips as I swallow. Pom-Licious it is not. More like Pom-Nasty. It tastes like cranberry juice mixed with grapefruit rind.
I start to cap the bottle, but Charlie does his violent throat-clearing act again.
“I cannot overstate the benefits of complete hydration, Daniel,” he says.
I grimace and stare at the near-full bottle of bitterness. I sigh. Take off the cap again. Drink a bit more. God, it’s so awful. My tongue shrivels up in my mouth like a salted slug. I don’t care what Charlie says; there’s no way I can choke all of this down.
“So, Dan,” Hank says, turning to me, a smile twisted on his face, “what are your plans after high school?” He takes a few quick breaths through his mouth. “You thinking about college at all?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Probably.”
Hank nods. “Great. Any idea”— he coughs, his eyes starting to water —“what you might want to major in?”
“Not sure,” I say. “I guess I could try for —”
“Fine arts,” Charlie interjects from the backseat. “At least, that’s what you told me. Daniel fancies himself quite the aesthete. Don’t you, Daniel?”
Yes. Right. Of course. Aesthete.
“Art, yeah,” I say. “I’d like to go for that but, you know, it’s a pretty competitive field these days. Plus, I don’t even know if I’m any good.”
“Well, your mom certainly thinks you have talent,” Hank offers.
“Yeah, but she has to say that.”
“No, no.” Hank slips a thumb under his chin and crooks a finger below his nose, like he’s pondering this — rather than fending off my ferocious fragrance. “Not necessarily.”
“Yes, necessarily,” I insist. “I love her and everything, but she’ll lie to me if she thinks the truth would hurt my feelings. I don’t want to waste my time if I don’t have a shot.”
“You should show Hank some of your drawings,” Charlie suggests. “Get an objective opinion.” He looks at Hank. “You’ll tell him the truth, right?”
Hank laughs nervously. “Well, I’m no art critic.”
“No,” Charlie says. “But you are a doctor. You deal in cold hard facts.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on. Show him. This is the perfect opportunity. This kind of feedback could change the entire course of your life.”
“OK now.” Hank holds up his free, non-nostril-shielding hand. “Let’s not put too much weight on just one opinion.”
“You’ll be truthful?” I ask, bending over and reaching for my bag, grabbing my dummy sketchbook. “You’ll give me your honest opinion? No bullshit?”
“Uhhh, sure.” Hank clears his throat. “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what he needs,” Charlie says.
“Thanks so much, Hank!” I say, flipping to the first page of my dummy sketchbook. The one that is filled with drawings I did in a single night. Using crayons. In the dark. With my left hand.
Hank takes the pad, looks down at the first picture, and blinks. It’s a particularly terrible scrawl of a stick monkey
sitting in a stick tree and eating a stick banana. Think early Picasso. Extremely early Picasso. Perhaps his preschool period.
“Huh,” Hank says. “It’s, uh . . .” He blinks again. “Not what I expected. I thought you were into graphic novels. Comic book stuff?”
“I am. It’s postmodern primitivism,” I explain. “It’s a reaction to all of the hyperreal, overly muscularized male and overtly sexualized female superhero characters you see everywhere.”
Hank nods. “OK. OK.” He turns the page. “That’s a good . . . goal. Let’s see what else you — whoa!” His head snaps back, and his eyes bug as he stares at a drawing of two dancing stick warriors with spiky headdresses sporting comically enormous erections.
I point to the picture with my pinkie and try not to crack up. “This sketch here is heavily influenced by aboriginal phallic art, where they would overemphasize the dimensions of the genitals in order to celebrate human reproduction.”
“Right,” Hank deadpans. “Sure. I can see that.”
You’d be blind if you missed it.
Hank licks his finger and flicks to the next page.
Here we have a yellow spiral sun in the center of the page surrounded by a swirling blue sky and a few black squiggles that could be birds or flying squirrels or airplanes — or just random marks I made in the dark.
“Interesting.” Hank nods. “That’s, uh . . . yeah. But, you know . . .” He closes the book and hands it back to me. “I don’t really think I’m the person to judge something like this. I don’t know anything about art. Seriously. I’m just a dentist. I know teeth. Malocclusions. Gingivitis. Fistulas. That’s my area of expertise.”
Charlie leans forward and exhales loudly. “I believe you have your answer, Dan. You should give up the art thing. It’s not working for you.”
“Now wait a minute. I didn’t say that,” Hank says. “I just . . . don’t know if I . . . understand it. That’s all. It’s over my head. Neo-this and post-that. I’m a Stan Lee guy. You know. Excelsior! Spider-Man. Iron Man. The Hulk. That’s about my speed, artwise. So you should take my completely useless opinion with a pretty big grain of salt.”
“Then, you don’t think I suck?” I ask, looking at him with puppy-dog eyes.
Charlie pipes up: “And remember, you promised not to lie to him.”
“Look.” Hank gestures at the sketch pad. “Granted. Maybe this . . . particular . . . thing . . . is not my cup of tea, but —”
I frown. “So you do hate it.”
“No. Not . . . hate. Not at all.” Hank rubs his sweating forehead. “It’s just so . . . subjective. For example, I read an article recently about a painting that sold for something like eighty million dollars. I can’t remember the artist. But it was this canvas with a big red stripe, an orange swath, and a blue patch. Basically, three fat lines in a row. I didn’t get it. But obviously a lot of people — with a lot of money — did. So who the heck am I to . . .” He gestures at my book.
“It’s OK,” I say, sighing and jamming the sketchbook back into my bag. “It’s fine. It’s better for me to know now, before I waste my whole life.”
Hank pulls his hand down his face. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . . explaining this right.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” I say. “Let’s just drop it.”
I slug back the last splash of the Pom juice. If Hank thought my drawings were bad, wait till he gets an eyeful — and a noseful — of the Jackson Pollock I’m about to pitch into his lap.
My stomach spasms and I vurp.
Orangey acid percolates in my mouth.
It’s been around twenty minutes since I finished the juice. Which means — according to the website that Charlie found the “illegal” ipecac syrup on — I’m about ten minutes to launch.
Though it feels like it might come sooner.
Oh, Christ.
I feel so . . . belchy. Like I swallowed a handful of B vitamins on an empty stomach.
I grab the back of my perspiring neck, my head starting to spin.
This is not good. Not good at all.
I look over at my soon-to-be stepdad. Staring out the window, listening to something on his phablet — an audiobook or a podcast, from the sounds of the droning chatter leaking from his headphones. Completely oblivious to what’s about to happen to him.
I let out another semi-silent burp, releasing some of the gaseous buildup.
I shift in my seat. Take a deep breath. Concentrate on trying to keep my half-digested snacks down. It seems to be working —
Guuurp.
Oh, God.
A giant bead of sweat bobsleds down the center of my back. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do this now. I don’t want to hurl in this sealed-tight death machine.
And most of all, I really don’t want to do it in front of Penelope.
I glance back.
Thank God. Penelope’s asleep, her moist lips slightly open. Barbara is oblivious to the world, cooing away at Baby Robbie.
“You’re looking a little green around the gills there, Dan,” Charlie says, leaning forward and clapping me on the shoulder. “I hope you’re not getting carsick. Just continue to breathe, and try to keep your mind clear. Definitely do not think about the soiled feminine hygiene product that kid in Missouri found in his Hungry Harley’s chili last month. Or, oh, remember the time you bit into that thick, rubbery, urethral artery when you were eating a Doogan Dog? Keep your mind off that, for sure.”
“I hate you, Charlie,” I gurgle, my stomach a roiling pot of corn chips, tropical fruit, spicy dried beef, chocolaty peanut butter, and pomegranate juice.
Breathe. Breathe. You’re fine. You’re fine. I start the mental negotiations.
Keep it down and you will have superpowers.
Get through this and you will sell your graphic novel for a million dollars.
Do not throw up and you will get to date Erin Reilly.
But it’s a losing battle.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. At least let it be quiet. At least let Penelope sleep through the whole awful show.
Charlie leans over, whispers in my ear, “You know what I could really go for right now?”
“Stop,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“A bowl of cold, gelatinous beef brains slathered in warm mayonnaise. Mmm-mmm.”
And that’s it. My entire digestive system rockets up my throat and out my maw — and there is nothing quiet about it.
“UUURRRRK!”
The chunky spew splashes all over Hank — blanketing his shirt, his crotch, his legs. Spilling onto the seat, the floor, dousing the dancing Santa Claus, coating his cottony beard in multicolored curds.
“Jesus!” Hank springs from his seat, headphones flying from his ears as he attempts to scrabble away. If my thunderous torrent didn’t wake Penelope up, Hank’s shriek surely did.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I splutter, before another surge of swill shoots from my mouth all over Hank, all over everything. “I’m not . . . feeling so well.”
“We’re here!” Monty snaps as he throws the van into park just outside a dilapidated farmhouse. “Everyone get the hell out.”
Charlie slides the back door open. The rush of fresh air is a welcome relief. Like stepping out of a muggy, fairground Port-a-Potty into the cool of an old-growth forest.
“Let’s go, people!” Monty bangs his hand on the hood. “Move it!”
It took twenty minutes for us to find a gas station following the confabulation. Twenty minutes of sitting in my clammy sick — the sharp, tangy, barfy odor overpowering my BO and smogging the van.
Hank and I ran through the rain to the bathroom at the Buddy’s Gas & Grub to change clothes while Monty used the dripping windshield squeegee to rake my thick, coagulating hurl off the seat. I also took the opportunity to thoroughly wash my underarms till they smelled liquid-hand-soap fresh. Meanwhile, Barbara bobbed about under the gas station canopy, rocking and singing lullabies to a disconsolate Baby Robbie as Penelope
went into the mini-mart and cleaned the Gas & Grub out of all its Little Trees air fresheners.
You would think that fifteen fully unsheathed Bubble Berry Trees would be able to at least somewhat mask the smell of vomit in a sealed-up van.
But you would be wrong.
I do not envy Monty and Fay’s long ride home.
Charlie, Barbara, Penelope, Hank, and I take turns stepping from the van. The rain has mercifully abated so we can actually stand outside without getting drenched.
As I shoulder my sling bag, Barbara approaches me, cradling Baby Robbie.
“Thanks for letting me hold him,” Barbara says, gently handing over the doll. “It brought me right back to when Pen was a little bundle.” She looks over at her daughter. “You remember all those songs I used to sing to you?”
“Remember?” Penelope laughs. “You still sing them to me. ‘Lavender’s Blue.’ ‘The Circle Game.’ ‘See That My Grave Is Kept Clean.’ Real cozy.”
“Oh, you.” Barbara grabs Penelope in a powerful side-hug.
Penelope leans her head into her mom’s shoulder. I feel a pang, wishing Mom were here with me now instead of Hank. But it only hardens my resolve to follow through with Charlie’s and my plan to scare off Hank.
Behind the farmhouse there’s a corral with a single skeletal cow grazing apathetically, like it knows it’s not long for this earth and doesn’t really see the point of eating any more. To the left of the cow sits a large wired coop containing a small flock of fluttering chickens. A further enclosure holds six filthy, patchy, gloomy-looking sheep.
Just beyond the fields is a row of trees and a lake with a dock and a float plane.
“You all have fun now, ’kay.” Fay pretends to shoot us with a pair of withered finger guns. “Stay safe and we’ll meet everyone back here at week’s end.”
And with that, Monty and Fay turn, tuck tail, and walk-run back to the van. The tires squeal as they peel away.
“You’d think they’d be a little more reluctant to climb back into that torture chamber,” Charlie observes.
Hank eyes the farmhouse warily but then slowly leads us forward. As we walk, Charlie squirts some Purell into the palm of his hand.