Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

  “Anyone?” Charlie holds up the bottle of hand sanitizer. “One squirt kills the dirt.”

  “Actually, it doesn’t,” Penelope says.

  Charlie glares at her as he rubs the gel into his hand. “Actually, it does. Very effectively.”

  “Oh, it’s effective all right,” Penelope says, “in contributing to the proliferation of antibiotic-resistant superbugs.”

  Charlie laughs. “Oh, you poor, stupid child. Purell happens to be an alcohol-based hand sanitizer. It does not contain triclosan. Or triclocarban. The two ingredients the World Health Organization has named as the main causes of bacterial resistance. Perhaps you should stick to commenting on subjects you know something about. Like obnoxiousness and ignorance.”

  Penelope cracks up. “I’m the ignorant one? Really? Because if you’d truly done your research, you would know that alcohol-based hand sanitizers have been linked to an increased risk for outbreaks of norovirus. Not to mention that excessive use of alcohol gel dries out and cracks the skin, which in turn creates a more direct avenue for infection. But, hey”— she claps Charlie on the shoulder —“if you want to be single-handedly responsible for the spread of gastroenteritis while additionally raising your likelihood of contracting flesh-eating disease and MRSA, you go ahead and slather away.”

  “Please.” Charlie rolls his eyes. “You’re going to tell me about infection? I will have you know that I am a card-carrying member of the Infectious Diseases Society of America. I’ve read the research and have done the numbers backwards and forwards. And let me tell you something, missy.” He tosses his tiny bottle of Purell in the air and jauntily — if awkwardly — catches it. “The rewards far outweigh the risks.”

  Penelope sighs and shakes her head. “I suppose if your little delusions give you some measure of comfort, who am I to burst that fragile bubble?”

  Charlie grips his fists. “I don’t know why I waste my precious breath.” He steps up his pace to get away from her.

  Penelope smirks.

  We reach the weathered and warped front door, the red paint chipping and curling. Hank grabs the tarnished brass door knocker — a cat’s head with a mouse hanging from its mouth — and gives it several clicks.

  We wait for what seems like an eternity.

  No answer.

  Hank taps the knocker again, this time a bit more forcefully. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  I stand here, cradling Baby Robbie, casually looking over at Penelope but pretending not to. I give a quick, verifying sniff of my now-clean armpit before stepping closer to her.

  I lean over and say, “I really like your shirt.”

  “You’d be stupid not to,” she says, staring straight ahead.

  “Kenshin’s awesome. I love how he’s so conflicted over his past.”

  “We all grapple with our darker predilections, Dan,” Penelope says. “Every great character does. Rick Grimes. Two-Face. Jean Grey. Batman. The Hulk. Goku. Some can keep them in check. Others are not so strong-willed.”

  Oh my God, I think I love this girl.

  I mean, I could love her, if I didn’t already love Erin. Which I do. Of course.

  But still . . .

  I swallow. Glance sideways at Penelope. So cool. So smart. So . . . cute.

  Maybe there’s a reason you’ve never asked Erin out. Maybe fate has held you back. So you could meet Penelope. So you could —

  “Waaaaa! Waaaaa!” The baby starts to cry and quiver in my arms.

  I look down at him.

  And see Erin’s face. Her smile. The tiny sweater she knitted.

  Hear her lilting voice telling me, “Take good care of Baby Robbie.”

  Wait a second. I’m being tested here. That’s what this is. Wrestling with my own dark side, just like Kenshin.

  Erin is my destiny. I’ve known it since third grade. She is my light. My one true love. My . . .

  My eyes slide over to Penelope. She pushes her adorkable glasses farther up her cute button nose.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  My heart hitches in my chest.

  Oh boy. This is not good. Not good at all.

  The front door suddenly flies open. A giant, red-bearded man with serious bed head stands in the doorway. He smiles big, his cauliflower nose and long droopy ears bright pink.

  “Well, hello!” the man bellows, extending his thick, hairy arm. “I’m Clint. Your bush pilot. And you must be my passengers! Come on in! I was just getting to know your guide. First time he’s worked this gig. It’s a real shame about Tucker, though.” Clint shakes his head sadly.

  “Tucker?” I mouth to Charlie. He shrugs. We enter.

  “Weather’s cleared up nice,” Clint announces as though everything were normal. As though we weren’t following him through a dark and towering maze of junk that wends through his house. “Should be a smooth flight over the mountain.” His broad shoulders sway from side to side, clearing the walls of trash by mere inches.

  The mountainous piles of crap reach nearly all the way up to the popcorn ceiling. Narrow paths have been cleared to allow passage, like someone carved a labyrinth through a landfill. It’s as though everyone in the world has dumped their garage-sale remainders here: newspapers, toys, old telephones, books, bottles, DVDs and CDs, tools, clothes, lottery tickets, broken furniture, lampshades, a cracked wooden reindeer magazine rack, golf clubs, engine parts, flower pots, several scratched-to-hell nonstick frying pans, and, bizarrely enough, the very same dancing Santa that I threw up all over in Monty’s van.

  I don’t know how Clint lives in this mess. I couldn’t do it. The claustrophobic feeling is bad enough, but then there’s the crushing stench. A disconcerting mixture of deli Dumpster, beef and broccoli, and filthy litter box. With an undercurrent of moldy basement.

  Notes to self: Straighten up bedroom. Thank Mom for cleaning. Never get a cat.

  “Here we are,” Clint says, sliding open the back door.

  He steps aside and we all file out onto the porch.

  A very tan, very lithe man sits on a folding wooden patio chair. He is barefoot, wearing only cream-colored capris, a blue braided bracelet, and an unbuttoned button-down that shows off his sinewy-smooth chest.

  “The travelers arrive.” The man smiles and stands. He is tall — taller even than Hank. “Max Roveland.” He walks right up to Barbara. “I will be your survival guide this week.”

  “Lovely to meet you.” Barbara’s voice flutters as she takes Max’s hand, the palm of which is dark and leathery, like a monkey’s paw.

  He raises her limp mitt to his sun-chapped lips. “The pleasure is all mine, I am sure.”

  “Oh. Goodness.” Barbara shudders and moans, like she just had a mini-orgasm.

  Max turns to Penelope. “And you are?”

  “Kind of grossed out, if you must know,” Penelope deadpans.

  “That’s Penelope,” Barbara answers, swatting Penelope’s arm. “My daughter. She’s just shy.”

  “I’ve got another name for it,” Charlie mutters.

  Once all the introductions are made, Max looks at Clint. “Captain Keatley, are you ready to whisk our guests away for the experience of a lifetime?”

  “Sure thing,” Clint says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road. Anyone need to use the facilities before we leave? It’s the last indoor plumbing you’re going to see for a while.”

  “Excellent idea,” Hank says. “I think I’ll take you up on that.”

  As soon as Hank starts toward the back door, Charlie turns to me.

  “It’s time,” he whispers.

  I blink. “Time for what?”

  He grins evilly. “Evanescence.”

  I look down at Baby Robbie cradled in my arms, Erin’s face staring back at me. “I dunno, Charlie . . . Maybe we should keep him with us. You know, to torment Hank a bit more. Have him change more diapers. Have Baby Robbie cry all night long.”

  “Daniel.” Charlie grabs my arm. “Listen to me. Nothing
will torment Hank more than if the baby goes missing on his watch. It’s the ultimate in parental betrayal. He will hate himself. It’ll eat him up the entire trip.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” I bite my lower lip. “I just . . .” I exhale. “You’re absolutely sure you’ll be able to revive him? When we get home?”

  Charlie squints. “I’m moderately confident I will be able to at least partially resuscitate him, yes.”

  “‘Moderately confident,’” I snap. “‘Partially resuscitate.’ That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, Charlie.”

  “Look.” Charlie sighs. “The truth is, while I was hacking the doll’s software, I noticed that there appeared to be a virtual kill switch in the program.”

  “A kill switch? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means if the baby dies,” Charlie says, “it’ll be bricked.”

  “What? Why?”

  Charlie laughs. “I suppose it’s meant to stop some meddling student from reviving the baby if, perchance, he allowed his baby to expire.”

  “Well, can’t you just unbrick it?” I ask.

  “It’s not that easy,” Charlie says. “Not without the master program that corresponds with this particular doll’s serial number. I could try restoring the entire system, but that will completely wipe all of the baby’s data. It’d be pretty hard for Ms. Drizzler not to notice that.”

  “Well, that decides it, then,” I say. “I’m canceling evanescence.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s our coup de grâce.”

  “I can’t bring a dead doll back to school, Charlie. Ms. Drizzler will fail me for sure. And Erin will never forgive me. She named this baby, for Christ’s sake. She crocheted the sweater for him.” I tug at the tiny blue sleeve. “And she asked me to take care of him.”

  “I don’t give an elongated excreta,” Charlie says. “I’m not about to risk this entire mission because you’re suddenly feeling sentimental about a stupid toy.” He lunges for the doll.

  “No.” I try to spin away, but Charlie’s got a grip on the baby’s head.

  We tug-of-war on the lawn, wrestling back and forth, our arms entwined.

  The baby starts to howl.

  “You’re hurting him!” I bark, clenching Robbie’s body to my chest.

  “And you’re anthropomorphizing it!” Charlie spits through gritted teeth.

  He yanks the doll violently.

  Snap!

  Baby Robbie’s cries stop suddenly, and Charlie goes reeling backward, tripping over his feet and falling to the grass, landing hard on his ass.

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” I look down at the now-headless baby in my arms. Loose wires snake from his neck.

  “Everything all right over there?” Clint calls out to us.

  “Fine, yes!” Charlie bellows, tucking the baby’s head under his shirt. “Just engaging in a little boyish amusement.” He gets to his feet and storms over to me.

  “You decapitated him!” I growl.

  “Who decapitated him?” Charlie says. “If you’d just handed him over, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  I take Erin’s sweater off the doll and thrust the lifeless body of Baby Robbie at Charlie. We may lose the baby in this war, but I’m not about to let Erin’s handiwork get scrap-heaped as well.

  “Just fix him, OK?” I say to Charlie. “Before I leave him somewhere to die. Again.”

  Charlie has somehow managed to rewire the baby’s head to its body, securing the whole thing by wrapping it snugly in its blanket.

  I carry the swaddled bundle over to Hank, who is bent over his backpack.

  “Can you watch the baby while I go to the bathroom?” I ask him.

  Hank continues rummaging in his bag. “I’m trying to reorganize a few things. I’m sure Barbara wouldn’t mind looking after him.”

  I glance over at Barbara, standing too close to Max, running her fingers seductively up and down his sweat-beaded glass of lemonade.

  “She seems . . . busy,” I say.

  “And I don’t?”

  “Look, you don’t even need to hold him,” I say, gently placing the doll down on a patio chair. “In fact, maybe it’s better that you don’t. Anyway, he’s sleeping. Can you please just keep an eye on him till I get back?”

  “Sure, bud,” Hank says, returning to his backpack. “No problem.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and head for the back door.

  Charlie steps outside as I approach.

  “T minus two minutes,” Charlie says, speaking low and out of the side of his mouth.

  I nod and make my way into the house, navigating the rabbit warren of garbage to find the bathroom, which also happens to be crammed to the rafters with crap: toasters in the bathtub, magazines stacked waist-high on the floor, chains and gears filling the sink. It’s a good thing I don’t actually need to go, as I’m not sure I could with so much stuff watching me.

  I wedge myself in front of the toilet, pull the door closed, and count to sixty — just in case anyone followed me inside.

  Then I leave.

  As I wend my way back through the house, I scan the heaps of junk, looking for a place to hide the baby where he won’t be at risk of being crushed.

  And that’s when I see it. A battered old wooden dresser in the corner of . . . whatever room this used to be. Living room? Dining room? Who the heck knows?

  I move to it and pull out the bottom drawer. It’s oddly neat inside. Folded towels and sheets. Nothing Clint ever uses obviously.

  And a perfectly soft and cozy place for Baby Robbie to die a slow and agonizing death until we return and Charlie — hopefully — reboots him back to life.

  It’s turned into a beautiful day. The clouds have cleared. The sky is Twitter-icon blue. All of the trees surrounding us have that lush green after-rain glow. I take a deep breath and catch the scent of Christmas tree pine and a hint of a campfire somewhere off in the distance.

  “Evanescence seems to have gone off without a hitch,” Charlie murmurs as we hump our backpacks toward the lake behind the farm. “Just remember to play up your horrified reaction when you finally realize the doll’s gone missing.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” I say, glancing down at my ID bracelet. Baby Robbie has been crying for the last fifteen minutes, and guilt gnaws away at my gut.

  We step from the tree-lined path and catch up with the others by the shore. The soft ripples on the lake reflect the sunshine, a thousand sparkling gems dancing across the water.

  A banged and battered white float plane bobs gently at the end of a long dock.

  “There she is,” Clint pronounces as we approach the aircraft. “Put this honey together from parts I got off the interweb. Took me three years to complete. I call her the Keatley Kiwi.”

  Charlie’s got his camera out and is clicking away.

  Barbara nods at the plane. “Very impressive, Clint.”

  “Yes,” Penelope says. “Quite the achievement. Though I find it interesting that you’d name your plane after a flightless bird. Were you trying to be ironic? Or just tempting fate?”

  Clint laughs. “Neither. As it happens, my great-grandparents were from New Zealand. Trust me”— he pats the plane’s wing — “this bird flies like a dream.”

  “All right, then.” Max swings his backpack from his shoulders. “Let’s get her loaded.”

  Clint opens the luggage compartment door, and we all drop our bags beside him.

  Charlie breathes deep and says, “Don’t you just love the natural world, Daniel?”

  “Uhh, yeah,” I say, looking at him sideways. “It’s great.”

  “It gives one a certain sense of, oh, I don’t know, liberation, don’t you think?”

  “What? Really?” I glance over at Hank, who’s helping Clint load the baggage. “Right now?”

  Charlie nods. “Yes, right this moment I’m feeling a great sense of liberation.”

  “I don’t know, Charlie,” I say, keeping my voice low. “He loves that thing s
o much. It seems sort of . . . mean.”

  Charlie crosses his arms. “As mean as breaking your mother’s heart? As mean as making you move away from your best friend and the girl of your dreams?”

  “OK, fine.” I trudge over to Hank as he hoists up a backpack and hands it to Clint.

  “Can I borrow your phone a sec, Hank?” I ask. “I want to text Mom a picture of our plane. Make her feel like she’s part of the experience.”

  “Oh.” Hank bends down, grabs another bag, and passes it to Clint. “Sure, bud. But, uh, why don’t I take it? I’ll get a shot of you and Charlie climbing in. She’ll like that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, scratching my cheek. “That’d be cool. It’s just that . . . I kind of wanted to send her a message, too. Tell her how much fun I’m having and all.”

  “Great.” Hank nods. “Tell me what you want to say and I’ll add it to the photo.”

  “I sort of wanted to make it personal. You know, from me . . . personally. Seems weird you typing that for me. ‘Thanks for the present’ and ‘I love you’ and everything.”

  Hank clears his throat. “Right. OK.” He reaches to his belt clip and removes the supersize smartphone. “Just be careful, OK?” He holds the immaculately clean phablet out to me, his fingers gripping the edges, real hesitation in his eyes.

  “Yeah, sure, of course,” I say, grabbing the phone from him. “Thanks.”

  I swipe my finger across the screen. Find the camera app and tap it. Frame the plane. Penelope and Barbara climbing into the back of the cabin. Max getting into the copilot seat.

  I pretend to snap a couple of pictures and study them critically. Really, though, I use the time to scroll through Hank’s texts, e-mails, and photo albums, looking for anything incriminating. Sexts to and from his buxom, birthday-present-meddling receptionist, Sally, maybe? An active Tinder or Grindr account?

  But the only offensive thing on his phone is a text thread from Mom with a bunch of lovey-dovey Boogabear messages. Eww.

  I start walking back toward Hank, pretending to type out a message to Mom.

  I glance up from the phone to check the distance to the water and then —