Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

  I “accidentally” trip, falling forward and hitting the dock hard. I let go of the phone, and it skitters toward the lake.

  “Noooo!” Hank shouts, diving toward his beloved phablet.

  The huge phone slides across the wooden slats, stopping just short of the edge.

  Crap. My stupid luck today.

  “I’ve got it!” I bellow, scrabbling to my feet and leaping for Hank’s cell before he can get to it. But instead of grabbing the phablet, I bat it with my knuckles.

  The phone sails over the edge and — bloop! — falls into the water.

  “Oh no!” I say as I watch the gleaming device spiral down until it completely disappears. I look up at Hank, whose face is Hellboy red. “I’m so sorry, Hank!” I wince. “I am such a klutz.” I push myself to my feet and brush myself off. “I’m OK, though. So, that’s good at least, right?”

  Hank says nothing. Just stares down at the lake, blinking into the dark abyss.

  The plane rocks softly on the water. It feels more like I’m sitting on a boat than in an aircraft.

  Seating is tight in the Kiwi. It’s not like a regular plane. There are no tray tables. No seat-back pockets. No reading lights or twistable airflow nozzles or window shades or toilets. It’s a bare-bones affair, like you see in the movies — paratroopers headed out to storm a bunker.

  Besides the pilot’s and copilot’s seats, there are two padded benches in the cabin with three sets of lap belts on each, a couple of doors, a few tiny windows. And that’s about it.

  I wanted to sit in the back row next to Penelope and Barbara so as not to end up beside Hank, who is still silently steaming over the incident with his phone. But when I got to the plane, Charlie had already commandeered that spot — a choice that I found odd, considering the fact that I no longer smell and how much he seems to despise Penelope. I gave him a look, but he just shrugged at me before slipping on his surgeon’s mask and rubber gloves.

  So now here I am, stuck in the middle row with Hank, who is staring out the window at the dock where his phone took a swim, his jaw twitching like crazy, as though he’s one breath away from going full “HULK SMASH!” on me.

  “All right,” Clint says from the pilot’s seat, flipping switches and checking various gauges. “Just a quick hop over the mountains, and the world as you know it will be a distant memory.”

  Clint pumps a handle, presses a button, shifts a lever, and the engine snarls to life. The propeller stutter-spins a few times before finally catching. A puff of smoke belches from the front of the plane, wisping off into the air and dissipating like steamed breath on a cold day.

  My whole body vibrates in time with the engine, my cheeks trembling, my eardrums buzzing. A slick metallic smell of gasoline and oil drifts through the tiny cabin.

  Clint grips the throttle to his right and slides it forward. The propeller whirs at a higher pitch, like an empty blender on liquefy. The plane starts to move forward, pulling away from the dock.

  “Hold ’em if you got ’em!” Clint shouts as the plane starts to pick up speed. Water splashes up the pontoons, droplets speckling the side windows.

  We hurtle faster and faster across the lake, the plane skipping along the tiny waves like a speedboat. It seems impossible that we will ever take flight. But then the engine gets louder and the bush plane races ahead until, finally, Clint pulls back on the yoke and we lift from the water. My stomach drops as we sail into the sky.

  I lean over, press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, and watch the world turn miniature below us.

  “Pretty amazing, huh?” Hank calls out over the engine.

  I turn my head and see him smiling at me, all the anger gone.

  “Yeah. Cool,” I say.

  I can’t believe he’s actually talking to me again — smiling at me. What is this guy, Gandhi or something?

  I turn back to the window and watch as we climb higher, putting more and more distance between us and civilization. The land gets thick and dense with trees. Rock formations and rivers appear in the distance. Misty, snowcapped mountains own the horizon.

  I feel big and small all at the same time.

  “That’s where we’re headed, bud,” Hank says, pointing out my window. “Into the wild. No cell phones needed there, for sure.”

  My throat suddenly gets tight. There’s a twinge in my chest. Some . . . feeling is ambushing me. I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t like it. I clench my eyes shut and take a breath, stuffing the emotions back down inside.

  Someone sneezes behind me.

  “Uh-oh,” Penelope says, sniffling. “I think I might have contracted an upper respiratory infection.”

  I twist around and see a masked Charlie leaning away from Penelope.

  She turns toward him and sneezes hard into his lap. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice all nasal. “This must be a real challenge for you, what with your paralyzing fear of germs and the incredible close quarters of this plane. It’s a shame there’s no evidence that respirators protect people from airborne pathogens.”

  Charlie rolls his eyes but remains pressed against the side of the plane. “First, your information about respirators is outrageously inaccurate. Second, I don’t for a moment think you’re infected with rhinovirus, coronavirus, pneumovirus, enterovirus, or any of the other two hundred – plus viral genera that can cause nasopharyngitis.” His face mask pulses in and out with his breath.

  Penelope wipes her nose with her hand. “Well, it certainly feels like a cold.” She coughs loudly without covering her mouth.

  “You’re immaturity is astounding,” Charlie says. “Contrary to accepted wisdom, cough and nasal discharge are not initial symptoms of the common cold. It’s actually dryness and irritation that herald an infection. But then, I wouldn’t expect someone of your subpar intellectual stature to have known that.”

  Penelope laughs. “I guess you have nothing to worry about, in that case.” She slaps his thigh and drags her snotty hand up his leg.

  Charlie stares down at his lap, his eyes wide with revulsion. He looks at me for help, but this time it’s me who shrugs.

  “Excellent choice of seats,” I say, before turning back to the front.

  Our plane crests a mountain, revealing a majestic valley below. The colors are something out of a freshly cracked crayon box: brilliant blues, vibrant greens, fiery yellows.

  “It never fails to blow my mind,” Max exclaims.

  “She’s a stunner, ain’t she?” Clint replies. “Hard to look up the ass of things when you’ve got a view like that to gawk at.”

  Max looks back over his shoulder. “You picked a good time to visit. Last month this was all blanketed in snow. It was a real long winter up here in the Frank.”

  “Cold as a witch’s titty, too,” Clint chimes in. “Been tough on the wildlife, that’s for damn sure. Lots of hungry animals out there, I’d imagine.”

  The plane bucks a little.

  “Whoa,” Clint says. “Steady there, girl.”

  We lurch again.

  Hank leans forward. “Is that normal, Clint?” he asks.

  “She’s just clearing her throat,” Clint says, adjusting something on the dash. “Been a few weeks since I’ve flown her. We’re almost there. Nothing to worry ’bout.”

  The plane’s engine sputters. Coughs. Squeals.

  And shuts off completely.

  We are gliding.

  It is sickeningly quiet.

  So quiet that I can hear my pulse shooshing a million miles a minute in my ears, the blood forcing its way through my constricted veins.

  “What the hell’s going on, Clint?” Max shouts.

  “Give me a sec.” Clint’s hands are flying around the cockpit, pushing levers, turning dials, pulling knobs. “Everything’s fine!”

  “You and I have a very different definition of fine,” Max says. “The engine’s failed.”

  “Noticed that,” Clint snaps, still working the instruments like crazy.
<
br />   Hank and I turn to each other. His face is as white as a blank sketchbook page.

  “What can I do?” Max says. “How I can help?”

  “By shuttin’ yer trap.” Clint cranes his neck, looking out the window — presumably for a safe landing spot.

  “You can restart it, right?” Barbara cries, grabbing my bench back and leaning forward.

  “Working on it!” he calls out. “Not looking so good, though.”

  Barbara swallows loudly right by my ear. She’s wearing perfume. Something chunky and vanilla. Makes me think of Mrs. Baker, my third-grade teacher.

  “OK, OK,” Barbara says, leaning back. “Everyone but Clint, close your eyes and visualize. Surround the plane with white light. Imagine it remaining airborne. Picture the engine reigniting, the propeller spinning . . .”

  I glance down at my wrist. My Baby-Real-A-Lot ID bracelet, just below my dad’s broken Timex, blinks a warning, as if it’s reading my level of distress instead of Baby Robbie’s.

  Penelope nudges Charlie. “And you thought you were going to be killed by a measly microbe.” Her voice is shockingly calm. “Fat lot of good your mask and rubber gloves will do you when we hit the ground at two hundred miles an hour.”

  “Please be quiet,” Charlie begs. “I really do not want your voice to be the last thing I ever hear.”

  “And I don’t want to die never having kissed a boy,” Penelope says.

  I smile. It’s crazy what the mind dreams up when you’re drifting toward certain death. Never kissed a boy. Right. Next Penelope will unbuckle her seat belt and throw herself into my arms, and we’ll spend our last seconds on earth locked in a passionate embrace, wishing we’d had more time to explore our obvious animal attraction and our mutual love of all things anime —

  “Dan.” Penelope clicks off her seat belt, leans forward, and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Huh?” I say, twisting around.

  “Pen, what are you doing?” Barbara says. “Strap yourself in, right now!”

  Penelope ignores her mother and looks straight at me. “If you wouldn’t mind indulging me before we shuffle off this mortal coil . . .”

  My mind stalls, like the plane’s engine. I thought I’d just imagined Penelope saying she’d never been kissed. And why’s she asking me? What about Charlie, who’s sitting right next to her in the backseat?

  And what about Erin? Can my last moment on earth really be a horrific act of betrayal?

  I open my mouth to protest, but I only get as far as “I don’t think —” before Penelope grabs my face and presses her warm, soft lips to mine.

  All questions — all thoughts of imminent death and infidelity — are instantly forgotten.

  If heaven really exists — and I suppose I’ll find out soon enough — it can’t hold a candle to this.

  I’m just starting to get the hang of it, my first (and probably last) physical contact with a girl, when Penelope pulls away.

  “There,” she says, flopping back into her seat and adjusting her glasses. “More clinical than passionate, but it ticks the box.”

  How can Penelope seem so . . . normal? My brain has been short-circuited. My lips tingle, a faint taste of cherry hovering there. An electric feeling runs down my arms. Does she really not feel any of that?

  Just then the engine growls back to life, the entire plane vibrating once again.

  “Yes!” Clint hollers. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! We are back in business, people!”

  “Yahoo!” Barbara shouts. “Thank God for the power of visualization!”

  Everyone around me cheers, but I can’t seem to shake off a vague sense of disappointment.

  Clint brings us in for a nice smooth landing on a small lake in the middle of a valley. There is no dock out here in the bush, so he anchors the plane several yards from the shore.

  We grab our gear and wade through nearly three feet of nerve-numbing water. My skin tightens and stings, and my junk seeks refuge up inside me as we trudge toward the beach.

  “All right,” Clint says when we reach dry land. “My job is done for now. I’ll be back here Saturday morning, round about ten. This same spot. Don’t be late. I’ve got a vacation planned; don’t want to have to leave you out here.” He laughs, though I’m not sure that he’s joking. “Have fun. And stay safe.”

  And with that, he turns and sploshes back into the icy water, heading toward his Kiwi.

  “OK, people,” Max announces. “Let’s not stand around getting hypothermia. One of the first rules of survival is ‘Cold kills.’ And nothing will lower body temperature faster than soaked garments. In fact, it’s better to be naked and dry than wet and clothed. How about we all find a bit of privacy to change and meet back here in five?”

  But before we can disperse, the float plane’s engine coughs and sputters to life, revving loudly before stalling out with a booming gunshot.

  “I am no aircraft mechanic,” Penelope says, “but that sounds problematic to me.”

  Clint slides open his window and leans out. “Just a little hiccup!” he shouts to us. “Don’t worry. I’ll get her started up again.”

  The six of us go about pulling fresh clothes from our backpacks, then scurry off behind nearby bushes, trees, and boulders.

  I choose a secluded shrub and quickly tug off my soaked socks and peel down my wet jeans and boxers. The cool air goose-pimples my clammy legs. I pull off my T-shirt and use it to dry my numbed feet, my cold calves and thighs, and my chilly underlings.

  As I stand here swabbing down, I think of Penelope doing the same thing somewhere nearby. I crane my neck, wondering if I can catch a glimpse of her through the trees.

  I can’t actually see her, but I can hear someone changing. There’s a snap. A zipper being unzipped. A grumbling as whoever it is wrestles with their waterlogged pants. And somehow I just know it’s Penelope. It’s like the kiss made me hyperaware of her, able to home in on her like a beacon.

  Yikes! Speaking of beacons! I need to change mental gears here. Can’t meet back at the lake wielding the Odinsword.

  I close my eyes and think of the grossest things imaginable: Rick Chuff’s unwashed jockstrap, a vomit-soaked Boogie-Woogie Santa Claus, Alan Moore naked and bending over to pick up a nickel . . .

  That’s it. There we go. The blood slowly drains back to my heart.

  “T-shirt’s for the torso,” I hear Penelope call out.

  My eyes fly open. “Whoa! Hey, now!” I fold over, clutching the shirt to my junk. “Little privacy, maybe?”

  “I only mention it,” Penelope says, standing by a tree, “because you appear perplexed.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I scoot backward, the branches of a bush biting my exposed backside. “I was just . . . thinking.”

  She laughs. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Well, carry on with your . . . contemplation. I’ll go let the others know you’ll join us when you’re through.”

  “No, that’s OK. I’ll be right —”

  But it’s too late. She’s already crunching through the bramble, back toward the shore.

  My cheeks and ears are burning hot as I scramble to get dressed. What the hell was I thinking, trying to catch a glimpse of Penelope in the buff? I should’ve just focused on the task at hand, end of story. It was the near-death kiss. It screwed with my head. Made me reckless. And not just that — it made me forget about Erin. My destiny. My one and only.

  I burst from the woods and hurtle toward the shore to see everyone standing and staring at Clint’s Kiwi, still bobbing in the middle of the lake.

  No one gives me a second look as I scrabble up beside them — no one but Penelope. I pant heavily, my hands on my hips.

  “That’s some serious ruminating you were doing, huh?” she whispers.

  “I wasn’t —”

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  Clint is standing on one of the plane’s pontoons, hanging on to the cockpit window with one hand and hammering on the engine with a
huge crescent wrench in the other.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Hank mutters.

  “What’s he doing?” I ask.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Charlie says, snapping a series of photos. “He’s using his considerable mechanical knowledge and years of aeronautical expertise to fine-tune his engine.”

  “Come on, ya bastard!” Clint shouts, striking the gearbox with the huge wrench.

  He scoots along the pontoon and climbs back into the plane. He shuts the door, settles into the cockpit, flips a few switches, and . . . the engine splutters to life. The propeller flicks and stutters a few times and then begins spinning evenly.

  Clint grins big and gives a thumbs-up. “It’s all good!” he shouts as the bush plane pulls away.

  The plane picks up speed and then lifts from the water. As it climbs into the blue sky, a stream of black smoke starts to pour from the engine. The Kiwi crests the mountain and disappears.

  The six of us wait there. Standing stock-still, listening out: for the plane to circle back, for the sound of a crash, for some sort of sign.

  But there’s nothing.

  “Is it just me,” Penelope says, her arms crossed, watching the skies, “or is anyone else getting a serious Lord of the Flies vibe right about now?” She smirks at Charlie. “I wonder who’s going to end up being our Piggy?”

  “OK,” Max says, clearly in take-charge mode. “We’ve all traveled a fair bit today, so I suggest we camp by the lake tonight, smooth the transition from civilization. We’ve got a plentiful supply of fresh water here,” he says, gesturing toward the lake, “so our first order of business should be to build a shelter.”

  “Why don’t you wear shoes?” Penelope asks, apropos of nothing.

  “Oh.” Max looks down at his brown weathered feet like he didn’t even notice. “Well, I like being connected to the earth. To my environment.” He wiggles his toes. “Keeps me grounded. Makes me more aware of my surroundings. No encumbrances.”

  “Yes, but why really?” Penelope asks, cocking her head. “Do you think it makes you a more interesting person? Is it an attention-getting thing?”