Ray Vs the Meaning of Life

by Michael F Stewart

  “You ever run a truck rally?” I ask.

  “No,” he replies and takes a drink of coffee from a black mug.

  “Do you want to try?”

  He pauses with the tongs. “You offering me a job?”

  “Not like a paid job or anything,” I say. “More of a volunteer position. It’s supposed to rain for a few days. We’ll have lots of mud, and I saw how disappointed you were.”

  I’m looking down the whole time, beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. Who the heck wants to organize something for nothing? But when I glance back up, he rushes to clutch my head into his hairy chest.

  “Yes!” he cries. “Of course.” I pry his meaty forearm from my cheek and wipe my face with palms smelling of bleach. Woken by his exclamation, his little dog’s yipping away at my ankles. “Shush, Ideafix.” And I smile. “I have to get going then, don’t I?” He shoves me away as if I’m slowing him down. “Take advantage of the rain. Three days—no, I need time—six days from now. The first annual Sunny Days—Mudslinger—no, we need a name— something catchy, Muddy Days? No. Do we charge?” That last bit is directed at me.

  I hadn’t thought of that. “No, let’s keep it small, but everyone has to agree to make the road flat again after. The whole park.”

  “Every tire track filled. That makes sense. I see what you’re after, Swami.”

  For a second I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Dalen there, but he’s not. Obelix is talking to me.

  I practically skip over to one of the rental trailers; a miner’s checking out, says there’s too much mold and she’s moving. By the time I reach it, she’s already packed up.

  “Should be condemned, kid.” She tosses me the key. She wears a beaten cowboy hat and a long oilskin. “Black mold eating through the steel.”

  “All the rain,” I say, and she shakes her head.

  “Not the rain, not the rain.”

  With a tip of her hat she slams the door to her pickup and slides onto the road. The camper trailer is from the forties or thereabouts, probably back from when my grandma opened the place. There’s five of them in a row, all one-bedroom jobs like mine, but they have a certain nostalgia to them. In each window hangs an old dream catcher. Signatures from campers cover the exterior. I set the buckets down beside the door and climb into the trailer to check it out. A dingy bulb casts pallid light over lime green walls.

  I smell the earthy damp and hear the drips before I see the rivulets in the corners. Mold has left a signature of its own. Water runs inside, following a funnel of creeping black. Aside from the mold, the woman left the place fairly clean. The cushions even feature fresh lengths of duct tape where their vinyl had torn. I still need to wipe everything down and empty the trash. I scrub at the mold, taking off a top layer, but it’s chewed into the metal.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m outside inspecting where the water’s getting in. I’ve pulled the picnic table over and stand on the top to check out the corners of the trailer. Rain rattles from the rooftop. The signatures are up here too.

  Martha – 1967 – This place is the best. So long and thanks for the pie.

  Catherine – 1972 – You saved my life.

  JoJo – Summer 1968 – Coming here is coming home, I’d forgotten that life can hold more than pain. And the pie!

  This is not the sort of graffiti I’d expected. Not the “I was here’ stuff on most the walls. These are messages of gratitude. But they couldn’t have been meant for here. Not this campground. Not for Grandma. I chuckle and run my fingers along the leaking seam in the metal.

  Anna-Marie – 1977 – There’s a special place for those who give more than they get.

  Trevor and Lisa – 1965 – Sunny Days lit up our hearts and filled our stomachs.

  I blink and hop down from the table. Written over a bunch of other fading notes I read, Bob – 2017 – Good riddance, at least I didn’t contract a disease. And another: Mosquito – 2015 – Thank you for this special bug-infested haven.

  That’s more like what I’ve come to expect. Not a mention of pie.

  The trailer seams need something like a tar, but for now I return with duct tape and patch it up, knowing that I don’t really plan on ever sealing it properly. Workers up here have few options, so the trailer will be rented by tomorrow, leaky or not.

  I swing the empty buckets on my way to drop them off when pigtailed girl runs up alongside. In the distance I watch as Dalen does chin-ups using the rusty swing set. He’s like a robot. I swear he does a couple with only one arm.

  “Hi, Mr. Ray.” She smiles big. “Is the iceberg melted?” For a second I look inside to my stomach, but panic-berg’s still there.

  “Almost,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow. Did you know an iceberg sank the Titanic? They can be huge and dangerous.”

  A tiny furrow appears between her eyebrows. I wondered when those wrinkles start, and here I am seeing this one begin. If all it takes for a kid to be successful is one person to believe in them, then maybe all it takes is one person for a kid to distrust, to start the brow wrinkle.

  “My mommy said tomorrow means one more sleep. It’s been . . .” She starts counting on her fingers and runs out.

  “Yeah, I know. Not everyone’s tomorrow’s the same. But this time it’s one more sleep.”

  She smiles again, but I see that the furrow’s still there. And I know where they come from. Broken promises.

  Chapter 25

  Pulled Beef’s quiet. Earlier I heard Tina crying inside, but I gave her some space. Privacy. When I go for my shift, the place is immaculately clean, the counter a mirror, the grill greaseless and the floor as scrubbed as, well . . . there’s only so much you can do for stained and curled linoleum tile.

  Tina sits on the floor, thumbing through Dalen’s books. I’d left them scattered there. “What do you think?” she asks. “Think any of this is going to work?”

  I pause, about to complain about Dalen, and then stop myself. Her eyes are puffy from crying. “How’s your dad? How are you?”

  She shrugs. “Trying to keep busy. Don’t want to think about it.”

  We don’t have many customers. Rain falls in a steady sheet, and the only people who come drive up, shouting for a burger from their trucks. It’s not busy, so she cleaned instead. “Maybe I should leave you in charge of the camp?” I say.

  “Maybe,” she agrees. “You can focus on figuring out the meaning of life. I’d sure like to know.” A scrap of paper rests as a bookmark between the pages.

  We sit listening to the rain. A truck drives past but doesn’t stop.

  “Do you think I can figure out the meaning of life?” I ask.

  “I think you can do anything you want.”

  There’s no humor in her eyes. Part of her reply sounded like an accusation, as if I can, but she can’t.

  “That’s part of the problem though, isn’t it. That we can do anything.”

  “Not like brain surgeon’s an option.” She laughs, but not cruelly. Not really cruelly.

  “Why not? If I work really hard in high school this year, I could graduate with a scholarship to university.” I don’t mind her laughing even if it’s at my expense, not if it makes her feel better. “I’m not saying it for sure would happen, but it could.”

  “You’ve got too many choices. Poor you.”

  “It’s paralyzing. When I’m gaming, I don’t think about this stuff.”

  “Only with me. Lucky me.”

  Tina’s angry. I fight the urge to bite back. I struggle for something positive to say. “You make me want to try.” And that’s way too much. I’m shocked at what just came out my mouth.

  She bites her lip, and her eyes shimmer. Then she slams the covers of the book together. “That’s nice,” she says. “I gotta go. Dad had another appointment today. Setting up for another line of treatment.”

  “Good luck,” I say, and she uses my shoulder to pull herself up. My first thought is, she touched me again. I know I could interpret t
hat as my being a table or something, but I don’t. A band of steel wraps itself around my lungs and doesn’t let up squeezing until she’s gone. For a while I listen to rain patter on the tin roof.

  Finally, I push up off the floor, crank up the grill, and start on a Ray Special, frying the onions and garlic before layering in mayo, relish, hot sauce, everything. Then I scoop the mess into a bowl.

  Someone honks.

  “Two burgs!” comes a yell through the crack in a truck window, then the crack closes.

  I draw a breath. Tina partially cooked a half dozen burgers already, so while they heat I focus on the toppings.

  “What do you want on them?” I call out to the truck. But their glass is a blur of rain. Music thumps, jostling the rain on the truck hood and roof. You deserve a bun with some mustard, I think. More stuff to write down. What’s the positive? But before I can think of something they honk again.

  Fine then. They’re getting Ray’s Special. I divide the goo between two burgers and tuck everything together and wrap it tight in silver foil.

  I hesitate and consider making them proper burgers, but then the truck honks a third time. More negative thoughts . . . I grab the burgers I’ve prepared, dash out, and slip them through the narrow opening. Greedy hands take them and then drop out a ten-dollar bill. The window closes even before I have a chance to say thank you.

  Back at the grill I make my own Ray Special. I use the same recipe, but this time I add fresh lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, cheese. The cheese I layer on the patties once they’re flipped. By the time the goo is ready, the cheese has bubbled, and I toast the bun in a bit of butter. The only thing missing is bacon, but when I bite into it, I know I’m eating the best burger Pulled Beef has ever produced.

  Five minutes later another truck pulls up.

  “Swami!” the jack shouts. “Give me one of the new fancy ones.”

  It’s a second before I understand. The Ray Special. They’re calling for it.

  I comply, but add in all the new elements. Within the hour I’ve had three more requests for a “Swami Burger.”

  A third truck pulls up behind two others. Its driver approaches in an oilskin coat. Everyone’s doors open then, and a line forms in pouring rain to ensure they keep their spot.

  For what should have been a quiet day because of the rain, it grows busier quickly, as word spreads of the Swami Burger.

  I know it’s not the meaning of life. It’s not brain surgery and I didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s just a really yummy hamburger. But one step at a time. Happycamperhappycamp.

  Chapter 26

  It’s 5:00 a.m. Dalen’s banging on my door. I know it’s him because he has a distinct knock, like automatic machine gun fire. Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat. Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat.

  I throw open the door and then collapse back into my bed.

  “Part of the meaning of life is not wasting it,” he says.

  I smell the coffee on him. It infuses him. He flips pages in the journal I left beside my computer—I gamed for an hour last night and learned I lost four followers. I can no longer say I have “dozens.”

  “Good, good, yes, yes,” he whispers as he reads. “Yes! When you open yourself to positive thoughts, you change not only your life but those around you. Like this Obelix fellow. It was a good day, wasn’t it? Who is this Tina character? What made you say something nice, when you wanted to get angry at her?”

  “Her dad’s got cancer,” I mutter.

  “Good!”

  I sit up and glare at him. “How is that good?”

  “Not good that he’s sick. Good that you treated her well. You saw things from her side.”

  “Well, it’s sad.” I slump.

  “You don’t think anyone else in this camp has a sad story?”

  Not a night goes by that I don’t hear someone cursing or crying or screaming. Campers are like fishbowls—there are no secrets here. “Probably.”

  “But you don’t know, right?” Dalen sits down on my bed. “Let me tell you. In this camp, someone’s father is dying. Someone’s mother recently died. A woman has fled an abusive husband with her daughter in tow. Another camper comes here because it’s too far for him to drive out for alcohol so, unable to drink, he dries out every summer, and another is here because he’s lonely and people in camp talk to him. He feels like he’s not invisible here—his hobby is shadow puppets, pretty good at it too. You learn these things when you don’t need to sleep. Can you tell me the names that match the stories?”

  “Tina, my mom, the little girl and her mother . . . I can guess the last one, but I’ve never seen him.” Light show, dude. Now I feel badly about my note on his door asking him to hood his lights. Stop all your loud shadow puppetry! “I don’t know the rest.”

  “Nor need you to. You should treat everyone as though they’ve lost a loved one.”

  This is all pretty morbid. I say, “Live like you’re dying, treat everyone as if someone just died. Weee . . . What happened to ‘happycamperhappycamp’?”

  “That’s for you to teach yourself. This is for how you change the way you treat others. Got it?”

  I nod. “But how is that going to teach me the meaning of life?”

  I asked the right question, because he leaps up on the bed and points down at me.

  “What’s your goal for today?”

  I want to say climb Big Mountain, but for some reason that doesn’t seem as important any more. I’m annoyed that I’ve lost followers, followers that took so long to garner, but that won’t help with happycamperhappycamp. The thought of the pigtailed girl and her mother using this as a place of refuge hit home. It sent warm flushes of shame through me.

  “I’m going to fix the pool. Get it open. And be on time for my Pulled Beef shift.”

  Dalen grins.

  “Are you opening the pool because it’s part of your job?”

  I frown. “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “It’s more than that,” he says—he knows.

  “The girl wants to swim.”

  “You’re treating her like she needs help, and she does. What’s more, she looks up to you and you’ve broken your promises to her. When we keep to our goals, we keep promises to ourselves and others. When we keep promises, we believe in our goals and can achieve them. This is why we start small. So that when we know the meaning of life, we see it as something achievable and not another promise we intend to break.” He drops the journal back on my chest and points at my climbing rope. “That rope is strong because it is made with many thin threads. Your meaning will be strong because it will be the culmination of many smaller goals. Keep with the thought journaling, but Ray, the meaning of life is most likely not a yummy hamburger. Nor is it found on a mountain top, not for most of us.”

  I press my palms into the hollows of my eyes. I want to hold them there; it’s soothing to be blind. “I’d rather be playing video games.”

  Dalen tugs my wrists, dragging me up and onto my feet. “Have you heard of interactive virtual reality? You know, where you can enter a digital world in which you can influence what is around you? You can make the flowers grow to the size of plates. The rain fall sideways.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But the technology isn’t quite there yet.”

  “What if I told you it is there. You don’t even need any special technology to see it.”

  “I’d say giddyup and that I don’t believe you.” This is a trick; I can smell it.

  “Look out your window. Try to think of everything with a negative mindset. As if everything’s going wrong and will go wrong and everyone’s against you. What do you see?”

  I have to open the window to see through it.

  “Mud, jobs, my hands hurt at the thought of everything I need to do. How everyone here seems sick with some cough, how they’re killing themselves with cigarettes and I have to breathe it in as I walk by. The trailer park’s a prison.” I blink. That wasn’t very hard and a little too real. I shiver and rub the gooseflesh from my arms.


  “Okay, now let’s see how you do with a positive view. What do you see? Everything is beautiful. Life is a gift. Helping people’s a calling, and not a chore.”

  I’m nodding, but I still see all the work even though I can’t say that. I shut my eyes, picture Tina—a smirking Tina—and then reopen them.

  “There’s a flower over there.” I point at the red flanges of a late tulip, struggling through the thick grasses. “And . . . I wonder if we should have smoking areas of the camp, and non-smoking areas. And . . . I’m getting these calluses on my hands and they’re actually sort of cool.”

  Dalen’s clapping. A slow clap, but still.

  “Did you see the flower the first time you looked?”

  I shake my head.

  “The real world is a construct of our perceptions. If you don’t see the flower, it might as well not even be there. Change your perception, change the world.”

  My shoulders sag as I struggle to control my thoughts.

  “It was harder to think positively, wasn’t it?” he asks.

  “Way harder.”

  “That’s because it’s not a habit. Negative thoughts come easy because that’s what you’re used to thinking, but this is your interactive virtual reality, it is what you make of it.”

  I get it. The flowers. Opportunities to challenge the negative. It’s not the sort of virtual reality I’d hoped for, like fighting monsters with flaming swords, but . . .

  My fingers catch in my tangled curls. I turn on the hot plate and sit a pot of water on it. The crate of Kraft Dinner should have had a dozen boxes left, but it’s empty. “Wha—”

  Dalen drops a bag of rabbit food on the table. “Oatmeal,” he says. “Breakfast of champions.”

  “You can’t take my food.”

  “You’re paying me one hundred thousand dollars. The least I can do is provide a proper breakfast.”

  “I don’t want a proper breakfast. That’s not breakfast. It’s missing three food groups: sugar, ketchup, and cheese.”

  “Those aren’t food groups.”