Dalen heads me off when I’m dumping my pails.
“Tonight, Ray.” The guy looks, of all things, nervous. “Can I go out there? Can I have a chance to speak to the audience?”
He’s twitching and scratching at his arms.
“Is it like an addiction for you?” I ask. “Public speaking?”
“No, no, not at all, public speaking terrifies me, actually. But you were right. About how I’d started using the wrong measurements. This is as a chance for me to change that. My time here’s been an eye-opener for me. I’ve been more energized. Helping a real case. You. You’d be floundering without me, right?”
“Thanks, yeah, but I still don’t know the meaning of life.”
“I only mean, I can see the difference I’m making, and now I want to help everyone.”
I frown.
“I promise to keep it short. I am also willing to make it entirely complimentary.”
He bops up and down. A sheen of desperation shines in his eyes.
“I guess.”
“Great! How about ‘Mud, Fire, and Firing You Up with Dalen Anders’?”
“Maybe next time,” I say.
“Right, right, no time to change the media you’ve sent out.”
“Media, yeah, I wish.” I roll my eyes.
He claps his hands together and says, “Don’t worry, Ray, I can help there.”
He is off to his bus before I have a chance to ask what he means. I start to follow him, but a teary Tina shuts the door on the office. She’s been using the phone. I freeze, and so does she, except for the tears. Those keep coming.
I walk up to her. Supreme dork. Realizing that it’s not all about me, I ask, “How’s your dad doing?” She collapses into my arms. “What? What?”
She steps back, looks to the sky and then blows out her cheeks with each heaving breath.
“He had an . . . they call it an adverse reaction,” she cries and clutches me around the neck.
“Is he okay?” I hold her close.
“I spoke to him—he doesn’t want me to see him like this. Says he’s fine but won’t be home today.”
“Okay, then, all right.” I’m thinking fast for some way to console her. It can’t be good if the drugs that are supposed to kill your disease are killing you instead. If he’s okay, though, what she really needs is a distraction. “Say, uh, wanna help with Mud and Fire? I could sure use it.”
She nods a snuffly nose into my shirt. It leaves a snail trail, but I’m not really one to worry about dirty clothes. When my question’s out it sounds more selfish, but I babble on as we head over to Pulled Beef. I’m hyperaware of my hand on her shoulder blade.
“Mud is bigger than I ever hoped it could be. Truck and ATV races. Uncle Jamie’s doing this fireworks display at night. We’ll need lots and lots of burgers. Let’s try to beat the record? Okay?”
“Is Crystal racing her ATV?” she asks.
“No, I haven’t seen her. I think she’s after the bear.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I leave her grilling patties and miss the warmth of her skin against my hand.
My mother says nothing as I pass her and climb into the office to do the bare minimum of paperwork before I rush back out a half an hour later.
I shut my eyes. I hear everything. Obelix clearing the course, asking campers to keep furniture and vehicles well on to their lots; some woman sings in the shower. The pop of grease. The bass beat of a dance song thumps as someone does a chore of their own. It’s the music of the RV park. The swing set squeals. I smile at Penny, who stares back, waving with fingers that grip the rusting chain.
I can do this. I own this. It may not be the meaning of life, but it’s something.
The rumble of a truck arriving overwhelms all else. Mud and Fire—it’s here.
Actually.
It’s early.
Chapter 35
The first pickup truck arrives at noon, but to call it a “truck” is like calling Big Mountain “a hill.” The monster sits atop a raised chassis with tires as tall as I am. They rub against the gate posts as they ease into the park. Stenciled on its bright yellow hood is the name Golden Nugget. A woman hops out, swings down to hang from the running board and then lands in the mud.
“Saw the news release,” she says. “Where’s the track?” I’m just staring, wide-eyed. “Hello? Where’s the course? Who’s running this thing?” she asks.
“Sorry, looking at him,” I say, glancing at a tire and trying to determine if the truck is going to fit down the road. “The park’s the track.”
Her smile broadens. “Demolition? I get to run over those?”
“What? The trailers? No, no,” I say, imagining how easily Golden Nugget’s wheels could crush the RVs. “It’s the road.”
Maybe she sees how anxious I am because she says, “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on the racers. But I better make sure I can handle those turns.”
I nod and she lowers a ladder to climb back in.
Blue smoke pumps from the chrome exhaust pipes that hug the cab. The truck idles down the first road, a foot to spare on either side. Obelix jiggles up and down, hooting.
“Can you believe who it is? Can you?”
I can’t. “Did you send out a press release?” I ask, but Obelix is running to the next road over to catch another glimpse of the monster truck.
The second truck arrives ten minutes later. Stars riddle the glossy black paint. Neither of these trucks is on my list of entries. Something’s happened. I jog to where Dalen’s bus is tucked just outside of camp. A broad satellite dish perches on top. Charlie lets me up.
“Hi, Charlie.” She smiles at me before going back to reading her Kindle. I hear Dalen practicing his speech.
“Who can do it?” he asks. “I can’t hear you . . . who can do it?” He gives himself a round of applause. “You can! Crowd roars. Dalen, Dalen, Dal—!”
He catches sight of me.
“Only a couple minutes, right?” I say. “That’s all you’ll have.”
“I can read audiences, Ray, don’t worry.” He holds out calming hands. “I won’t hog the mic.”
I frown.
“Did you issue a press release about Mud and Fire?”
He nods frantically and gives a thumbs-up. “You’re welcome! Did you know that people pay upward of a thousand dollars to attend my workshops? Hey, I’m happy to help. But don’t worry. I am sure some of the people who come will be here for the truck race.”
Panic-berg must have been hiding in my gut, because it does a flip to remind me of its presence. I quake with anger, but Dalen’s back to rehearsing. There’s nothing to be done about the press release now. It explains the new arrivals. Another pair of souped-up trucks roar down the road, downshifting, engines growling. These are pros—Monster Muck and Deadly Delilah are written on their respective hoods.
There goes my afternoon.
I start registering new competitors, sorting out timing and figuring out where to park everyone. By three o’clock, the road into camp’s blocked. Almost fifty competitors are already registered, and more are waiting—and that’s only the trucks. Spectators hoof it in, lugging camping chairs and coolers. Obelix is nearly peeing his pants, hopping up and down as he lines people up along the course. A news helicopter swivels overhead.
“Gear up, Tina,” I say, as I pass by Pulled Beef. “As many burgers as you can, just make them up, you’ll sell out in an hour.” She nods, a focused look on her face. At the very least, she’s keeping so busy she barely has time to think about her father. As I walk away I realize she’s humming. It’s the song I’d tried to sing. The melody lifts on the morning’s light wind and me along with it, as if I’d never attempted to profess my love to her. The bear sculpture shines in the sun. The chainsaw and chisel marks have smoothed in the heat.
When I rush by my mother, she folds her arms across her chest.
“Should be charging,” she says. “And you gots two toilets plugged.”
&
nbsp; “You want to file a tenant’s complaint?” I demand. It’s hard to believe the clouds could drift over my soul so quickly, but here I stand and glower. The sculpture’s still at my back, the song still on the air, but there’s a dark scowl on my face.
Her back straightens as her lips push out but, soon after, her shoulders roll. Head hangs. There’s more that I want to say. This whole thing hasn’t been my fault. It isn’t just her summer Grandma’s dying ruined. Is ruining. And somehow I sense that if I strike at her now, it’ll be over. She’ll fold her tent. I’ll have won.
“Mama,” I say. She’s shaking her head, but keeping it all bent like it’s ready for my guillotine.
Once, when I was little, a turtle with a cracked shell writhed on the road. It had been run over but still lived. Grandma had been driving her pickup and, when I pointed it out, she hammered the brakes so fast I slammed into the dashboard. She leaped from the truck, waving at the oncoming traffic to slow, yelling for me to save the turtle. I ran over to it and stood above it. Its neck strained like my mom’s now, the turtle’s expression the same grimace my mother wears. I pulled the turtle to the side of the road and shoved it into the ditch. Never knew what happened to the little guy.
“Would you help me?” I ask my mother. “I could really use some help.”
Her neck lifts.
“No toilets,” she says, but the edge in her tone has blunted. I know that if I ask her to clean the toilets, she will.
“You’re in charge of crowd and ATV control,” I say instead. The ATVs buzz in the background, ripping up the sides of the roads and slithering through the mud between trucks.
Her arms are folded across her chest again. “Well, since you asked. And since I want a camp left when I take it back, I’ll help.”
If she’d kept talking, I might have told her to forget it, but she didn’t. She always seems to know how far she can push me.
By 4:30, my mom has assigned the audience the same numbers as those on trailer slabs. They’re setting up their chairs. I haven’t seen a fist fight in at least five minutes. Obelix has ranked all the competitors that can squeeze through the traffic jam. Deneze straddles his ATV near all the friends he registered. They’ve been pushed off to the side as if they’re some street gang. They lounge on their hefty four-wheelers.
“You okay, Ray?” Deneze asks.
I nod. “Yeah, stay cool,” I say.
“We’re cool if they’re cool.”
“They” are another group of riders, from town. The simmering competition between rez jobs and contracts, and townie jobs and contracts, holds no bounds, and winning today will be about far more than a trophy for them.
Trophy. I don’t even have a trophy. What are these people here for? There’s no prize money, nothing to put on a mantel. At least no “pro” ATVers have arrived.
“Get something started,” Deneze recommends. “Before someone else does.”
I grab the megaphone my mom’s been using to shout her demands. “Mom, figure out how to keep the townies from brawling with Deneze’s crew . . . please,” I say quietly, just to her, and she struts off. After a deep breath, I announce, “Dalen Anders, Dalen Anders will be speaking at the starting line, come listen to our very own celebrity.”
The clapping’s more muted than I expected, but Dalen exits the bus like a billion dollars, all teeth and shooting his shirt cuffs. He picks his way carefully through all the mud, leaping to dry spots like a deer.
“Who can do it?” he hollers, the question ridden over by the roar of an engine.
The stage is the back of Obelix’s pickup. Dalen hops on up and lifts his arms to the crowd. I hand him the megaphone.
Whether to see Dalen or because they have nothing better to do, people drift toward the silver GMC pickup, many clutching burgers in their hands. Tina must be crushed beneath the weight of orders.
“Thank you, thank you for coming!” Dalen yells. “Welcome to Mud, Fire, and Firing It Up with Dalen Anders!”
Over the sporadic applause he starts his patter.
“Who here feels aimless?” He doesn’t really wait for an answer, just nods at the audience as if they’re all nodding back too. They’re not. “Feel guilty about not achieving more? Uh-huh, guilt is the emotion of the past.
“Who here’s fought with their spouse? Say aye.” He smiles at the muttered “ayes.” “How about your girlfriend or boyfriend? Of course you have. You’re tired. You’re frustrated. Sometimes you think—this isn’t the life I wanted. I want more! But I’m stuck!”
This doesn’t feel like a two-minute beginning. Obelix has the trucks lined up, one after the other. It’s remarkable really, given there’s so little room to maneuver. Only half of the audience is following Dalen; the others snap pictures of the first truck at the start line. A portly man, decked out in full leathers that sparkle, signs autographs. His machine looks more tire than truck and sports a big multi-eyed blower on the hood.
“I’m here to tell you the secrets of ancients,” Dalen says, his voice loud to compete with the trucks. “The wisdom that has come to me after years of meditation.”
This garners more interest. People stop talking to one another and stare up at Dalen. Who doesn’t want to know secrets? I understand. I did, too.
“Who here drinks too much? Watches too much TV? Smokes, but wants to stop?” The smokers in the camp seem to draw in a single sharp breath of exhaust-filled air. “How about those extra pounds? Who doesn’t have a few of those they’d rather not be carrying around?”
There’s an angry buzz and laughter in the wrong places. What’s gone wrong?
“These are symptoms, folks, symptoms and analgesics of an unfulfilled life!”
He has their attention, but I’m not sure it’s the sort anyone wants, all tight eyes and lips. These people, I realize, they’re not here for “Firing It Up with Dalen Anders,” they’re here for “Mud and Fire.” When Dalen arrived at Sunny Days, it was because I called him. I was open to his messages; this crowd’s just anxious for the starter gun.
“I’ve traveled the jungles of Borneo. The mountains of Northern India. I’ve studied with ancient orders of monks, and today I bring you insights and secrets. Are you ready?”
He stumbles, and the megaphone emits a piercing shriek. By my watch he’s already had his two minutes. Even I can read this crowd. In my head, I’m thinking—Give these guys a secret, a good one, now!
“Why do you race? The thrill. To feel. Am I right? When you’re racing, you’re in the moment. And that’s where you should always be. Every day you should wake excited, with a little vomit in your mouths.” Dalen laughs. “And yet, you what? You run off to your shifts at the mines, don’t you? Day in day out, the same job. You feel guilty about the past and yearn for the future. You’re never in the present.”
One of the jacks steps close to the stage and says, “I like my job.”
“Me, too,” comes another.
“I don’t,” one man says, “but if I didn’t do it my family would starve.”
Dalen hones in on this man as if seeing a problem he can solve. “Your only limitations, my friend, are those you place on yourself.” He smiles around at snarling eyes. “Yes, you can. Who can do it?”
There’s silence, and then, “My limitations are an empty bank account and hungry kids,” a woman says.
“Our thoughts are our own prisons. If you can see it, you can be it!” Dalen yells.
“Start the race!” someone shouts. I’m running for the tailgate where Dalen stands, his arms out, confused.
“Start the race!” Others take up the call.
“See this!” Booing starts, and a clod of mud catches Dalen on the shoulder. He falls back like he’s been punched. I can see the hurt in his eyes, even though he keeps smiling as he rolls to the gate and down out of the truck. I don’t have time to console him. He doesn’t seem to need it, anyway.
“Tough crowd,” he mutters to me. “Megaphone isn’t working properly.”
; But I’m with the crowd. What’s more, I’m the one who asked this guy to come. I let him speak. I’m responsible, and right now I’m wondering if Dalen knows any secrets at all. Like really? See it, be it? Actions lead to habits and habits to destiny? Throw in some meditation. Really? Here’s his message: If life sucks, it’s because I think sucky thoughts. Sucky thoughts lead to doing suckage. Too much suckage and I will have a sucky destiny. So don’t suck.
“Is anything you say yours?” I ask. “Really yours? Or are you like a regurgitating guru?”
More chunks of mud sail over the truck and strike the trailer behind. Dalen blanches, but I don’t have time for him.
I jump up, dodge dirt, and then shout into the megaphone, “Are you ready for the main event?”
The door of the first truck slams. Obelix hands me the starter gun. I grab the heavy steel.
A cheer roars. This isn’t a tough crowd, not at all. They came for Mud and Fire. They came to forget about life and have fun for a couple of hours. Same as I do with my gaming. How about this? How about, too much thinking about the meaning of life leads to not enough fun. Not enough fun leads to an angry mob.
“Get to your seats!” my mom shouts, and the people disperse.
The truck revs its engine as Dalen glances back one final time. But I have nothing for him. He’s the one who turned my race into a monster truck event. I’d only wanted to make the campers happy and fix the roads.
Dalen doesn’t pick his way through the mud, from dry patch to dry patch; he slops into the deepest areas, mud wallowing around his knees. His feet are bare, shoes lodged somewhere in the muck.
I lift the gun. The truck spins its rear tires, showering the truck behind it in sludge.
I pull the trigger.
Chapter 36
BANG!
When the recoil flips the gun barrel back into my cheek, I realize it’s not a starter gun. It’s real. The helicopter that had been hovering nearby veers away to a safe distance. Luckily, no one else was in the sky.
The truck rips down the lane, and mud waves over the crowd, which falls back. Those farther along the road retreat as the truck approaches. It skids on the turn, hits a tree that shudders and then passes out of sight. Cheers lift on the other side of camp.
Ray Vs the Meaning of Life Page 15