Now in the library, Max selected an issue of the Geographic from 1986 and went next into the kitchen to find something to eat. He had just microwaved a plate of spare ribs and red potatoes—leftovers from the night’s dinner—and was about to return to his room when Koni entered.
“Oh! Mr. Bland! I…I did not expect to find you here.” The Samoan took a quick glance back over his shoulder.
Max explained his foraging mission for food and something to read.
“Oh! I see, yes,” Koni said. “I trust you are finding everything you need?”
“Actually, I was having some trouble finding the salt,” Max replied. “For the potatoes. My Nazi doctor would kill me if she knew I wanted it but, hey, I’m on vacation, right?”
Koni took another look over his shoulder and then stepped to a cupboard in the corner and from it withdrew a salt shaker which he handed to Max. Just then another Samoan hurried into the kitchen saying, “Hey, Koni, hurry up, okay? We need to get—” He stopped when he saw Max, plate of food in one hand, National Geographic and salt shaker in the other. “Oh! Mr. Bland! I did not expect to find you here.”
“Funny, that’s what he just said.” Max gestured to Koni.
“Of course! Ha ha!” The new guy shared a look with Koni. Max couldn’t remember what his name was, or, more precisely, he couldn’t pronounce what his name was. It was long, he recalled, with a seemingly endless supply of vowels, and he thought it started with a T. Or maybe it was a D. In any case Max had resolved upon first meeting him to avoid embarrassment by addressing him as HeyHowYouDoing every time they crossed paths in the station.
The three men stood there in the kitchen, an awkward silence developing. Finally, Max asked “You guys going somewhere?”
Koni and HeyHowYouDoing were indeed dressed for the outdoors but the question seemed to catch them off guard; both men looked down at their attire as if realizing for the first time what they were wearing and Max half expected either of them to say something like, “Well, would you look at that? A triple-insulated parka, fur-lined Mukluks and Gore-Tex mittens! And I thought I was in my pajamas.”
“Um…” Koni began, “we are going to the American station.”
“Ah,” Max said.
“Yes,” HeyHowYouDoing added, “we are, um, paying them a visit.”
Max nodded. He knew they were avoiding something and normally he would have shrugged his shoulders, wished them goodnight and went back to his room to enjoy his spare ribs, not really giving a damn what they were up to. But, seeing how he had been dragged to Antarctica and there really wasn’t much else here to do…
“Bit of an odd hour, though, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, taking a significant glance at the kitchen clock.
“Is it?” Koni gave the clock the same look he had given his clothes.
“Oh, I know,” Max said, “it’s one of those all-night poker games, right?”
“Um…”
“Well count me in if that’s alright. Back in England me and that hack Diego Montrose are part of an authors-only monthly game in Notting Hill. We’re all terrible players, actually, and come game’s end we can never tell who won or lost but, hey, it gets us out of the house, right?”
“I see,” Koni said. “But, no, we are not going to play poker.”
“Bachelor party, then? One of my countrymen about to tie the knot? Although how the hell do you find a stripper in this wasteland?”
“No, it is not a bachelor party, either.”
“Well, you have me stumped. I just can’t imagine what it is that would make you trek all the way to our neighbor’s place in the wee hours of the morning in one of the most inhospitable places on Earth.”
The two Samoans looked at one another, sort of the way small boys look at one another when an adult has craftily interrogated them to point where lying is no longer possible. Koni said something to HeyHowYouDoing in their native tongue and the latter then pointed despairingly at the clock, but Koni made a placating gesture before addressing Max.
“May I ask you something, Mr. Bland?”
“Sure.”
“Why is it the Henshaws seem to be under the impression that you are an astronaut?”
“Because I’ve told them I’m an astronaut,” Max answered simply.
“But why?”
Max had to think a moment. How was he to explain why he intentionally lied to two people for no reason other than they were from West Virginia and he knew they’d be gullible enough to fall for it? Looking at it from that angle it sounded almost mean and he was sure people raised in the idyll of Samoa, even if they had spent several years in the more corrupt parts of the world earning doctorate degrees, would not be able to comprehend such meanness. So he just shrugged and said:
“I get crazy ideas like that sometimes. It’s the New Yorker in me, I guess. It’s a practical joke, that’s all.”
Once again the two scientists had a spirited exchange in Samoan.
“Our trip to the American station is also a practical joke,” eventually HeyHowYouDoing told Max.
Max considered.
“Practical joke, huh? Well, I’m kinda bored; count me in.”
Again the Samoans looked at each other.
“But the joke is on the Americans,” Koni said. “Your people.”
“You overestimate my patriotism,” replied Max.
“It is revenge,” HeyHowYouDoing said with feeling. “Those jerks at the American station are fond of pulling pranks on us here. They snuck over one night and filled the cockpit of our airplane with coconuts and another time they snuck inside while we were sleeping and spilled vats of pineapple juice on our floors. The floors were sticky for weeks and our whole station smelled like rotten pineapple.”
Koni said, “They think the science we do here cannot be taken seriously because we are Samoan.”
“Sounds like typical American behavior,” Max said, although privately he thought the pineapple juice gag was a good one. “I’m in.”
The three men shook on it. Koni then opened the walk-in refrigerator and from a corner in the back picked up a large plastic container.
“Rare steaks,” he explained to Max, holding up the package. “For the dogs.”
“Laced with Benadryl,” HeyHowYouDoing added with a wink.
In his room, Max placed his plate of food and the Geographic on the bed for enjoyment later, changed into his outdoor survival gear and then joined his co-conspirators in the hangar where he learned Tuli was also part of this mission. Because time was apparently of the essence they all set off immediately, Koni promising Max that they would fill him in on the details of the plot as soon as possible. During the trek to the American station Tuli was pulling behind him a sled on which were strapped two contraptions that looked to Max like what his gardener in London uses to spray liquid fertilizer on the lawn. Also on the sled, in a large cardboard box were several plastic jugs with a brown liquid sloshing around inside them.
He bet it was going to be an interesting night.
***
Max and the three Samoan scientists were on their bellies peering over an icy rise at the buildings of the American station that were not even thirty yards distant. Koni and Tuli were scanning the grounds with binoculars. They wanted to be sure the station was asleep, they informed him, since the ubiquitous daylight ruled out sneaking up on the station under cover of darkness.
“Looks like nobody is moving around,” Max eventually said.
“They usually are asleep at this time,” Tuli confirmed. “It is now or never, Koni.”
Koni then split their team up into two groups. He and HeyHowYouDoing would take care of the dogs, he informed them, while Max and Tuli were to take up position at the entrance to the main building and prepare what he called “the Package.” At Koni’s go-ahead they started off, scampering across the remaining open space separating them from the station, Koni and his partner veering to the left toward a small windowless edifice and Max following Tuli until they stopped a
t the door of the largest building. Very carefully Tuli turned the door’s handle and eased it open a crack just to confirm that it was unlocked.
“So what’s the plan?” Max asked. Suddenly, though, the sound of many dogs barking rent the air but as quickly as it had started it died down. Ostensibly Koni and HeyHowYouDoing were tossing them the peace offering of steak.
Tuli grinned. Quick as a flash he unstrapped the sprayers from the sled and with Max’s help positioned them by the building’s door. Next he removed the box containing the plastic bottles, opened one of the bottles and began filling the hopper of the nearest sprayer with its contents. Max followed suit but as soon as he unscrewed the cap of his first bottle he had to suppress his gag reflex.
“Jesus, what the fuck?” he whispered, holding the bottle at arm’s length. “This smells like—”
“Dog feces,” Tuli finished for him. He looked over at Max, his grin nearly splitting his head in half. “We’ve been collecting it for weeks now from our Samoyeds. We liquefied it by dumping it all in a vat of heated water behind the hangar.” He giggled while emptying a second bottle.
Koni and HeyHowYouDoing returned from the kennel.
“Did you get it?” Tuli asked.
HeyHowYouDoing held up a bundle of cloth which he then placed gently on the sled.
“Our flag,” Tuli informed Max. “The Americans stole it two weeks ago and ran up a pair of Hawaiian shorts in its place.”
“They had it hanging in their kennel,” Koni said with distaste.
Max was busily pouring liquefied dog feces into a sprayer, grimacing at the odor. He glanced over at the others.
“On behalf of Americans everywhere I apologize. Alright, I’m done.” And he tossed his last empty jug onto the snow.
After once again making sure that all remained still on the campus the four conspirators entered the main building of the American station with the sprayers. They were now in a hallway that went off in two directions from their point of entry. Koni instructed Tuli and Max to head left while he and his partner would go right.
Tuli double-checked the valve reading on his sprayer, depressed a lever on the handle and began pulling the device behind him. The thing worked like a charm, covering the floor in its wake with an evenly distributed sheen of the fecal concoction. Soon the stench was assaulting the nostrils of both men.
So as not to feel superfluous Max acted as point for Tuli, walking several paces ahead of him, making sure the Samoan had a clear passage. The hallway was in fact an obstacle course of boxes and surplus equipment and Max would rearrange things or shove them over in order to widen a path for the Package. After turning a corner ahead of Tuli and looking through one of the open doors Max suddenly gestured to the other man to hurry over.
“It’s the kitchen,” Max whispered. He flicked a switch, overhead fluorescents crackled on and sure enough it was the kitchen, a square room with appliances and countertops on the perimeter and a large metal table in the center. A celebration had obviously occurred recently because the detritus of a party was everywhere in this room: confetti littered the floor; used paper cups and plates shared table space with balled-up napkins and a two-thirds eaten sheet cake with white frosting, and there were many, many empty bottles of beer…on the table, on the countertops, in the sink, on the floor and overflowing the trash bin. Max, who couldn’t stand beer, grimaced at the smell in here; it was like the inside of a Texas roadhouse bar. Hanging over this disaster area was a banner that had printed with an inkjet printer. The banner shouted “BYE BYE ROSS ISLAND!!!!”
Max wondered what in the hell that was supposed to mean but mentally shrugged it off because time was pressing. To Tuli he whispered, “Okay, make a quick circle around the table and then we’ll get outta here.”
“But, I’m only supposed to do the halls,” Tuli said.
“Tuli,” Max began patiently, “these people stole your flag! They hung it up in a dog kennel! Do you realize what would have happened if you guys had stolen the American flag? Where’s your sense of patriotism, man?”
Tuli nodded and followed Max into the kitchen. He had just depressed the lever and was starting to leave a trail of the brown stuff around the table when suddenly a noise like a door being shut somewhere in the building reached their ears; then, even more alarming, footsteps…footsteps that were getting closer.
Tuli and Max looked at one another in alarm.
Wordlessly, Max ordered Tuli to pull the sprayer behind the propped-open kitchen door and hide there. That left Max frantically searching for his own hiding place but distressingly the options were limited; meanwhile the footsteps were closing in. He briefly considered seeking refuge in the walk-in freezer but remembered that one episode of Three’s Company and thought better of it. In the end, just as whoever was coming was just about there, Max found sanctuary in one corner of the kitchen that was relatively untouched by the beams of the overhead fluorescents, hoping his all-black survival gear would make him blend in.
Into the scene came a young bearded man dressed, oddly enough, only in Bermuda shorts and flip-flop sandals. The unsteadiness of his gait Max took as evidence of his having been responsible for a fair number of the empty beer bottles present. In fact, after colliding with the table as though it had suddenly materialized before him, the lad picked up one of the bottles that was on it, peered closely at it to see how much beer was left inside and, apparently satisfied with what he discovered, finished it off with a single swallow. He then tried staggering to the fridge and this is when he met Max, for although he almost made it to that appliance his advanced state of inebriation caused him to lose balance and stumble backwards right into the very corner where Max was hiding.
Startled at encountering another person the American turned and stared at Max, weaving as he stood there trying to focus.
“Whoyou?” he slurred.
“Uh…the new guy?” Max offered.
The American broke into a smile.
“Fuck! I didn’t know we were gettin’ a new guy! Whazz yer name, man?”
“Uh…Diego?”
“Diego? Like San Diego, man?”
“Precisely.”
“I’m Benji, man. Pleasemeetyou, San Diego. What do you do?”
“Um…I study penguins?”
“Right on; well, welcome ’board, man!”
“Right. Thank you,” and Max shook the outstretched hand.
“Fuckin’ bad timing, though, dude.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” Max asked.
“We’re fuckin’ leaving, man! Closing shop! Pulling up stakes! Bidding a fond fare—”
“Okay, I get the idea. But why are we leaving?”
“The fuckin’ volcano, man!”
Max blinked. A knot of dread suddenly made itself felt in his gut.
“What about the volcano?” he prodded.
“Boom!” the American ejaculated rather loudly. “Doc Lesser says Ere…Ere…(hic)…Erebus is about to blow its top, man! MountSaintHelensalloveragain! Dude, you came all this way for nothing.”
Max felt his mouth go dry.
“Were you here for the party, man?” the American asked.
“Uh, no, I—”
“Fuckinggreatparty! You missed out! Dude, Amber had some weed on her and so we all sat around drinkin’ and gettin’ high. She’s a cutie, man. But she only dates black guys, man, so I don’t have a chance. Fuck! Hey, you know what?”
“No, what?”
“I…am…so…fuckingwasted, man!” The American started giggling. “Fucking dogs woke me up and now I’m starving. I need a snack.” He took a deep sniff then made a face. “Fuck, man! Smells like someone shit in here, dude! What you do, cut one?”
“Forget the smell,” Max said. He took hold of the guy’s shoulders and stared hard at him. “Back to the volcano, Benji; how does this guy Lesser know what he says he knows?”
“Got me, man, I study ice cores.” He stepped away from Max and found another beer bottle with some dregs in i
t. He started dancing and chanting “Ice cores! Ice cores!” Eventually he stopped dancing and told Max, “But Doc is, like, a hundred-years old, man. He’s been studying volcanoes since, like, forever! Plus he’s got that mountain wired, man! Latest ’quipment! Sez the readouts from the tremors we felt the other day were indi…indica…indica…”
“Indicative?”
“Yeah, man (I’m so fucking wasted!), in-di-ca-tive of a massive eruption. Boom! So we leave tomorrow, man. Like, hasta la vista Ross Island.”
“And have you warned anyone else?” Max asked, wondering why he wasn’t on a plane now to New Zealand.
“Yeah, we warned the American station at McMurdo, man.”
“And…?”
“And that’s it, man. We don’t have time to radio every station on the island.” He giggled again. “Guess they’ll figure it out when Erebus goes boom!”
“Right,” Max said, annoyed that this clown represented his country. He took the guy by the arm and began leading him out of the kitchen. “I think you need to get off to bed before you pass out here in the kitchen. You wouldn’t want Amber seeing you like that, would you?”
“Fuck no, man! But why do you think she only dates black guys, man?”
“Probably because white guys are responsible for two world wars and the popularity of Miley Cyrus,” Max said. “Which way is it to the living quarters?”
The American belched, declared again that he was so fucking wasted and then staggered off down the hall in the direction that Max and Tuli had yet to cover with the sprayer. But no sooner had he taken a dozen steps then he stopped, raised his right arm in a gesture of victory, shouted “Frodo lives!” and passed out right in the middle of the corridor.
“Moron,” Max muttered, and then he whispered, “Tuli! Come on!”
The pilot emerged from his hiding space and Max told him it was time to get the hell out of there. But when Tuli once more began slowly dragging the sprayer behind him and coating the floor with the Package Max said, “What are you doing?”
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 18