fine stuff

“That’s a beauty of a tent you got there. Looks like it’s brand new. Need any help?” The father of the red-haired kids from the next site was hunched down at Bob’s side, admiring the tent and smiling good-naturedly. Looking at the man, Bob could see where the children had gotten their doughy looks. Bob told himself this soft look likely belied the fact that the man was as strong as an ox. At least, thought Bob, he was the size of one.

Before Bob could answer, the neighbour had picked up one of the poles and started inserting it into the tent.

“Um, I’m not really sure that goes...” Bob trailed off as the pole slid perfectly into place and the neighbour picked up the next one.

“Oh yeah, this is a real beauty. Here, hold this,” he said, handing Bob the end of an inserted pole and moving around the tent with the last one. “Me and my wife camped for the last fifteen years with the same tent. That’s ours over there,” he said, pointing with his chin. “We got a new one for the kids but it’s nothing special. Maybe it’s time to get something good. I wouldn’t mind one of these babies.” With this, the neighbour gave a little grunt and the pole Bob was holding snapped out of his hand and into its proper position on the ground. “There,” the neighbour said, slapping his hands together, removing imaginary dust. “Now you just have to stake it.”

Bob’s blank stare prompted the neighbour to pick up the bag of stakes and the shiny new hatchet and begin hammering.

“I have a mallet for that,” Bob protested weakly, seeing that the neighbour was nearly finished already.

“Oh, I’ll bet you do. You’ve got some real fine stuff here. All new. Let me guess, first time camping?” The man straightened up and looked at Bob inquisitively.

Indeed, Bob thought wryly, his mind wandering to his job, where, thankfully, he didn’t need to know anything about camping gear. The near-empty campsite looked bleakly back at him.

“You got me,” Bob said to the man, smiling. He stopped himself from adding, I’m here to relax. Doctor’s orders. Instead he said, “My wife’s joining me tomorrow.” Roxanne. This had been all her idea. She would deny it, but he understood it was her attempt to bring him out of the funk he’d been in since his heart attack three months ago. Before he left, she’d forced him to surrender his Blackberry, iPad and laptop. He’d had some fleeting thoughts of being able to tap into an unsecured wireless network at the town-site, but Roxanne would hear none of it.

“Hey, thanks a lot for your help,” Bob said, extending his hand. “I’m Bob, by the way.”

“Laverne,” the neighbour said, offering a chunky, freckled hand. “Good to meet you.”

A gust of wind blew through the coin-like leaves of the tall, slender birch trees that surrounded the campsite. Bob looked up to see the thin trees swaying, their leaves flipping in the wind.

Laverne followed Bob’s cue.

“I think we’re in for some rain pretty quick here,” he said. “I was going to get some wood under a tarp. C’mon, I’ll show you where the woodpile is.”

They had just gotten their wood under the tarps when Bob was motivated by a rare spontaneity. He pulled a beer from his cooler without thinking and offered it to Laverne. “Join me?” he asked.

He was surprised how easy it was to sit in the dull light of the campsite in his new folding chair with this virtual stranger, and how much he enjoyed the cold beers and small talk. Completely out of his element, Bob felt decidedly relaxed already. As the empties piled beside their chairs, Bob and Laverne talked about cars, soccer, football and music. Mostly music.

“I don’t care what you say, Dylan was a great influence,” Laverne insisted. “Just look at Neil Young,” he exclaimed, as if this solidified his argument.

“Man, what about the English bands like the Clash and the Sex Pistols?” countered Bob.

“Don’t you dare start talking to me about Duran Duran or I’ll lose all respect for you,” Laverne warned.

“I’m talking about punk. It had its moments. It defined things. Not that I ever went in for that stuff. I’m just against thinking it’s all about the Americans.” He paused. “I’m afraid of Americans!” he sang loudly. “Bowie. Now there’s an influence.”

“Fucking rights,” Laverne agreed, leaning back in his folding chair.

They enjoyed a moment of contemplative silence before Bob said, “Okay, best concert, what’s yours?”

“Live?” asked Laverne.

“What other kind of concert have you gone to? Dead?” Bob teased.

“The Guess Who. Toronto. When I was seventeen. We drove down from the Peg. There were so many of us in one car the girls had to sit on our laps.” Laverne laughed. “That music’s classic.”

“Mine’s Bowie,” offered Bob. “Played in Winnipeg in about ‘83. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Was that when he was dressing like a chick and stuff?” asked Laverne.

“The androgynous phase,” said Bob. “No, he was long past that.”

“I don’t know what you call it, but it was weird,” said Laverne. “But that would have been a great concert.”

They sat nodding their heads and drinking their beers, each lost in his thoughts. Every so often, one of Laverne’s kids came running down the gravel road and into Bob’s campsite to tell on a brother or ask for money to go to the store. Laverne’s pat answer was “Go see your mother,” and the kids would run off again. Laverne showed no signs of leaving and Bob had no desire to get rid of him. Bob had a nice buzz going from the beer and was enjoying his freedom. The threat of rain had passed and every now and then a sunny patch would open up in the sky and warmth would land on his back like a gift.

The cooler nearly empty, Laverne leaned in close to Bob, elbows on his knees, conspiratorial. “So you’re here to relax. Is that it? You’re in a stressful job and you never get away and you need a vacation. So you come camping, with the bugs and the dirt, and the shared toilets and icy showers? I’m sure you won’t mind my saying so, but you just don’t seem like the camping kind.” He paused, then added, “What gives?” Laverne didn’t say any of this meanly and Bob was unfazed.

“Okay, I’ll tell you the truth.” Bob paused as though thinking of how to answer. Instead, he said, “But first, I have to take a leak.” He stood, lost his balance, and stumbled backwards.

“Whoa, man,” said Laverne. “Maybe we should go for a beer run, too. There’s a liquor store at the town-site. All the conveniences of home, hey? I’d better drive though – you’re in no shape.”

Once he’d manoeuvred the car out of the campground, Laverne turned to Bob and asked again, “Tell me, then. Why camping? Why not some fancy vacation in a luxury hotel?”

“Simple,” said Bob, even though it really wasn’t simple at all. How to sum up the stress of the last months, the doctors, the critical care unit, his rampant emotions since the heart attack, crying at the drop of a hat, grappling with his own mortality? “My wife talked me into it. She says we leave the cell phones at home, no computers or email, no checking messages, no contact. Those are her rules. We make ourselves completely unavailable, and maybe I’ll unwind and live longer. That’s it.” Bob paused. Something about Laverne and the beers and the setting had made Bob unusually candid. Bob could feel his eyes welling up.

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“Are you serious about relaxing?” Laverne reached across Bob’s knees and pulled a small plastic bag from the glove box. He tossed it onto Bob’s lap. “Spark ‘er up,” Laverne said, handing Bob a Bic lighter.

Bob held the bag to his nose and caught a whiff of the pungent odour. He hadn’t smoked pot since, well, since a long time, that’s when, Bob thought to himself. He vaguely recalled that it had made him feel paranoid in his high school days but that was such a long time ago. He wasn’t the same self-conscious kid trying to fit in that he had been then. Maybe this was the thing, he thought, the thing that would help him relax. And wasn’t that what he was here for? The words medical marijuana popped into Bob’s head and that clinched it for him.

He put the joint in his mouth and lit it like a cigarette. At once, Bob began to cough, his virgin lungs in full revolt. Laverne slapped him on the back and waited for the spasm to pass. Bob looked at Laverne through watery eyes.

“This isn’t going well.”

Laverne gave him some pointers and Bob nodded, putting the joint to his lips again. This time, on Laverne’s advice, he managed to suppress his cough until after he had exhaled. Laverne made a motion for the joint and they drove the next few kilometres passing it back and forth. Bob put the soggy-ended joint to his lips and wondered languidly if he could get an STD this way, not really caring much about the answer. He thought about talking to Laverne, but opening his mouth and forming words was too much effort. Instead, he sat back in his seat and let the pot do its work. Laverne searched the floor of the car, one hand on the wheel, and finally settled for The Who to put in the CD player. After that, they drove for what seemed like a long time, touring the marina and blasting the music before heading to the town-site.

When Laverne parked in front of the liquor store, he quickly hopped out of the car and made for the steps. Attempting to follow suit, Bob felt the blood rush to his head as he stood. He put a hand on the car to steady himself. By this time, Laverne had already passed through the doors, unaware or unconcerned that Bob was left behind.

Watching Laverne’s back, Bob was struck by an amusing thought. He had the sudden, unbidden urge to play a joke on Laverne. He imagined himself sneaking up behind Laverne and startling him – perhaps poking him in the ribs or maybe slapping his hands over Laverne’s eyes and saying, Guess who? The element of surprise was the key to what made this joke funny, in Bob’s mind. In fact, the longer Bob considered the idea, the more irresistible it became. Bob could barely suppress his laughter as he envisioned playing out this joke.

With the image of playing the trick on Laverne as his only guide, Bob ran from the car and up the steps of the liquor store two at a time. He quickly took in the store layout and saw Laverne peering into a cooler at the back of the store. Bob had his mark.

He darted around the end of the first aisle, marked RUM, keeping a wary eye on Laverne. Then he ran, hunkered down, along the end of the aisles toward the back of the store, closing the distance between himself and Laverne. Bob poked his head over the top of the VODKA aisle to get his bearings. He let an accidental giggle escape from his lips and slapped his hand over his mouth more forcefully than he had intended. This only made him laugh harder and he had to fight for self-control.

He was close enough to make a run for Laverne across the open space that separated them. At once, Bob jumped up, a mad grin on his face, a wheeze-like laugh escaping through his teeth. He ran on his tiptoes across the floor, intending to come up on Laverne and take him by surprise, though he still hadn’t decided whether to poke him playfully in the ribs or try and cover his eyes with his hands and say, Guess who? Small noises escaped through his teeth as Bob fought to suppress his laughter.

He got within three feet of Laverne when Laverne sensed the attack, heard the strange noises and saw a fleeting reflected image in the cooler. On reflex, Laverne pivoted on his left foot, turned his body a full 180 degrees and followed through with a crushing right to the middle of his attacker’s face.

Bob flew, landing with a crash on a display of sparkling wine. Bottles smashed and sticky pink wine poured out around him.

Blood spurted from Bob’s face like a geyser. In those first seconds, it might have seemed to any onlooker that Bob was unconscious, maybe even dead. But, in fact, as Bob had landed, or perhaps even as he had been flying through the air, he was taking mental stock of his injuries. The whole incident, over in a matter of seconds, seemed to occur in slow motion for Bob.

He knew that, besides his hemorrhaging nose, which was beginning to throb and make his eyes water, he was intact. More pressing than his injuries was his mental image of himself, tip-toe-running across the store, ready to slap his hands over Laverne’s eyes in a grown-man’s game of “guess who.” The image made Bob start to shake with silent laughter. His body quivered with the effort.

“Jesus Christ, are you okay? What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on a guy like that –” Laverne cut his sentence short when he saw Bob shaking. He had been in enough fights to associate the shaking with convulsions. Thinking that Bob was going into dangerous seizures, Laverne threw himself down on his knees beside Bob, grasping his head in his thick hands. He looked frantically around at the store employees, who had gathered at the sound of the smashing bottles. “What’re you supposed to do?” he yelled, frantic. Blood pooled on Bob’s lips and spattered Laverne’s hands. Bob sputtered in Laverne’s grip, laughing uncontrollably and unable to catch his breath and speak.

“His tongue!” one of them yelled. “Grab his tongue so he doesn’t swallow it!” Laverne pinned Bob’s forehead to the floor with one hand and began trying to pry his mouth open with the other. Bob thrashed in Laverne’s grasp, whipping his head from side to side in an attempt to keep Laverne’s fingers out of his mouth. Bob put up so much resistance that Laverne was forced to straddle Bob’s chest and clamp his head between his knees to try to keep him still. Just as Laverne was about to succeed in prying his jaws apart, Bob let out a huge gasp in an attempt to try to control his laughter. Laverne stopped, looking intently at Bob’s wild eyes and shaking head. He loosened his grip.

“Stop,” Bob gasped through hysterics. “Stop.”

Realization crept up on Laverne and he looked at the store employees crowded around. Then he let out a snicker, sending Bob into renewed hysteria. He let go of Bob’s head and watched as Bob rolled around in the mess, unable to breathe. The two of them were like school kids caught up in the giggles, each unsuccessfully suppressing a snort that would set them both off again.

Laverne helped Bob to his feet, still trying to get control of himself. One of the store employees handed Bob a fistful of paper towels for his still gushing nose.

“You guys are together?” an older man asked. Likely the manager thought Bob. The man’s lips were tight; he was clearly unimpressed.

Laverne nodded.

“You should probably get him checked out at the medical place. It’s over in administration,” the manager said, eyeing all the blood and clearly thinking lawsuit.

Bob, holding the crimson paper towels to his nose, kept erupting with snorts and giggles.

The manager was even less impressed. “Maybe just leave your names with me, and how to get ahold of you, and we’ll contact you about any damages. Just make sure he’s okay.”

Laverne took the pen and paper from the manager and scribbled something.

The manager retrieved the pen from Laverne, holding it as though contaminated. He looked at what Laverne had written and, apparently satisfied, turned to escort Bob and Laverne from the store, but not before Laverne picked up a case and tucked some bills into the manager’s hand. The manager looked at his hand as though it held a steamy turd, but didn’t refuse.

Peering sideways at the manager, recognition lit on Bob. He saw how familiar the contemptuous glare and tight white lips of the manager were – familiar because they could be his own, had been his own. The manager’s demeanour was one Bob had replicated many times in his own job and life. The realization caused Bob’s chest to contract. Despite the laughter playing on his lips, Bob felt slightly chastised. Then the moment passed as quickly as it had come.

In the car, Laverne and Bob took one look at each other and started to laugh again. “Jesus man, you turned out to be one crazy son of a bitch,” said Laverne, shaking his head in admiration.

Bob smiled through his bloody, throbbing face and felt a sense of something like inner peace cascade over him.

“Okay, let’s skip the medical so they don’t get our names,” said Laverne, already planning ahead. “I think you’re okay but we’ll clean you up before we go back. My wife’ll freak if we turn up like this.”

“I thought you gave the manager our names?” asked Bob.

“Yeah, right,” Laverne snorted. “You’re Ben and I’m Mike. Mr. Dover, it’s nice to meet you. It’s Mike...Mike Oxbigg.” Laverne stuck out his beefy hand for Bob to shake for the second time that day. Bob laughed at the joke and Laverne said, “I thought he might catch on, but he was a little rattled. Don’t worry. They just write off the broken shit as damaged stock. I used to work in a bar – happens all the time.”

Laverne pulled in near the bathrooms and they went in to clean up. Bob was shocked by his appearance, seeing another man in the mirror. He was wet and covered in blood from his nose to his trousers. Fortunately, the bleeding had subsided. Laverne, who seemed to be something of an expert in broken noses, concluded that it wasn’t broken and once Bob was cleaned up he looked a lot better, even though that wasn’t saying much. His nose was purple and blue, his nostrils were caked with blood and his eyes were turning black underneath. Bob was talking as though he had a bad cold and he could feel his nose getting tighter and tighter the more it swelled.

“Okay, here’s what we’ll do,” said Laverne. “I’ll drop you at your site and then you can go and change. I’ll check in with the wife and make up some kind of story. Then I’ll come over and we can have another beer and maybe put some ice on your face to stop the swelling. Sound okay to you?”

Bob was enjoying his newfound camaraderie and every time his old self interjected with doubtful sentiments, Bob would remind himself that he was trying a new approach now. When was the last time he had laughed like this? In spite of, no, because of, the bloody swollen nose. What would he tell Roxanne? he wondered fleetingly. “Let’s go,” he said to Laverne as he took one last look in the mirror at his disfigured face. He smiled a tight smile at himself. He was feeling a bit rugged now after all.

Back at the campsite, Bob retrieved his duffel bag from the trunk and hauled it into his tent. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he opened it, expecting to see his new clothes from the outdoor store. Instead, he found himself gazing upon an assortment of filmy negligees, satin camisoles, see-through panties, sexy bras, fur-and-feather adorned bed jackets, night-time eye masks and a number of other items intended for Roxanne’s lingerie party. He groaned, realizing he had picked up Roxanne’s work bag and left his bag behind. All the bags they owned looked the same because Roxanne had won the entire set one piece at a time for having high sales. In fact, she had won so many pieces that they had double and triple of many of the bags. They must have each used the same bag to pack their things in.

He was sitting in his only set of clothes, wet with blood and covered in sugary wine. He stripped down, shivering; the wet had given him a chill. Roxanne would be here in the morning with his bag. She’d be pissed off when she found out she took his clothes to the lingerie party. He cringed at the thought but could do nothing about it now. He carefully selected the most conservative items from the bag. He was momentarily thankful that Vanity Secret made a few more practical items for their shoppers to choose from. He struggled into a pair of hot pink satin lounge pants that were several sizes too small for him – tight enough to show quite clearly the outline of his genitals. He topped it off with a blue stretchy cotton tank top with spaghetti straps. Finally, he tried to cover it all up with a silky white housecoat with faux fur at the wrists and neck. The housecoat came down to his knees and had large, open wrists. Once dressed, Bob sat down in the tent to wait for Laverne, not knowing what else to do.

Tenderly fingering his swollen nose, mostly out of boredom, somewhat out of fascination (for Bob had never had a “fighting” injury in his life), he was suddenly hungry. Of course he’d heard of the munchies before, but this was ridiculous. He wasn’t just hungry, he was ravenous. He began to salivate over the thought of the snacks he’d seen Roxanne pack into the food box. Unfortunately, the food box was in his trunk. He considered for a moment the chances of making a dash for the car without being seen. The camping loop was packed for the weekend, every site taken. Small children threw baseballs in the roadway and tore around the loop on bicycles. But he couldn’t hear much activity at the moment, which meant that perhaps it was suppertime. Bob decided to take his chances.

Unzipping the tent, he stuck his head out to see what was happening. No one was walking past his site. No children were playing catch on the road. Bob knew he had only a moment to make a dash for the food. He hastily unzipped the flap and lurched over the lip of the tent, only to be yanked back by a faux-fur sleeve caught in the zipper. Bob looked around furtively but could still see no one in the loop. He worked the zipper and sleeve frantically and finally decided to slip out of the housecoat and leave it behind. He made a dash for the car, only to realize the keys were in his soggy jeans inside the tent. As he ducked back inside the tent to retrieve the keys, Bob felt the hot pink pants, made of shiny satin with no give, split neatly along the seam at the back. He reached around and felt a gaping hole. Undaunted, key in hand, Bob made it to the trunk and the waiting Doritos. He grabbed the chips and a box of granola bars before changing his mind and shoving it all back in the box. He grasped the entire box and hauled it out of the trunk. Balancing the box on his forearm, he reached with his free hand to slam the trunk and the box slipped off his arm and spilled sideways into the dirt. Bob crouched on his knees and chucked the spilled contents back into the box.

Reaching for a can of corn that had rolled underneath the car, he heard the familiar crunch of car tires on the road of the loop. He peered out from behind his car bumper to see the plastic dome lights of a conservation officer’s car. Bob remained behind the car, determined to wait for them to pass. To his horror, the car stopped in front of his campsite. Two uniformed conservation officers emerged from the car and a couple of curious campers craned their necks to catch a glimpse. Bob realized his chances for escape were slim. In a crouched position, he began to trot like a soldier under fire toward his tent.

“Excuse me, sir!” one of the officers barked, bringing Bob up short. Bob wheeled around, his hand clutching the back of his pants while he slowly continued backing toward his tent.

“Yes,” he squeaked, his vocal cords pinched with effort. Bob was suddenly paranoid about the pot he and Laverne had smoked, sure the officers could smell it.

“Could we have a word with you?” The officer put his hand out in front of him as though approaching a frightened animal. His other hand rested lightly on the butt of his holstered gun.

Bob’s mind did a double take – since when did conservation officers carry guns? he wondered. The second officer had quietly made his way around the back of the tent, and Bob imagined he could feel the man breathing down his neck. Bob clutched the ripped edges of his pants tighter, trying to turn his back away from the officer to hide his naked butt.

“Are you all right?” The officer motioned to Bob’s beaten face. “Looks like you had a bit of an accident there? Do you want to tell me who did that to you?” While the first officer talked gently to him, Bob was acutely aware of the second officer peering in the tent, catching a whiff, Bob was sure, of the wine and taking stock of the floor littered with women’s lingerie.

Bob saw knowing glances pass between the two officers.

“Laverne,” Bob croaked. What the hell was wrong with his voice? He thought of the marijuana smoke tearing at his throat. “It was an accident...”

Bob was cut short by his friend’s voice as Laverne rounded the edge of the campsite, ice pack in hand, case of beer swinging easily in his other meaty fist. “Okay, I got the ice! Let’s get this party started!” Laverne stopped short upon seeing the officers and Bob. “Whoa, what the hell?” Laverne said, waiving his hands at Bob’s clothes.

“Thang God,” Bob chirped. “Laverne, tell them id was an accident.”

“This is Laverne?” The second officer’s voice took on a hard edge. Laverne held up his hand with the ice pack.

“Hey man, I didn’t do anything. Bob, what did you tell them?” Laverne looked hurt, as though Bob had betrayed him.

Bob started to protest when the first officer interrupted. “It’s okay now, Bob. Everything’s going to be fine.” Bob could see the second officer had retreated to the car and was using the radio. He clearly heard the words “domestic situation.” The first officer continued to speak in soothing tones that suggested Bob might be a hysterical victim who needed calming down.

“Doe,” Bob shook his head. “Doe fugging way.” Bob shook his head even more emphatically. “You guys hab got this all ronck. This is ab-h-soludely not...” Bob’s voice cracked, and he imagined it would sound, to the officer and anyone else within earshot, as if it was from emotion.

The second officer had left the car and the radio and was approaching Laverne, hand on gun, serious expression on his face. “Sir!” he barked out, as though it were an order rather than a salutation. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me. Have a seat in the car until we can get this all sorted out.”

Another car came crunching down the loop and Bob felt his swollen face, already engorged with blood, become a deep shade of purple as his blood pressure spiked and his heart made a rattly farump in his chest. “Rogs-anne!” he exclaimed when he saw the nose of the mauve Camry sniffing its way down the loop toward them. The officers, Laverne, and the spectators from the loop, who seemed to have gathered in hordes to watch his humiliation, all turned with curiosity to see who Roxanne was and how she would add to the situation at hand.

The Camry came to a sudden stop and Roxanne, who was ordinarily high strung, looked practically crazed as she ran to Bob’s car.

“What’s going on here?” Roxanne demanded and then caught sight of Bob. “Bob, is that you?”

“Ma’am,” the officer tried to interject.

“What the hell is going on with your face?” Roxanne was staring at Bob in disbelief.

The officer tried again. “Ma’am?”

But Roxanne was having none of it. “Are those my clothes you’re wearing?” She was practically shrieking now.

“Ma’am!” The officer’s tone was insistent.

This time, Roxanne turned to him and lowered her voice. “Yes?” she asked in an over-controlled way that signalled to Bob she was barely keeping her cool.

For a moment Bob felt as though his head separated from his body and twirled in the air as he fell dizzily to the ground. For the second time that day Bob looked up through the slender trees at the dappled sky above him, hints of sunshine and vertigo balanced precariously on leaves that looked like fluttering discs.

For a moment, he thought he knew exactly what it was all about.