"Katmai National Park, Alaska? Really? What about Vegas?” Mike asked. He was sitting in the garage, attempting to pull the solenoid from his rider mower, his hands caked in grime, and at least two fingers bleeding. “This is insane. It’s like they built the damned mower around this one damned part.” His face turned sideways and pressed up against the engine as he reached with his fingertips to try and turn the nut holding the broken piece in place.
“It’s camping, a chance to get away, to reunite with nature,” BT said.
“As soon as I can get this effing thing out and replaced, I’ll be reuniting with nature.”
“Mowing the lawn is not the same thing.”
“Then when I’m done, I’m going to go inside, grab a cold beer and watch the Sox play on a beautifully manicured field. Can I do that camping?”
“How long have we been friends now?”
“I don’t know, ten, twelve years, I guess. Can you hand me the ten-millimeter socket? I think I can get it up here.” Mike’s tongue poked out.
BT handed him the tool. “In all that time, how many family vacations have we taken?”
“Six, seven.”
“Eight.”
“Eight? Are you shitting me? I don’t really like you that much.”
“You are such an asshole. I’m not even sure why I hang out with you.”
“Every black man has to have one white friend. Keeps them from getting arrested when they get pulled over.”
“I’m not sure if that’s racist or not.”
“Have you ever got a ticket with me in the car?”
“I’ve never been pulled over with you in the car.”
“You’re welcome,” Mike told him.
“Twice we went to Vegas, three times we went to New York. Twice skiing up in the Rockies, and the one time we went to that Cracker Festival.”
“The Renaissance Fair? And who’s being racist now?”
“Is it? I didn't see any brothers running around in tights and carrying turkey legs.”
“If I remember correctly, you ate about a dozen of those.”
BT ignored Mike’s comment. “What I’m saying is we’ve never spent any peace and quiet in nature.”
“What about the skiing?”
“Close, but not the same thing. There were shops everywhere, and the posers? I don’t even want to get into it. Listen, I know the Corps screwed up your desire to be in a tent, but this is different. Sleeping under the stars, bacon sizzling over an open flame. With your kids being older, I figured it would be nice for just us and our wives to get away.”
“Linda’s cool with this?” Mike asked.
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Your wife has Gucci bags, drives a beamer, and has her hair and nails done once a week. She doesn’t seem like the outdoorsy type, and I love her all the more for it.”
“It took some convincing, but she used to be a Girl Scout. Once I got her on board, she’s raring to go.”
“I feel like you’re full of shit, but whatever. I truly hope you two have a great time. Send me pics when you get to a place that has wi-fi, if such a thing exists in nature.”
“I had a feeling how this conversation was going to go. I didn’t want to have to do this, but....”
“What did you do?” Mike asked as the wrench clattered to the floor.
“I told your wife first.”
Mike’s heartbeat accelerated and stammered before calming. “Pah. Like that matters. She camped a bit with her friends when she was younger; she’s never shown any desire to do it since.”
“Until now,” BT added.
Tracy appeared in the doorway from the kitchen to the garage. “Have you told him yet?” she asked. Chloe, their English bulldog, nudged her way past and down the steps where she sat next to Mike and pawed his arm until he absently pet her. She lay down with a contented snort.
“Not you, too? Camping? Seriously?”
“It’ll be nice to get away, get off the grid. I’ve never been to Alaska, and neither have you, plus, if you don’t go, we’re eating ham—indefinitely.”
“You’re both on Santa’s shit list. I hope you know that.”
As if in response, Chloe let loose a long and loud gaseous emission.
“Damn. I guess that’s enough tractor fixing time.” Mike got up to move away from the smell.
“You should get that checked.” BT stood from his chair, wrapped his nose in his hand, and walked out and across the cul-de-sac to his home.
“It’s a conspiracy; everyone is turning on me.” Mike stood by the open door.
“It’s just a few weeks. It’ll be nice to get away from the grind.”
Mike made a non-committal hmmph sound. “My idea of getting away is vegging out, watching sports.”
“Don’t you want to spend some quality alone time with me?” Tracy asked, looking genuinely hurt. She pulled up her shirt just enough he caught sight of the bottom curve of her breasts.
“Now you’re just playing dirty.” Mike’s arms raised of their own volition as he moved toward her with his hands open.
“Can’t. Your pregnant daughter is coming over soon.”
“How soon?”
“An hour.”
Forty-five minutes later, a disheveled Mike put his pants back on. “You still serious about the camping?”
“You’re good, Mike, but you’re not 'screw my brains out, forget about everything else,' good.”
“I could try again.” He leered just as the doorbell rang.
“Go let your daughter in,” she said as the pillow she tossed clipped the side of his head.