Dan Versus Nature (13 page)

“Huh,” Hank says. “It’s, uh . . .” He blinks again. “Not what I expected. I thought you were into graphic novels. Comic book stuff?”

“I am. It’s postmodern primitivism,” I explain. “It’s a reaction to all of the hyperreal, overly muscularized male and overtly sexualized female superhero characters you see everywhere.”

Hank nods. “OK. OK.” He turns the page. “That’s a good . . . goal. Let’s see what else you — whoa!” His head snaps back, and his eyes bug as he stares at a drawing of two dancing stick warriors with spiky headdresses sporting comically enormous erections.

I point to the picture with my pinkie and try not to crack up. “This sketch here is heavily influenced by aboriginal phallic art, where they would overemphasize the dimensions of the genitals in order to celebrate human reproduction.”

“Right,” Hank deadpans. “Sure. I can see that.”

You’d be blind if you missed it.

Hank licks his finger and flicks to the next page.

Here we have a yellow spiral sun in the center of the page surrounded by a swirling blue sky and a few black squiggles that could be birds or flying squirrels or airplanes — or just random marks I made in the dark.

“Interesting.” Hank nods. “That’s, uh . . . yeah. But, you know . . .” He closes the book and hands it back to me. “I don’t really think I’m the person to judge something like this. I don’t know anything about art. Seriously. I’m just a dentist. I know teeth. Malocclusions. Gingivitis. Fistulas. That’s my area of expertise.”

Charlie leans forward and exhales loudly. “I believe you have your answer, Dan. You should give up the art thing. It’s not working for you.”

“Now wait a minute. I didn’t say that,” Hank says. “I just . . . don’t know if I . . . understand it. That’s all. It’s over my head. Neo-this and post-that. I’m a Stan Lee guy. You know.
Excelsior!
Spider-Man. Iron Man. The Hulk.
That’s about my speed, artwise. So you should take my completely useless opinion with a pretty big grain of salt.”

“Then, you don’t think I suck?” I ask, looking at him with puppy-dog eyes.

Charlie pipes up: “And remember, you promised not to lie to him.”

“Look.” Hank gestures at the sketch pad. “Granted. Maybe this . . . particular . . . thing . . . is not my cup of tea, but —”

I frown. “So you
do
hate it.”

“No. Not . . . hate. Not at all.” Hank rubs his sweating forehead. “It’s just so . . . subjective. For example, I read an article recently about a painting that sold for something like eighty million dollars. I can’t remember the artist. But it was this canvas with a big red stripe, an orange swath, and a blue patch. Basically, three fat lines in a row. I didn’t get it. But obviously a lot of people — with a lot of money — did. So who the heck am I to . . .” He gestures at my book.

“It’s OK,” I say, sighing and jamming the sketchbook back into my bag. “It’s fine. It’s better for me to know now, before I waste my whole life.”

Hank pulls his hand down his face. “I don’t . . . I’m not . . . explaining this right.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” I say. “Let’s just drop it.”

I slug back the last splash of the Pom juice. If Hank thought my drawings were bad, wait till he gets an eyeful — and a noseful — of the Jackson Pollock I’m about to pitch into his lap.

My stomach spasms and I vurp.

Orangey acid percolates in my mouth.

It’s been around twenty minutes since I finished the juice. Which means — according to the website that Charlie found the “illegal” ipecac syrup on — I’m about ten minutes to launch.

Though it feels like it might come sooner.

Oh, Christ.

I feel so . . . belchy. Like I swallowed a handful of B vitamins on an empty stomach.

I grab the back of my perspiring neck, my head starting to spin.

This is not good. Not good
at all.

I look over at my soon-to-be stepdad. Staring out the window, listening to something on his phablet — an audiobook or a podcast, from the sounds of the droning chatter leaking from his headphones. Completely oblivious to what’s about to happen to him.

I let out another semi-silent burp, releasing some of the gaseous buildup.

I shift in my seat. Take a deep breath. Concentrate on trying to keep my half-digested snacks down. It seems to be working —

Guuurp.

Oh, God.

A giant bead of sweat bobsleds down the center of my back. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do this now. I don’t want to hurl in this sealed-tight death machine.

And most of all, I
really
don’t want to do it in front of Penelope.

I glance back.

Thank God. Penelope’s asleep, her moist lips slightly open. Barbara is oblivious to the world, cooing away at Baby Robbie.

“You’re looking a little green around the gills there, Dan,” Charlie says, leaning forward and clapping me on the shoulder. “I hope you’re not getting carsick. Just continue to breathe, and try to keep your mind clear.
Definitely
do not think about the soiled feminine hygiene product that kid in Missouri found in his Hungry Harley’s chili last month. Or, oh, remember the time you bit into that thick, rubbery, urethral artery when you were eating a Doogan Dog? Keep your mind off that, for sure.”

“I hate you, Charlie,” I gurgle, my stomach a roiling pot of corn chips, tropical fruit, spicy dried beef, chocolaty peanut butter, and pomegranate juice.

Breathe. Breathe. You’re fine. You’re fine.
I start the mental negotiations.

Keep it down and you will have superpowers.

Get through this and you will sell your graphic novel for a million dollars.

Do not throw up and you will get to date Erin Reilly.

But it’s a losing battle.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. At least let it be quiet. At least let Penelope sleep through the whole awful show.

Charlie leans over, whispers in my ear, “You know what I could really go for right now?”

“Stop,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“A bowl of cold, gelatinous beef brains slathered in warm mayonnaise. Mmm-mmm.”

And that’s it. My entire digestive system rockets up my throat and out my maw — and there is nothing quiet about it.

“UUURRRRK!”

The chunky spew splashes all over Hank — blanketing his shirt, his crotch, his legs. Spilling onto the seat, the floor, dousing the dancing Santa Claus, coating his cottony beard in multicolored curds.

“Jesus!” Hank springs from his seat, headphones flying from his ears as he attempts to scrabble away. If my thunderous torrent didn’t wake Penelope up, Hank’s shriek surely did.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I splutter, before another surge of swill shoots from my mouth all over Hank, all over everything. “I’m not . . . feeling so well.”

“We’re here!” Monty snaps as he throws the van into park just outside a dilapidated farmhouse. “Everyone get the hell out.”

Charlie slides the back door open. The rush of fresh air is a welcome relief. Like stepping out of a muggy, fairground Port-a-Potty into the cool of an old-growth forest.

“Let’s go, people!” Monty bangs his hand on the hood. “Move it!”

It took twenty minutes for us to find a gas station following the
confabulation.
Twenty minutes of sitting in my clammy sick — the sharp, tangy, barfy odor overpowering my BO and smogging the van.

Hank and I ran through the rain to the bathroom at the Buddy’s Gas & Grub to change clothes while Monty used the dripping windshield squeegee to rake my thick, coagulating hurl off the seat. I also took the opportunity to thoroughly wash my underarms till they smelled liquid-hand-soap fresh. Meanwhile, Barbara bobbed about under the gas station canopy, rocking and singing lullabies to a disconsolate Baby Robbie as Penelope went into the mini-mart and cleaned the Gas & Grub out of all its Little Trees air fresheners.

You would think that fifteen fully unsheathed Bubble Berry Trees would be able to at least somewhat mask the smell of vomit in a sealed-up van.

But you would be wrong.

I do not envy Monty and Fay’s long ride home.

Charlie, Barbara, Penelope, Hank, and I take turns stepping from the van. The rain has mercifully abated so we can actually stand outside without getting drenched.

As I shoulder my sling bag, Barbara approaches me, cradling Baby Robbie.

“Thanks for letting me hold him,” Barbara says, gently handing over the doll. “It brought me right back to when Pen was a little bundle.” She looks over at her daughter. “You remember all those songs I used to sing to you?”

“Remember?” Penelope laughs. “You
still
sing them to me. ‘Lavender’s Blue.’ ‘The Circle Game.’ ‘See That My Grave Is Kept Clean.’ Real cozy.”

“Oh, you.” Barbara grabs Penelope in a powerful side-hug.

Penelope leans her head into her mom’s shoulder. I feel a pang, wishing Mom were here with me now instead of Hank. But it only hardens my resolve to follow through with Charlie’s and my plan to scare off Hank.

Behind the farmhouse there’s a corral with a single skeletal cow grazing apathetically, like it knows it’s not long for this earth and doesn’t really see the point of eating any more. To the left of the cow sits a large wired coop containing a small flock of fluttering chickens. A further enclosure holds six filthy, patchy, gloomy-looking sheep.

Just beyond the fields is a row of trees and a lake with a dock and a float plane.

“You all have fun now, ’kay.” Fay pretends to shoot us with a pair of withered finger guns. “Stay safe and we’ll meet everyone back here at week’s end.”

And with that, Monty and Fay turn, tuck tail, and walk-run back to the van. The tires squeal as they peel away.

“You’d think they’d be a little more reluctant to climb back into that torture chamber,” Charlie observes.

Hank eyes the farmhouse warily but then slowly leads us forward. As we walk, Charlie squirts some Purell into the palm of his hand.

“Anyone?” Charlie holds up the bottle of hand sanitizer. “One squirt kills the dirt.”

“Actually, it doesn’t,” Penelope says.

Charlie glares at her as he rubs the gel into his hand. “
Actually,
it does. Very effectively.”

“Oh, it’s effective all right,” Penelope says, “in contributing to the proliferation of antibiotic-resistant superbugs.”

Charlie laughs. “Oh, you poor, stupid child. Purell happens to be an alcohol-based hand sanitizer. It does not contain triclosan.
Or
triclocarban. The two ingredients the World Health Organization has named as the main causes of bacterial resistance. Perhaps you should stick to commenting on subjects you know something about. Like obnoxiousness and ignorance.”

Penelope cracks up. “
I’m
the ignorant one? Really? Because if you’d truly done your research, you would know that alcohol-based hand sanitizers have been linked to an
increased
risk for outbreaks of norovirus. Not to mention that excessive use of alcohol gel dries out and cracks the skin, which in turn creates a more direct avenue for infection. But, hey”— she claps Charlie on the shoulder —“if you want to be single-handedly responsible for the spread of gastroenteritis while additionally raising your likelihood of contracting flesh-eating disease and MRSA, you go ahead and slather away.”

“Please.” Charlie rolls his eyes. “You’re going to tell
me
about infection? I will have you know that I am a card-carrying member of the Infectious Diseases Society of America. I’ve read the research and have done the numbers backwards and forwards. And let me tell
you
something, missy.” He tosses his tiny bottle of Purell in the air and jauntily — if awkwardly — catches it. “The rewards
far
outweigh the risks.”

Penelope sighs and shakes her head. “I suppose if your little delusions give you some measure of comfort, who am I to burst that fragile bubble?”

Charlie grips his fists. “I don’t know why I waste my precious breath.” He steps up his pace to get away from her.

Penelope smirks.

We reach the weathered and warped front door, the red paint chipping and curling. Hank grabs the tarnished brass door knocker — a cat’s head with a mouse hanging from its mouth — and gives it several clicks.