I'm with Stupid (5 page)

While considering my grand surroundings—the marble bath, the artwork on the walls, that pretentious crystal decanter—I begin to think of how different this vacation is from any I have previously taken. For Max, a place like this is no big deal. His family travels the globe in style on a semi-annual basis. He doesn’t set foot in anything less than a five-star hotel. My last vacation was a road trip with my family—my parents and seventeen-year-old brother, Henryk—to Missouri last year. We drove over sixteen hours in a Ford Focus, making only three stops, to pee and refuel on gas, and stayed for a week (for free) in an unheated log cabin on a dirty lake that belongs to some family friend. The vacation had a theme: “the ten-dollar-per-day Sienkiewicz challenge.” Collectively we could not spend more than ten bucks a day on food and entertainment. The mastermind behind The Challenge was my father, Bronek Sienkiewicz. He’s cheap, and something of a con man. Born in Poland during communism—he immigrated to the United States at twenty-—he’s a wee bit obsessed with sticking it to the man. Basically, he condones minor acts of thievery in theory and practice and has been known to purchase one bag of mulch for the much-beloved garden he maintains, with occasional help from my mother, in the backyard of their Brooklyn brownstone (free beets late August through September, by the way), and put three bags in the trunk of his car. No one would suspect an older, quiet man with thinning black hair, a potbelly, and reading glasses that he wears on a multicolored braided string around his neck like a librarian to be capable of much dishonesty. But he is. Sort of. Like a lot of folks who grew up during communism, he’s been socialized to skirt the system. In some ways he would find it dishonest to pay face value for everything. Negotiations, bribes, hustles—it’s the communist way.

My father met my mother, Estie, soon after he came to America. She’s Polish, too, but was born in Brooklyn. My mother is in her fifties and looks good for her age, but it’s a wonder she does with all the worrying she manages to accomplish. She has just a few wrinkles around her blue eyes (they are merciful or deceptively merciful depending on the day), no more than ten gray hairs. She has a cute short haircut, wears sweater sets and white tennis shoes. She looks young, even though she doesn’t act young. Unlike my father, she is rather unappreciative of wrongdoing. Put it this way: When my father is putting three bags of mulch into the trunk of the car but has paid for only one, she’s in the passenger’s seat, acting like she has no idea what he’s up to, then lecturing him when they get home while reminding my brother that stealing is wrong. I’m not sure Henryk thinks too much about stealing. Or thinks about anything, for that matter. Henryk is a teenage mute. He opens his mouth so infrequently I worry that bats will fly out when he does. He typically keeps to himself, and it doesn’t help that he’s always wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes (this drives my mother crazy). When looking at him I usually see just a lanky frame, the frayed brim of a hat, a slightly flattened nose, and unusually large lips that look like they belong to some distant male relative of Angelina Jolie. There are days my mother will call me and talk for two hours about the fact that Henryk does not clean his room or make his bed. She says he’s either “gallivanting” or “staring at the computer screen playing those video games with the door locked.” I don’t have the stomach to point out that what he’s staring at on the computer screen is probably not video games. He’s seventeen. He’s a boy. You do the math. Gross.

No, “the ten-dollar-per-day Sienkiewicz challenge” was nothing like this South Africa trip. During the ride up to Missouri my father forced us to sing the Polish national anthem and practice Polish vocabulary words. We ate fattening deli meats and rye bread (my father doled out rations) and passed enough gas to run a semi-truck. My parents own a Polish deli called Polonia in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and meat is something we’re never short on: ham, bacon, pigs’ feet, pigs’ knuckles, garlic sausage, smoked sausage, liverwurst. They’ve had the deli, a neighborhood institution, for twenty-five years; it’s even been written up in a couple of New York magazines.

When we were approximately one hour from Missouri the unmistakable sound of a wrapper being opened somewhere in the car could be heard. My father’s ears perked up. He stopped singing. “What was that?” he asked. Everyone was silent. I leaned over the front seat. My mother had her purse in her lap and her hand buried underneath it. She guiltily pulled out a bag of mini Snickers bars. “They were on sale,” she said in her defense. “You know I like something sweet after a meal. What?”

My father shook his head in disapproval. “You’re not being a team player.” He glanced into the backseat. “Kids,” he said, “your mother is not a team player.”

“The kids want something sweet, too,” my mother said with a shrug, even though neither one of us had expressed any desire for sweets.

“The kids do?” he challenged. “Blame yourself, not them.” She handed a mini Snickers each to my brother and me and told my brother to take off the hat. Henryk stuffed the Snickers in his pocket and put on headphones. Some rap song came on. She turned to my father and asked if he wanted a candy.

“How much did that bag of contraband cost you?” he asked. “We’ll have to incorporate it into the budget. This is an important week. I want to teach the value of a dollar. This is what puts Americans in debt, mini snack cakes. When I was their age”—he looked at Henryk and me through the rearview mirror—“I had already saved thirty thousand bucks. Thirty thousand.”

“Oh just eat,” my mother said. She unwrapped one and shoved it into his hand. “They were on sale.”

He put the whole thing into his mouth. “Next time bring Polish candy,” he said. “The fudge ones, Krówki.” He swallowed and licked his lips. “These are good, let me try another.”

And that’s how my family vacations. But today I am not vacationing with my family. I am vacationing with Max and Libby, and presently I am standing in my very own chalet. Did I mention that I have my very own chalet? Just checking.

When Max, Libby, and I arrive for the orientation in the garden, which is sprayed with colorful exotic flowers, several other guests of the lodge are already seated in front of an easel holding a map of the grounds. We take seats in the last row; I light a cigarette. Out of the corner of my eye I see William. He walks past a group of pampered faces and hands me an ashtray. I look up. It’s like looking into the face of Jesus Christ himself. I’m in some kind of Gentile dream sequence. He has a glow, he actually has a glow! It’s good that I’m already sitting down—it helps with the fainting, which I’m about to do. I have never seen a pair of bluer eyes. I don’t think they make bluer eyes. These are the bluest eyes ever invented. I’m not kidding. What an extraordinary-looking man.

I take the ashtray and say thank you.

“Pleasure,” he smilingly responds.

What’s with this pleasure business, I think as William walks to the front of the group and stands beside the easel. How pleased could he possibly be? Libby raises a pair of binoculars for a better view. She confides that had she known he’d be making the presentation, she’d have sat in the front row. Max whispers that he would have sat in his lap. “Tell me you’ve ever seen anything like this,” he marvels. I shake my head. I wish I could, for all our sakes. I can’t believe how attractive he is. He’s a total model. A magnet.

William begins: “The Kruger National Park is the largest wildlife sanctuary in South Africa. It encompasses two million hectares, approximately twenty thousand square kilometers . . .” I stare at him as he continues talking about something and something then something else. I’ll be honest, I have no clue what he’s saying. I’m too busy looking at him as he’s saying it. He’s saying it so well! It’s a full-time job, consuming all my senses. William looks in my direction: “The Timbavati riverbed winds west to east through our fourteen-thousand-seven-hundred-hectare giraffe reserve—sorry, I mean game reserve . . .” I nod. Sure, sure.

Max starts to say that he realizes he hasn’t met all the men in the world but . . . I finish the thought: They can’t get better than that. Impossible. He’s almost disturbingly good looking. This guy is a revelation, a modern miracle of engineering. Libby and Max just stare. They’ve never encountered anyone like him, either. He’s like a figment of the imagination. He’s—I close my eyes—my . . . hero . . .

When I reopen my eyes William is wagging a finger: “. . . in conclusion,” he says, “if you get home after this trip and start feeling sick—even if it’s a common cold that won’t go away—visit your doctor immediately.” Everyone seated in front of me nods. Wait, what did I miss? I might have that cold. What is it, AIDS? I’ll have to look into this later.

After the orientation we follow William (like rats behind the piper) and another ranger, poor guy looks like a dehydrated troll in comparison, back to the entrance of the lodge, where two open safari trucks are waiting to take us on the sunset drive. William and the other ranger lean against their respective trucks and begin a conversation. We hesitate briefly under the arch as other guests walk past, toward the trucks. Max does the math because, all of a sudden, he’s better at math than Einstein. He tells us to make sure we get into William’s truck. Libby nods.

William’s truck has four rows of seats and we pile into the first row. Very subtle. William is oblivious; he continues exchanging pleasantries with the other ranger. We sit, fidgety hands in our laps, and wait. I’m unaware that there are other passengers in the vehicle until one of them taps Libby on the shoulder. She reluctantly takes her eyes off William and turns around. I do, too. The person in question—a boy, about fourteen years old, it looks like—is seated directly behind us, between two very tanned individuals—I assume they’re his parents—wearing sunglasses and heavy gold chains. He is impeccably dressed in an expensive navy-blue suit and cream silk tie. As I give him the once-over, I see that he is sitting on a thick purple velvet pillow. His posture is perfect; princes on their way to coronations never looked this good.

He plays with the orchid peeking out of his breast pocket then runs a hand through locks of black shaggy hair. This is some kid. “My name is Manuel Narciso Lorenzo Hernandez y Sanchez,” he confidently states, offering Libby his hand. “I am delighted.”

Delighted to be doing what? Delighted in general? Libby smiles politely, quickly glances at William, then extends her hand to Manuel. He takes it and kisses it. For an uncomfortably long time. Crickets chirp. Clocks stand still. “Nice to see you,” she says and pulls her hand away by force. She turns, sighs deeply with longing, and stares again at William. Manuel’s hand is momentarily frozen in midair. I take a peek at William. You are too good to be true. Who made you?

Before long Libby is tapped again. Manuel is not done introducing himself. She turns around. “Allow me to introduce my parents,” Manuel says.

“Oh,” Libby tentatively responds. She nods at the parents: “Pleasure to meet you both, enjoy your stay.” She turns back around, crosses her legs, and stares at William. She is, we all are, basking in his holy light. But Manuel Narciso Lorenzo Hernandez y Sanchez will not be ignored. He taps her a third time. She turns around. “Yes?” she hurriedly says. “Are you enjoying your stay?” young Rico Suave asks. Libby nods in confusion: “Sure. Fine.” She again fixes on William. “Delightful,” Manuel says mostly to himself.

Max leans over and asks me to speculate as to what might be wrong with our little friend. I advise him to ignore it. It’s the kid’s first family vacation and the excitement will wear off with the sugar rush. But when Manuel taps Libby a fourth time we all turn around. Max groans. “Yes?” she asks Manuel in a tone that, for Libby, approaches frustration. The delighted kid has successfully tap-danced on her last nerve.

“When you gaze at me I am reminded of a rose bending involuntarily toward the sun,” Manuel gushes. Maybe it’s her sexy yellow tube top that’s causing all this commotion. Perhaps this child has never seen big boobs—he’s staring at them with zero discretion. I study Manuel’s face, then glance at Libby. It’s funny because they actually look alike. Both have the same curly black hair . . . “Are you married?” he inquires.

This time Libby reacts as if Manuel had accused her of shitting her pants: “Am I married?” she responds. “No.” She looks over at William to make sure he heard that she is not married. No need to worry: William is still immersed in a separate conversation with the other ranger.

“I am delighted to hear you say it,” Manuel reveals. Libby doesn’t speak a word. Manuel tries to account for the silence. “Are you delighted that I am delighted to hear it?” he asks hopefully.

Libby looks exasperated: “Huh?”

“It is not important,” he quickly concludes. “We have all the time in the world. How long will you be staying at the lodge?” When I answer on Libby’s behalf—two nights, two very short nights—Manuel won’t acknowledge me. It seems I’m annoying him as much as he’s annoying the three of us. I glance over at his parents. They are looking in opposite directions, neither one paying attention to the boy. Maybe they’re contemplating putting him up for adoption. Best to leave them alone. It’s a big decision.

“Two nights can be an eternity,” Manuel continues. “So many felicitous and serendipitous moments may be had over the course of two nights.” He touches her on the shoulder. She flinches. “Are you a virgin?” he asks, taking away his hand. When she makes no effort to respond he continues: “Ignorance is born of circular trepidation, my darling, and chastity is as great a perversion as libidinousness. Dare to take risks with both body and mind.”

Libby rubs her eyes, evidently hoping this will make the wordsmith spontaneously combust. “Who are you?” she finally asks.

“Manuel Narciso Lorenzo Hernandez y Sanchez,” he tells her with pride. “But please call me Man—”

“Listen, babe,” she says, cutting him off. She explains that she had a long flight and that her neck is sore. If he wants to keep talking he can, but she’s not going to keep straining it. As soon as she turns around Manuel’s lips come within a breath of the nape of her neck. Good morning. “I would be honored to rub it,” he softly whispers. “You have a firebrand’s spirit.”