I'm with Stupid (7 page)

Max agrees, it sounds complicated: “People across the world should know about the struggle, whatever it is,” he says. “But you probably shouldn’t call it Mo. That could mean more than one thing, especially in New York.”

Libby turns to me: “What’s Mo?” she absently asks. “Like homo, right?” I nod—in New York, yes—then explain that William means Monaco. “Oh,” she says, losing interest. She pulls a cigarette from her purse. William regretfully informs her that there is no smoking in the vehicle. As soon as Max hears this he takes the cigarette from her and throws it out the side of the truck. I follow its graceless trajectory into the grass. He starts nodding like a bobble head in William’s direction. “And will your book be an action-suspense novel?” he wants to know. “A mystery, a thriller, perhaps a romance? What do you have in mind? You could make four hundred grand like Jennifer Leon. You could be the next Tom Clancy. Have you begun the work yet?”

William smiles at me. I nod. I love you. Max snaps his fingers at him as if to say,
Over here!
(Like Manuel, he’s obviously not done introducing himself.) William continues: “I was thinking it would be a nonfiction book.”

Max is still nodding. “That’ll work, too,” he is quick to add. “Okay. Yeah. I can see it now, splashed in neon,
Monaco
by William—” He asks William for his last name.

“Johnson,” William answers.

Max hesitates after hearing the word
Johnson
. “If you insist,” he says. “Okay. It’ll be called
Monaco
by William Johnson or
Johnson’s Monaco
or
Mo’s Johnson
, even, but I think that would definitely have to be a romance with an interesting cover, not necessarily PG, but your photo would certainly be involved. How could it not?”

William smiles. “It would be great to see my picture on a book,” he admits, amused.

Libby asks if he has started writing and he shakes his head no. Max shares his philosophy on writing. I never knew he had one. “Well you should start!” he tells William, who’s no longer sure which of my friends he should focus on. “No time like the present. Seize the moment. Writing is a powerful tool and so is a johnson, if I’m imagining it correctly.”

“Go for it,” Libby adds.

“Please do.” Max nods playfully. “Please go for it right now.”

He really is shameless. Completely self-amused.

“Maybe I will,” William says, warming up to the idea. He smiles at me: “Maybe someday I can come to New York.” I nod. Hello, gorgeous. I’d like to swing naked from your eyelashes if you don’t mind. Let me just get undressed real quick. Hold my bra?

“That’s the spirit,” Max says to William. “Believe in your dreams passionately.” He pauses for dramatic effect and puts his hand over his heart as if preparing to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Manuel leans over, taking advantage of the opportunity to speak: “My dream is to one day own a diamond mine in Zimbabwe and employ many workers,” he offers to Libby.

Everyone ignores this. William looks over at the lions. He really loves those lions. One of them bites into something hard. A bone, I imagine. The crack is audible. Max notices the lions, seemingly for the first time. “Oh!” he exclaims and gets up from his seat to take a picture. “Would you look at that! I can’t believe how close you got!”

William grabs him by the arm and commands him to sit. “That’s dangerous,” he adds disapprovingly. Max calmly snaps a few pictures of the lions. He sweeps imaginary crumbs off his seat and sits back down. “You may have just saved my life,” he says to William and snaps a picture of him. “I’ll send you the negative so we can both remember this day until death do us part.”

The lions continue eating as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

“We should be getting back,” William says after the lions finish their meal. He looks at his wrist. I notice that he isn’t wearing a watch. So does he. “I forgot my watch,” he says to himself.

Manuel offers his services: “Allow me to consult my Rolex.” The word
Rolex
reverberates through the bush like a growl. “According to my Rolex it is time for us to return to the lodge and enjoy a sumptuous meal together.” He wraps his arm around Libby’s neck so she can see the watch. “This timepiece is a work of art,” he brags, keeping her in a headlock. Libby looks away but William seems interested. He asks if the Rolex is real. “Of course it is,” Manuel informs him. William admits that he’s never seen a real Rolex up close; no guest has ever pointed one out. He asks if he could try it on. Manuel lets out a laugh, his first. “I’m afraid that would be impossible”—he pulls away his arm—“but be assured that it is made of the highest-caliber platinum. It is flawless, like everything I own.”

William nods, turns back around, and restarts the engine. About the same time, Libby restarts hers: “Tell us that story again about how the elephant charged your truck and you got away,” she coaxes. “That was a great story.” I look out the side of the truck for the cigarette that Max chucked into the grass. May you grow and prosper, wherever you are.

“It isn’t much of a story . . . ,” William begins.

My friends bombard William with a thousand more questions on the ride back, about anything they can think of, it seems. They just want an excuse to keep looking at him. I find that I’m not terribly interested in putting my two cents in. It’s kind of amusing to see them working—especially Max, who excels at this kind of thing. Besides, this is two nights and three days we are talking about. In three days William will just be an amusing and very, very delicious memory. I’m proud to say I already have the experience in perspective. The truth is that this guy is way too hot for his own good. And unless he’s a complete moron, he knows it. He probably gets laid left, right, and center. He’s probably done it in the truck, right where I’m sitting. Besides, I need a break from men, even men who look like he does. Not that I’ve seen men who look like him. I’m not convinced others exist. That would just throw off the whole universe.

We return to the lodge after nightfall. Helga is waiting under the arch with a clipboard. We are informed that dinner starts in one hour, which, according to the freak monitoring our eating and hygiene habits, if not our blood pressure, leaves just enough time to shower. By getting into William’s truck for that first game drive we unwittingly secured him as our designated all-purpose guide for the remainder of the stay. In addition to taking us out on safari, he will accompany us on nature walks and—big bonus here—share our table each evening at dinner, giving us an opportunity to ask any questions we might have about South Africa. Helga is quick to stress that just because William will be sharing our table it does not mean that he is one of us. The food is for guests only. In essence: Don’t feed the wildlife, rangers included.

When I get back to my room I kick off my shoes and leisurely start to unpack my suitcase. I don’t feel like showering. I hope this decision does not get me executed in front of Helga’s firing squad. I am stuffing underwear into a drawer when I hear a series of loud knocks on the door of my very own chalet. I walk over and swing it open. It’s Helga, looking stern. She hands me a piece of paper. My parents’ telephone number is written across it, and underneath that, one word:
EMERGENCY
. I look up in confusion. “Come with me,” Helga commands. “The office has just received a telephone call from your family. There’s a problem. You must phone home straightaway.” In a panic, I ask what is wrong. She repeats that it is an emergency, then turns and begins marching down the path. I grab my shoes off the floor and race after her. I only manage to put on one shoe before she shouts for me to hurry.

Helga leads me back to the entrance of the lodge. Just inside the arched entrance, to our left, is a small building, which we enter. It houses a gift shop and several offices. Helga unlocks one of the doors, marked
PRIVATE
. Inside is a desk and a phone. The walls are bare. She takes the piece of paper from me and dials my parents’ number. She shoves the phone against my ear as it starts to ring. She mentions that guests are not normally allowed to make free international calls but since this is an emergency an exception has been made. She moves to the open door and stands there, scrutinizing me.

The phone rings and rings. My muscles tighten. My mother finally answers. “Hello?”

“Mom! It’s me!” I scream into the phone. “What happened?”

“Oh God, it’s you!” she exclaims. She is shouting, too. There is a knot in my stomach. I hope no one is dead. I brace myself. “I was at the store this afternoon and they’re having a sale on canned soup,” she says. “I’m going to buy you some. You like cheese and potato?”

I quickly glance at Helga. “What’s the emergency?” I say into the phone.

“What?” my mother asks. I tell her that I received a note saying there was a family emergency. “I don’t think I said emergency,” my mother corrects me. “I may have. What kind of soup should I buy? Minestrone or cheese and potato?”

I clumsily put on my other shoe. I cup my hand over my mouth and try to look casual. “Cheese and potato,” I whisper in horror.

“What?” she screams. “I can’t hear you!”

“Cheeeshnpotato,” I repeat, trying to stiffen my lips. I want to scramble the communication so that Helga doesn’t know what we are discussing. She continues staring.

“Cheese and potato. That’s what I was thinking,” my mother says. “I’ll buy it tomorrow.”

“I love you,” I say, signaling that I need to hang up. (My parents, brother, and I end every call with “I love you,” whether we’re feeling loving or not.) But she keeps talking, now about South Africa.

My mother panicked when I told her I was going on the trip. She put together a “first-aid travel kit” for me to take along. When she gave it to me I thought, What am I doing, serving overseas? But I knew better than to argue. After the New York Blackout of 2003 I was actually surprised when she didn’t offer to build a fallout shelter next to my bathroom with her bare hands. So it didn’t come as a surprise when she handed me a pair of underwear that had a little change purse sewn to the waistband. Keep your money in there, she explained, and added that if I need to buy a soda or pretzels I should go to the bathroom and take the money out in there so no one sees me doing it.

As I stand in the middle of Helga’s office in a pair of untied shoes, my dear mother, who hates to leave her Brooklyn neighborhood, begins lecturing me on how to behave in a foreign country. “Speak as little as possible and keep your head down. Everyone hates Americans,” she advises. I pull out the chair and take a seat as she explains that I shouldn’t wear any “flashy clothes” that might attract unwanted attention, and that I probably shouldn’t iron my pants—better to look poor—and that I definitely shouldn’t wear any necklaces because they might get torn off me. I shake my head. She’s always telling me to dress like a lady, like Libby. Now, because I’m in a foreign country . . . She continues: As for my passport, I’m told to put it in a legal-size envelope and hide it under the mattress. And don’t take the camera out to take pictures! she adds. It might get stolen!

After my mother is done lecturing she puts both my father and brother on the phone to say hello. My convo with dad (who excitedly asks how my “free vacation” is going) and the teenage mute (who merely listens as I talk) is much more brief. Thankfully. When I finally hang up, Helga asks what the problem is. “Our dog died,” I blurt. We don’t have a dog. Helga scares me. I don’t want to pay for the international call.

Max and Libby are waiting for me in front of my chalet when I return from Helga’s office. Almost immediately I can smell her perfume and his cologne. Oh brother. “You guys are oversexed,” I observe. I let myself in and take a seat on the bed. They do not follow me inside. Instead, they continue to stand on the threshold. “Is all that room deodorizer for the benefit of a certain ranger we know and love?” I ask.

“You betcha,” says Max, rattling the door handle. “Now let’s move.” He rattles the door handle a second time. I ask what the rush is. I just need a five-minute catnap. We have time before dinner.

“No, we don’t, babe!” says a revved-up Libby. “We can’t sleep now! Did you see how cute that ranger William was?” She remains standing at Max’s side. I give her a look. Good Lord, is she sweating like a crack addict? These people have lost their damn minds. She of all people can’t take a nap? She sleeps standing up.

When I finally get up Libby gives me a standing ovation and recommends that I put on a “cute dress.” I look down at my T-shirt and jeans. I’m certainly not going to be hyperventilating over William. At least I’m not going to show him that I’m hyperventilating. He already knows he’s attractive. I guarantee he’s a big-time player. He probably owns the whole team. No guy who looks as good as that could be anything but. When I express this sentiment aloud Max pleads with me not to say the word
butt
. I tell him to get over it and, while he’s at it, tone down the flattery. He’s delivering more bullshit to William than a teahouse geisha. I’m surprised the guy hasn’t caught on and seen through it. Max tells me to relax. He’s just having fun—where’s the harm in that? “There’s a chance he’s gay,” he adds.

Libby looks at him in disbelief. “No,” she says, pushing out her chest, harnessing her gaydar powers, “he’s definitely straight.”

Max makes a fist. “Quiet, you,” he tells her.

We stroll to the courtyard for an African feast near the boma fire. I don’t know what
boma
means. I wasn’t paying attention when Helga explained it. Sorry. Libby and Max, who have been plucked, tucked, and polished, reminding me of the king and queen of some high school prom, certainly don’t know what
boma
means, either. I go in the T-shirt. I know what T-shirt means. It means I’m done trying to impress. Nothing has changed, at least that’s what I tell myself.

The long dining table at which we will be taking evening meals is perfectly appointed, laden with an array of dishes whose names I will never remember. Flash cards would be useful. I can already envision the three of us arguing over who gets what first, but they have something else on their minds. William. He’s already sitting down. Who needs me at a time like this? There’s a vacant seat next to him and they race to claim it. I’m afraid one or both will be injured. Max gets there first. I guess it pays to work out. Libby and I have no choice but to claim the seats across from William and Max. As we pull out our chairs, William stands and tells us not to sit just yet—he should pull out our chairs. At the sound of this, we laugh in amazement. Pull out our chairs? There’s no need for that, really. What kind of asshole would need a chair pulled out? William sits back down and smiles. He’s really going to have to stop that smile of his.