The Perils of Pauline (3 page)

The last rain-cloud vanishes as the sun floods the sky with brilliance. I’m astride the bike in a flash. Immediately, the regrets flood in: What do I do with my arms? Where do I hold on? Would it be improper to hug the driver, a stranger? As the bike leaps forward, I almost fall off. Losing all my inhibitions, I hold on tight, my nose pressed up against the soft hide of his jacket. The jacket and its owner smell wonderful: a mixture of sun-warmed leather, Ivory soap, and a lemony aftershave lotion.

What a thrill! I’m perched on the back of a magnificent motorcycle feeling the cool wind in my face. The bike is all shining chrome and soft leather seats, its dashing owner all mirrored sunglasses, clean denim, and polished leather boots.

At the gas station, I realize I’ve forgotten my bag on the seat of the Caddy. “Don’t worry about it,” the man says as he pays for the gas and lashes the container to the back of the bike.

The ride back out of town is even more glorious as I got the hang of leaning into the curves. In the straight parts the man lets out the throttle, turning the sun-dappled woods beside us into a green and gold blur. We slow down as we cross a bridge over the river, and he reaches back, taps me gently on the leg and points down the embankment. Standing motionless in the shallows at the edge of the water is a Great Blue Heron. He stops the bike on the shoulder and pulls out his camera to take a shot. We walk back onto the bridge and stand side by side together in a contented silence for a few minutes, leaning on the rail watching the river flow under us. For some reason this seems like a perfectly normal and natural thing to do with a stranger in the middle of nowhere.

Too soon, we have to move on and then the ride is over. Once gassed, the Caddy starts up with a healthy roar. The man pats the fender. “Nice wheels,” he says whistling gently. He glances up at me. “Gorgeous.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm.

“This was my Dad’s car. He restored it himself. I helped with some of the body work.” I run my hand across the hood. “My father died not long ago. A heart attack. He was here one minute, and then he was gone, just like that.”

Why am I telling him this?

The man’s brown eyes turn soft with sympathy. “I lost my Dad a couple years ago. I know what that feels like.”

For a moment I’m lost in those deep brown pools.

“Wait,” I say with a start, “I have to pay you back.” I hurry to fetch my wallet from the car and count out the right amount of cash to cover my tab. He hesitates, and then accepts. Then he climbs back on his bike, leaning back a little to buckle his helmet while straddling the seat with those long lean legs.

There’s nothing left to do but say, “Thank you.” I suppose it’s more appropriate than blurting out the thought he’s inspired in me:
“Why don’t we do it in the road?”

“Any time,” he says. He tips his helmet and rides away.

Home again, I walk in the door to find one of the cats, Bites-a-lot or Scratches, has experienced a hair-ball attack on the hall carpet. While I’m crouched down on my knees, scrubbing cat puke, I can’t help but reflect on how my life has become a real whirlwind of excitement.

A few minutes later I catch sight of my rear end in the hall mirror. I twist and turn to try to assess the scope, limit and range of visible butt cleavage. It’s been weeks since I hit the gym. I should sign up for that free Pilates class at work. Wait. The reality sinks in. It’s Monday morning and I no longer have a job to go to. That means no Pilates. No paycheck. And I have no prospects.

All Appropriate Action: Action taken in self-defense that is reasonable in intensity, duration, and magnitude, based on all the facts known to the commander at the time.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms

The headhunter looks about ten years younger than me. He has a faux-hawk and bony hands. On his desk is a programmable power stapler. I’ve heard about them but have never seen one before. WiFi-Robes never splurged on high-end gadgetry. I should become an employment counselor.

He types my name into his computer.

“That’s spelled P-a-u-l-i-n-e, not P-a-u-l-e-e-n.”

He crosses out the e-e-n and changes it to i-n-e. “Now,” he says, picking up my resume, “Says here you were in the army.”

“Yes. Seven years.”

“My wife’s cousin was in the air force. His name was Allan. Al Anderson—do you know him?”

“No. Don’t think so.”

“No, wait, he was in the army.”

“Well then…”

“He’s a weird guy.”

“Go army.”

“It says here you’re a sharpshooter.”

“I can shoot an M16. I have specialized training in nuclear, biological and chemical warfare. And I’m a trained Unit Supply Specialist.”

“Which means?”

“I know how to keep track of a large inventory. I spent a lot of time handing out foot powder and counting compasses and blankets. And filling requisitions and filing forms. And I can drive a forklift.”

“Hmm. After the army, you worked at WiFi-Robes? What did you do there?”

“Ordering and consulting. I know a lot about making survival gear. I sourced out things like the rustproof grommets for stringing hats and jackets. I know where to buy the best kinds of string too.”

“What do you see yourself doing next?”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of why I’m here.”

“The first thing you need to know is the employment market has changed. These days, job hunting is super competitive. You have to find a way to stand out in the crowd.” He hands me a tip sheet on resume writing and a sheaf of leaflets on structuring a targeted search. Then he ushers me out with a task: to request “information interviews” from prospective employers. That supposedly gets me in the door.

Last week’s job search turned up zero leads. This week, already almost half over, is no better. This morning, like every morning, I checked the local online employment listings: all are disappointing. One ad requires me to be fluent in Tagalog and another wants me to pay for my own uniform before I get to bag the groceries. None of them say, “Travel and adventure. Top rates. Internet access. Programmable power staplers.”

I’ve never been out of work in my life. My lip is twitching, signaling the onset of an attack of hives. Antihistamine bottle in hand, I slump on the couch to watch the bumps heaving up on my arms and chest. One hive is threatening to block the vision in my left eye. To calm down, I attempt some creative visualization: but picturing perky little Daria, Gone Grey and Sharper-in-Tooth, is an insufficient
pick-me-up. My life has gone flat and stale. I’m 36 years old, out of work and reduced to wearing yoga pants without the yoga. Wednesday used to be hair, salt glow, or pedicure at lunchtime.

If Dad were still alive, he’d say drop and give me 50. When I was a kid, he never stood for any sniveling. If I whined, he made me go down to the basement and polish his boots. He taught me how to stand at attention and snap off a crisp salute long before I laced up for basic training. The only time I ever saw my father, the rock-jawed Master Sergeant William Jackson Parril, come close to shedding a tear was the day I was sworn in.

My throat squeezes tight. His heart wasn’t supposed to march off the parade square three months after his first pension check.

I would call Mom for advice but she’s gone off to the Berkshires with her with her book club girlfriends. She would only tell me to buck up, anyway. Whatever that means. Bucking up sounds kind of raunchy. Now, there’s a thought: maybe I could have a love affair.

My lip stops twitching. I’m beginning to warm to the idea. A love affair could be the play therapy I need.

I phone Bibienne to tell her about my self-help scheme.

“You’re just bored.”

“Maybe. But don’t you think any woman worth her salt has at least one romantic affair during marriage?”

“No.”

“But you take in stray animals. Why shouldn’t I?”

“All my strays get neutered, first thing. And, besides, sex is overrated. I just took a workshop in LomiLomi Hawaiian Temple massage techniques. Excellent for stress release. The clinic will give you a decent discount.”

“A massage isn’t the same thing.”

“I think you need to get away from it all for a bit.” Bibi says. “My next client’s here, gotta go.”

Bibienne is the best massage therapist in town. I should book an appointment. And maybe Bibi’s right: Donald and I could at least go away for the weekend—there isn’t enough cash in the single income budget for a fancy vacation on Nantucket Island like last year, but
we could afford a campout with the kids. A nice campground with all the facilities laid on should be a snap seeing as I aced the basic training on personal survival in the field. I’ve eaten boil-in-the-bag ham-steak with pineapple for breakfast, and dug my own latrines to capture the results; it’s high time I teach the kids how to pee in the woods. I could show them how to set up a proper bivouac site, read a map and compass, and tie a clove hitch—all that good stuff Dad taught me.

No housework, just a few paper plates. After the kids are zipped into their sleeping bags, Donald and I could make out under the stars. We haven’t camped or fooled around under the stars for ages. Come to think of it, it’s been years since our last camping trip together.

Before Jack and Olympia came, just after we got married, Mom looked after Serenity while we backpacked a section of the Appalachian Trail for a week. We honeymooned those wonderful summer nights away in our little pup tent. Yes. The bush is calling me.

Donald greets my long weekend camping plan with a face that looks sad in a happy sort of way. “Impossible. I can’t get away. The new Double-Double campaign launches next week.”

“I know this is last minute but it’s Memorial Day weekend. We have nothing planned.”

“I do. My plan is to work.”

“But we haven’t done anything with the kids for ages.”

“Maybe we can do something in July when school lets out.”

I give him the face that looks sad in a mad sort of way.

“Fine then.” Donald gives me the face that looks mad in a mad sort of way. He snatches up the phone. “I’ll call my boss and quit my job then. We’ll go camping.”

“I didn’t say quit your job. I thought it would be nice to have some family time. I’ll take the kids camping myself. Don’t worry about it.”

Donald softens and comes over to hug me. “Thanks for handling this.”

The kids are horror-struck with my camping plan even though I’ve promised them lakeside swimming and exhilarating hikes through the woods. Jack remains unconvinced: “Camping is lame. Why aren’t we going to a real beach? Like Surfside?”

“Lakes have nice beaches too. Camping is fun,” I insist.

“Will there be TV?”

“No.”

“Playstation?”

“No.”

“I’m not going.”

I persevere with a wild promise: mouthwatering meals cooked over an open fire. Then I mention the possibilities of sighting small animals of the forest: raccoons, chipmunks, squirrels, etc. Jack runs off to find his slingshot while yelling something about hoping to meet up with bears. Olympia screams and clamps onto my leg: “I ‘fraid of bears.”

Recalling my own deep-seated fear of large carnivores, I remember a recent news item about a vicious bear attack upon a group of unlucky campers. “Bears are afraid of people,” I say, while picturing Olympia being eaten. Cringing, I rush to lie down on my bed, in the throes of a sudden panic attack.

Now I’m horror-struck with my camping plan. The harsh reality hits me: I’m planning to spend the entire long weekend in bear country with two kids. Under canvas. What was I thinking? I’m sunk now. This morning, within minutes of hatching my camping plan, I went online. Now I’m all hooked up with prepaid reservations at a park in the Green Mountains. I also went out and bought a pile of brand new camping equipment, all financed with the severance money from my job. I have a red tent, a red lantern, a red cooler and three red sleeping bags. I’ve color-bombed our campsite in a rabble-rousing hue sure to fire up all the bears within forty miles of the park. I should’ve bought a crossbow and some camo.

After performing deep breathing exercises for ten minutes, I’m ready to lift my head from my pillow—until Donald pokes his head
into the room to ask if I have any thoughts on dinner. I turn my pillow over to the cool side. Donald, with a cheerful wave of his hand, offers to go for takeout pizza; clearly he’s pleased with my camping initiative and the prospect of having the house all to himself for a few days.

I feel bad for snapping at Donald last night over camping. He deserves a proper wifely good-bye before we set out tomorrow. At bedtime, while he’s showering, I don my purple bra and panty set, and slather on a slab of my new body lotion that smells like warm toffee and is loaded with tempting slithery goodness. Donald comes into the bedroom and whistles. “Wow. Candles even.”

“How many candles can you handle?” I say in my throatiest voice while locking the bedroom door.

He plants a quick kiss on my neck. “Hold on.” He sits on the edge of the bed to use his towel to pat the skin dry between his toes. “Is that a new perfume or have you been eating caramels?”

“It’s brown sugar body lotion.”

“You might want to be careful around ants wearing that stuff,” he says dropping the towel, pulling the front of my red silk panties out in a “V” and peeking in curiously while making sniffing noises.

“There’re no ants down there. And you might not be going down there yourself if you don’t stop snuffling at me like that.”

Donald grins at me. “Hey, let’s play anteater. You can be the anthill,” he says pulling my panties down all the way.

Donald is soon back in the shower. A bit too soon. While he tackled my ants, he seemed distracted.

I toss and turn in the dark long after he falls asleep.

Packing for the camping trip takes most of the day. The kids flip out as I fling a mountain of toys out of the back seat of the Jeep. Both of them demand to take along items like hockey sticks, video games, stuffed animals, and a box of random toys they never touch at home.
“We need the space for the pillows, sleeping bags and our clothes,” I say.

“Why do we have to go camping?,” Jack yells as Olympia slumps down in the middle of the driveway, howling.

Donald rolls in from work, his face incredulous that we have yet to make it out of the driveway. He helps me carry the last few loads out to the Jeep and then retreats to the den to make a phone call. We push off. After twenty minutes of driving, I remember I’ve forgotten my wallet on the kitchen table. I race home, retrieve my wallet and pause for a moment to listen to Donald, talking on the phone in his den. His voice is bright, animated, and full of good cheer. When he kissed me goodbye less than 30 minutes ago, it was all poor me’s, and shoot-me-nows.

Back in the car, Jack’s screaming, “Limpy’s putting her feet on me.”

“Amn’t.”

“Get off. You stink.”

“No, you get off, I hate you to death.”

I rearrange the entire back seat so Olympia can hate Jack to death from behind a wall of pillows and sleeping bags piled between them.

Our estimated time of arrival now coincides with sundown. I hope I can erect the tenting equipment and, most importantly, locate the campground’s comfort stations before darkness envelopes us.

We arrive at the park and join the long lineup of vehicles ahead. The sun sinks behind the trees while, all around us, massive SUVs grunt by hauling trailers equipped with TVs, microwave ovens and private plumbing. Pointing out an RV hauling a trailer full of Sea-Doos, I remark to Jack and Olympia: “These people are missing out on the authentic camping experience. Tenting is best.”

“The kids in that RV are playing Nintendo.” Jack folds his arms across his chest and glares at me.

The campsite is probably very picturesque but it’s too dark to tell. The new flashlight won’t work. I crash about in the pitch black with the tent poles and pegs, while the kids complain: we’re starving and we want to eat right now. Forget the bid for a healthy meal cooked over a crackling open fire. The kids are ecstatic, their impressions
of camping profoundly improved by access to unlimited marshmallows and a family-size bag of barbecue potato chips. I’m not sure if my precariously pitched tent, let alone my sagging self, can hold up through the night.

At dawn, with a flourish of tent unzipping, I release Jack and Olympia upon an unsuspecting campground. After tidying the tent, I set up the stove to make pancakes. Soon the aroma of fresh brewed coffee is wafting past my nose. Kicking off my sandals and digging my toes into the warm sand, I settle into my campchair with my steaming mug while the pancakes turn a golden brown in the frying pan. The site is a fabric of enchantment, embroidered with tall pines and thick clumps of yellow and purple wildflowers. A friendly chipmunk chatters at me for a handout from a nearby stump. I toss him a handful of peanuts and watch him stuff his cheeks.

The seams of the enchanted fabric rip apart with the sound of screaming. Olympia has fallen from a tree. I rescue her from the bushes, frantically pat her down for broken bones and apply first aid to her knee while hearing the first rumble of a thunderstorm on the horizon.

The torrent of rain swamps our campsite. I pass the day indoors, in the Visitors’ Center, learning about Native American history, while Jack and Olympia swoop around the displays playing hide and seek.

As the tent is soaked through, we’re forced to take refuge in the Jeep for the night. I’m tempted to abandon camp and go home but there’s the problem of the rash bet I made with Donald: I have to tough out camping for the entire long weekend. The loser has to organize Olympia’s next birthday party and the winner doesn’t have to attend.

Finally, the monsoon is over. We slog down to the beach. I slather sunscreen on the kids and watch them frolic in the waves. Lying back in my beach chair, I read trampy pulp fiction. Periodically, I reapply sunscreen on the kids and turn a page. Nobody gets burned.