Dan Versus Nature (5 page)

“Woo-hoo!”
Hank leaps to his feet along with Mom and the other eighteen thousand screaming fans in the hockey arena. “Right through the five hole!”

A tugboat horn sounds to announce the goal and then “Rock and Roll Part 2” starts pounding over the PA system. All around us fists are pumped, bellies are squashed together, hands are high-fived, and popcorn kernels fly from their containers.

I fumble with the precariously balanced grease-stained box of stale nachos on my knees, nearly dropping the small plastic sputum cup of cyber-orange cheese. The seating is airplane-tight here, and it takes a contortionist’s dexterity to try to bend over and place my items on the floor so I can stand up and “hurrah” with the beer-swilling masses. I finally get all of my foodstuffs settled safely onto the sticky concrete, unfold my body, and wrestle myself out of my chair into a standing position —

Just as everyone else is settling back down again.

Great. Nice timing, Dan.

People stare. I make a big show of stretching my arms above my head — elongating my body, rolling my shoulders — like this was the plan all along.

This is how I’m spending my sixteenth birthday. A hockey game with Mom and her fiancé. In case you care, the San Jose Sharks are now tied with the Anaheim Ducks two to two. We’re four minutes and forty-five seconds from the end of the second period — I’ve been promised there are only three — and I’ve got a splitting headache and a full-blown cheese-sauce-and-soda stomach churn going on.

Could life get any more tragic?

Mom is now a huge sports fan. Hockey, mostly. Because Hank loves hockey. Three months ago she purchased
NHL GameCenter
LIVE
and subscribed to the
Hockey News.
Since then she’s been studying up on the lingo and learning all the star players’ names and stats.

Whatever else it’s accomplished, Mom’s intense desire to be liked has made her the most well-rounded and oddly knowledgeable person I know. She can talk fantasy football, sea-glass collecting, antique books, DNA testing, tai chi, vintage cars, ghost hunting, the stock market, cooking, gardening, dog training, cosplaying, decoupage, magic, sailing, model railroading, ventriloquism, rock stacking, poker, disc golf, pigeon racing, shortwave radio, falconry, paintball, robotics, beekeeping, and, yes, even gongoozling.

I don’t think Mom’s boyfriends have any idea how hard she works at trying to incorporate their interests into her life. If they did, they would either be incredibly touched or seriously creeped out.

Before I sit again, I glance down the aisle, contemplating a wander in the quiet of the pre-intermission concourse. But two seats away a pregnant man with a peanut-shell-flecked beard shoots me a don’t-you-dare scowl. He and the other spectators in our row are getting pretty pissed at me for leaving so many times during the game already. Probably because I can’t seem to scooch my way out of the aisle without crushing toes or accidentally kicking over beers.

I can’t help it. I’m antsy. I could chalk it up to all the caffeine coursing through my veins. The deep-dimpled girl at the concession stand hard sold me on upsizing my Coke, and in my boredom I’ve managed to suck the mop bucket of soda completely dry.

But really, I’m on edge because I’ve decided to implement Charlie’s scare-Hank-away-with-inappropriate-questions plan. While I’ve been able to pull off Part One of the operation just fine — ingratiating myself with him by asking for tips on everything from how to shave to how to fold a handkerchief — I haven’t worked up the courage yet to push things to the next level.

But I’m going to have to up the stakes soon before Hank goes and buys himself a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug.

The universe seems to agree, as just then Mom’s cell phone plays “The Hockey Song,” her latest ringtone. She reaches in her purse, checks who’s calling, and frowns. “It’s Bonnie, from work. I’ve got to take this, sorry.” She swipes the screen, plugs one ear, and stands. “Hey, Bonnie. What’s up?”

“That’s the artistry of the sport right there,” Hank says to me as Mom disappears down the aisle. “The way that guy handles the puck. That was a dirty little dangle. You can’t teach that kind of thing.”

“Totally,” I say, trying to simulate interest. “The dangling . . . dirtily . . . Pretty amazing.”

Hank unholsters his huge phablet and snaps a picture of the player who just scored.

“Hey, did I show you my new gadget?” He turns the screen toward me. “It’s a real beaut. It’s got a quad HD-plus display. A sixteen-megapixel camera. A fingerprint scanner. A heart-rate monitor. And I don’t know what the heck else. It’s crazy. I love it.”

I can tell he loves it because he’s gazing at it the way he gazes at my mom. I may vom.

“Wow, that’s . . . pretty sweet,” I say.

“You can’t even get these right now,” he says. “They’re sold out everywhere. I had to stand in line for thirty-nine hours for this bad boy, but it was worth it.”

“Wow,” I say again.

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but I do adore my tech.” He gives his phone a kiss, then wipes away his lip prints and reholsters the phone. “The key to upgrading is to save all the materials and keep your equipment super clean. That way you can maximize the resale value of your old phone and subsidize your new investment.”

“Right.” I nod. “Good idea.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my pant legs and look up at the clock. Three minutes twenty-four seconds left in the period.

I lean over. “Can I talk to you a sec, Hank? Out on the concourse?”

“Sure, bud,” he says, chin-gesturing toward the ice. “Period’s almost over.” He rubs his hands together. “Sharks are on a power play. They could take the lead here.”

“I know, but . . . it’s kind of important. And . . .” I lower my voice. “I don’t want anyone else to hear. If we go now, we’ll beat the crowds.”

“Oh, OK.” Hank’s eyes flit to the ice, where the Sharks are passing the puck around like crazy. “If you’re, uh, sure it can’t wait a few minutes.”

“It really can’t.”

Hank nods. “Right. Yes. Let’s do it.” He slaps his thighs and stands, then starts to gracefully sidestep his way down the aisle, his eye on the game as he goes. I trail Hank, making my way down the row. I trip on someone’s foot, fall, and brace myself on the pregnant man’s oddly firm belly. He grunts and shoves me away, causing me to butt bump the heads of the people in front of us.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say as I stumble on.

Finally, I make it to the stairs and follow Hank, who scales the steps like a mountaineer. He glances back over his shoulder one last time, catching a final glimpse of the game before heading through the doorway to the concourse.

“So,” he says when I catch up to him in front of Panda Express. “What’s going on?”

I look around. “Actually, I feel a little exposed out here. Could we maybe talk in the bathroom?”

“The bathroom?” Hank asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

I nod.

He sighs, which means I’m starting to annoy him. Excellent!

“OK,” he says, forcing a smile. “Sure. I can use the bathroom. Sounds good.”

The men’s restroom is all blinding white tiles and gray Formica. The whole place reeks of malty whiz, the ammonia cakes having raised the white flag sometime during the first intermission.

Hank quickly moves over to the urinals, unzips, and angles his ear, listening to the radio play-by-play of the game being piped in over speakers.

“Fifty-five seconds left on the power play,” the announcer calls. “The Sharks break out of their zone.”

There are a few other crowd-beating bathroom-goers straggling about, but the row of urinals is mostly vacant, leaving plenty of options for me. Still, I take up a position right next to Hank. He gives me a little acknowledging nod while still managing to keep his gaze directly forward.

I unleash myself and stare at the perspiring chrome urinal handle.

“Shot from the point, hits the crossbar,” the announcer shouts.

Hank winces. “Damn it.”

Do it now,
I hear Charlie’s voice in my head.
Right now. What we discussed.

Aw, crap. My heart hammers inside my chest, the back of my neck prickling.

I lean over slightly and whisper, “So, anyway, the . . . uh . . . thing . . . that I wanted to ask you . . .”

Hank’s eyes dart over to me, though his head remains dead straight. “Yes?”

“It’s . . . kind of embarrassing,” I say.

The sportscaster suddenly bellows, “He shoots, he scores!”

Hank’s shoulders slump.

“Oh,” I say. “We missed it. Sorry.”

Hank takes a breath. “It’s OK. This is more important. What’s on your mind, bud?”

Oh, good Christ. All right. Here goes.

“So, you . . . know . . . your, uh . . .” I say, glancing downward. “A guy’s . . . you know his . . . his . . . testicles?”

I look over at Hank. A mortified pink climbs his neck like the red in a thermometer.

“Yes,” Hank says with a curt nod. “What about them?”

Just then a middle-aged Indian guy in an age-inappropriate team hoodie steps up to the urinal next to Hank.

Abort! Abort! Abandon ship! Cut bait! Cease and desist!

No!
Charlie’s voice drowns out my inner coward.
Witnesses are a good thing. The more humiliating it is for you, the more embarrassing it is for Hank.

“Um, well . . .” I clear my throat, which is rapidly closing up. “I was just . . . wondering . . . are your”— I lower my voice —“you know . . . are they supposed to be . . . really small?”

“Really small?” Hank’s eyes dart over to the Indian guy.

“It’s just . . .”

Oh, shit, I can’t go through with this. Charlie, what the hell were you thinking?

Do you want this man out of your life, or do you not? Say it. And say it convincingly.

“I’m just . . . sort of . . . worried,” I croak. “Like . . . what size . . . is normal? For a testicle? Like . . . the size of a peanut? Is that normal?”

Hank squints one eye. “A peanut? Like, in the shell?”

Oh, Jesus, I think I might faint. Or throw up. Or both. I’m sweating through the pits of my shirt. Hank may be embarrassed, but I am beyond mortified.

“No . . .” I swallow. “A . . . cocktail peanut. That’s tiny, right?”

Hank blinks. “Listen, bud, maybe we should, uh . . . you know . . . Maybe we should talk about this later, in private.”

“Never mind.” I shake my head, starting to hyperventilate. “It’s OK. Forget it.” I zip up and head to the sinks.

A moment later Hank steps up next to me. I look in the mirror. I can’t tell whose face is burning redder, his or mine.

“Listen, Dan,” he says, soaping his hands. “It’s all right. You can talk to me. About anything. It’s good. That’s what, you know, a father — stepfather — is for.”

“It’s nothing,” I rasp. “I didn’t . . . it’s fine. Really.”

“We can take you to the doctor,” he says. “If you’re concerned.”

“No,” I squeak. “I mean. I’m fine. I’ll just . . . I’ll ask the doctor about it next time I see him. I’m probably just being paranoid.” I turn to him. “Please don’t tell Mom. Seriously. I’d die. Promise me. Please.”

Hank nods. “Sure, bud. Absolutely. Between you and me. As long as, you know, you’re sure you’re OK.”

“Totally, yes, I’m good, thanks,” I say, then bolt from the bathroom.

I take a tour around the entire concourse to try to gain my composure, pushing through the crush of people to buy a bottle of water. Letting the blood drain from my face.

That was
way
harder than I thought it was going to be. Stupid Charlie and his stupid ideas. I can’t believe I let him talk me into doing that. When I get home, we’re going to need to regroup and rethink our strategy.

When I finally return to my seat, Hank and Mom are pointing and laughing at the two guys dressed in giant plush sumo suits, battling on the ice. The referee counts one of the wrestlers out and a cheer goes up from the intermission-thinned crowd.

“Oh my God,” Mom says, shaking with laughter. She sniffles and wipes a tear from her cheek. “That was hilarious.”

I watch her carefully to see if she gives me any kind of are-you-OK-honey-I-didn’t-know-you-had-such-tiny-testicles look, but there’s nothing. So Hank must have kept his promise.

“Hey, do you want to open your birthday present from me?” Mom asks.

I shrug. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sounds good.” I kind of assumed that this hockey night was a present from both of them, but I guess we’re not playing the whole one-present-from-the-parents game yet. Which is good. It means the cement hasn’t completely hardened on this relationship, and I still have time to wedge my crowbar between them.

Mom reaches into her purse and takes out a gold envelope. She leans over Hank and hands it to me.

It’s light. Almost weightless. Which is curious because Mom’s not a check writer. She usually puts a lot of thought into her gifts. Even if they don’t always hit the mark. Like the time she bought me a framed
300
movie poster. Sure, I read the graphic novel, watched the film. But did I want a life-size shot of a totally ripped dude in a loincloth hanging over my bed? Not really. Still, it’s sweet of Mom to actually pay attention to my interests.