Dan Versus Nature (8 page)

“I’m not really sure how this works.”

Hank has the wailing Baby Robbie on the kitchen table. He fumbles with the loaded diaper, trying to figure out how to get it off. Some of the “poo” is starting to leak down its legs. “Is there any way to keep him quiet while we do this?” Hank glances at the ceiling; Mom’s bedroom is directly above us.

“Not until we’ve got him cleaned up,” I say.

Charlie is busy snapping photos of the scene with his camera. The flash blasting our eyes with each shutter click.

“Could you please stop with that?” Hank says, blinking hard. “You’re blinding me.”

“I am a photojournalist, Mr. Langston,” Charlie states, rifling off several more shots. “I have vowed to document our entire trip for the school newspaper. The photo-essay from this excursion could be the very thing that saves the
Willowvale Oracle.”

“Yes, well.” Hank squints, holding up his hand. “Could you maybe turn off the flash?”

“Would you ask Martin Parr or Diane Arbus to turn off their flashes?” Charlie asks, exploding another burst of light in Hank’s face.

“I don’t know even know who —”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t,” Charlie says, blasting Hank yet again.

“Jesus Christ.” Hank rubs his eyes and peers down at the squawking baby. He exhales loudly. “All right. There’s got to be a trick to this.”

“They showed us how to do it in class,” I say. “But everyone was crowded around and I couldn’t see very well. I thought you’d know how.”

“I haven’t had much experience with this sort of thing.” Hank flips the baby onto its belly, then onto its back again. “It can’t be that hard. Let me look it up on my phone.” He wipes his hands fastidiously on his pants, even though he hasn’t actually encountered any of the yogurt surprise yet, then unclips his gleaming phablet and starts typing. “OK. Wait. Yes. Right. Got it.” Hank lays down his phone well away from the doll and finds the clear sticky strips at the waist, pulls them back, and carefully slides the soggy, brown-stained diaper off.

Finally, Baby Robbie stops crying.

Hank breathes a deep sigh of relief. “Thank God.” Then he tilts his head as he notices Baby Robbie’s tiny plastic penis. “Wow. They really went all out on the verisimilitude, huh?”

And just like that, the baby sprays a gusher of whiz into Hank’s eyes.

“Jesus,” Hank splutters, grabbing a Duke of Donuts napkin and swiping at his face.

Charlie quickly raises his camera and snaps a dozen more shots. “Good thing my Nikon is waterproof.”

The doll is screaming again, shrieking like we’re stabbing it repeatedly with a butcher knife.

Another one of Charlie’s hacks: making the cries infinitely louder and more shrill.

“Hank,” I plead, pointing to my ID bracelet. “We have to get him dry and dressed.”

“We will, we will. Give me a clean diaper,” he says, blinking wildly as he mops the baby’s nether regions with the doughnut napkin. “Quickly. Before he erupts again.”

I hand him the disposable diaper that Charlie and I superglued shut. Hank snatches it from me and starts to wrestle with it, trying to pull apart the cemented tabs.

Baby Robbie lets out a long, hoarse screech that sounds like a Godzilla roar.

“Goddamn it.” Hank’s face is red, his fingers contorted. “Something’s . . . not . . .” He yanks the diaper hard, tearing the thing in two. “Another one.” He holds out his shaking hand. “Hurry. Before it wakes your —”

“What’s going on down here?” Mom stands in the doorway, her eyes half shut, her bathrobe clutched around her. “Did we have a baby that nobody told me about?” Her voice is groggy. And more than a little annoyed.

“It’s OK, hon.” Hank waves the diaper at her. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got it covered.”

“It’s a school project,” I say. “I have to take care of a Baby-Real-A-Lot doll for a week.”

“
This
week?” Mom says. “On your trip?”

“Believe me,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“
Hah!
Got it!” Hank shouts, flicking the diaper open. He makes fast work of getting the baby swaddled.

And finally Robbie is silent once more.

“Well,” Mom rasps. “Good luck with that. I’m going back to bed. Have a safe flight.”

She starts to go.

“Sarah, wait,” Hank says. He looks at me, then looks at Mom, who’s turning back toward us.

“Yes?” Mom says.

“Uhh, I’m just . . . thinking out loud here, but . . .” Hank looks at me again. “What if . . . what if your mom looked after the baby this week?”

“Excuse me?” Mom says, her eyes suddenly wide.

“Yeah, what?” I say. Mom can’t take Baby Robbie. That’ll ruin everything!

“It
is
Dan’s birthday present,” Hank explains. “This trip. And I can’t imagine this is what you had in mind when you set it up. So maybe, well, maybe you taking care of the baby could be part of the gift.”

“I have work, Hank,” Mom states. “I can’t be looking after a toy baby.”

“It’s just a little feeding.” Hank says. “A little changing.”

Mom laughs. “Tell that to your sweaty brow.”

“Well, that’s just because I’ve never done this before,” Hank says. “But you have. And I bet you were great at it!”

“I don’t know.” Mom looks at me sympathetically. “I suppose I could. Since it is your birthday gift —”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Weekes, but I can’t let you do that,” Charlie interjects, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. “I hate to put a damper on these plans, but, technically, it would be cheating for you to take care of the doll.”

Hank laughs. “Come on, Charlie. You have to admit that we have extenuating circumstances here.”

“Yeah, Charlie,” I say. “If Hank’s OK with cheating, then I’m OK with it.”

“Now, hold on.” Hank raises his hand. “I didn’t say I was OK with cheating.”

Mom smirks and crosses her arms. “What
were
you saying, Boogabear?”

“I was saying . . .” Hank wafts his hand in the air. “That . . . given the situation we’re in . . . and the fact that we were afforded no prior notice of having to look after this baby . . . I think that we have just cause in making other arrangements for . . . little Robbie.”

I stare at Hank long and hard, well past the point of comfort, trying my best to look like I’m searching my soul. Finally, I shake my head and turn away, like I’m ashamed. “Charlie’s right. I’m supposed to look after this baby. A little help is OK, but the main responsibility has to fall on me, or I won’t be learning anything.” I look at Mom. “I appreciate you considering it, Mom. But I can’t just take the easy way out when things get hard.”

She smiles at me. “That’s very mature of you, Dan.” She gives Hank the stink eye before heading back upstairs.

Mature? Right! If she only knew . . .

I stand with my arms outstretched and my legs splayed as a shark-eyed TSA officer runs his scanner wand up and down my body. I’ve already been through the metal detector four times. Each time the beep went off and the red light flashed. Each time I removed some piece of metal I “forgot” I had on me.

Keys. Nail clippers. A bottle opener. A piece of hematite that Charlie gave me.

Charlie and Hank wait off to the side, Hank checking his humongous watch for the umpteenth time. When the TSA dude finally waves me through, I go to grab Baby Robbie and my sling bag from the conveyor belt.

“May I look in this?” a bushy-browed guard says, gripping my carry-on with his blue-latex-gloved hands.

I’d been worried that they wouldn’t flag my bag for inspection and that all of our careful planning — and packing — would be for naught. But obviously I worried for nothing.

“Why?” I ask, cradling the whimpering Baby Robbie.

“The machine is showing some suspect items inside,” he says.

“Suspect? Like what?”

“That’s what I need to identify.” He lifts my bag. “May I?”

Hank and Charlie approach.

“What’s going on?” Hank asks.

“Can you hold Baby Robbie, please?” I say, thrusting the doll into Hank’s arms.

“Uh . . . sure,” Hank says, reluctantly. “But what’s the holdup?”

I gesture at the TSA officer. “This guy wants to look in my bag.”

“Well, let him,” Hank says, holding the baby in one arm and glancing at his watch on the other. “We don’t want to miss our flight.”

“Yeah, come on, Dan,” Charlie says. “What’s the big deal?”

“It’s just . . . There’s . . . I don’t . . .” Finally, I sigh. Throw my hands in the air. “Whatever. Fine. Go ahead.”

The guard unzips my bag, reaches inside, and pulls out a Swiss Army knife.

“We’re going on a survivalist camping trip for five days,” I say. “That’s gonna come in real handy.”

Hank winces. “You can’t take that on the plane, Dan.”

“What? Why?” I say, looking between Hank and the TSA officer.

“It’s a prohibited item, sir,” the officer explains. “No sharp objects allowed.”

“But . . . it’s my dad’s,” I lie.

The officer looks over at Hank, who laughs nervously.

“His . . . other dad,” Hank says. “I’m the step- . . . or . . . will be . . . soon . . . eventually.”

The agent puts the knife aside and reaches into my bag again.

This time he removes a large bottle of Jergens Soothing Aloe hand lotion. Followed by . . . a second large bottle of Jergens Soothing Aloe hand lotion.

The TSA officer gives me a look.

I swallow nervously, gesturing at the lotion. “That’s —”

“An
emollient,
” Charlie interjects.

“I have . . . eczema.” I stare at the ground. My insides twisting up.

“Eczema?” The officer raises his thumb-thick eyebrows as he puts the two full bottles of lotion next to the knife.

“It’s a skin condition,” Hank says. “I told you to put those in your checked baggage, Dan.”

Well played, Hank.
He’s keeping it surprisingly cool. But I’m struggling to hold up my end of the performance. My toes curl thinking about what’s coming next.

The TSA officer says nothing. Just peers back into my bag, then pinches up a giant wad of stuck-together tissues, the crumpled mass doing a little slow-motion pirouette in the air. The officer wrinkles up his nose.

I wrench a smile onto my face. “Those are . . . my, uh . . .” I sniffle. “I’ve got, you know, bad allergies.”

The agent drops the clump of tissues onto the metal counter with a muffled thump. He scans the inside of my bag and removes a family-size box of Kleenex Ultra Soft.

“I like the, uh, the softer ones,” I mumble, my chest tightening up. “They’re gentler on my . . . nose.” Another swallow.

I glance over at Hank, whose face is bright pink. He’s looking down, acting like he’s tending to the baby’s needs.

The TSA officer clears his throat.

I look back at him. Force a laugh.

“We’re going to have to confiscate the knife,” he says. “And the bottles of lotion. You can keep the box of tissues and”— he looks down at the mass of stuck-together Kleenex —“that. But everything else has to stay here.”

“What?” I blink. “I get the knife. I wasn’t thinking. But . . .” My head starts to spin. I feel like the whole world is staring at me. “How am I supposed to, you know”— I lower my voice — “moisturize?”

“I’m very sorry,” the TSA officer says, not sounding sorry at all. “But the bottles far exceed the permitted three-point-four-ounce limit.”

Just then a no-nonsense female voice comes over the loudspeaker: “This is the preboarding announcement for Alaska Airlines flight number two-four-zero-four to Boise. Those passengers with small children and anyone requiring special assistance should begin boarding at this time through gate twenty-eight. Regular boarding will commence in approximately five minutes.”

Hank finally looks at me, his face still cherry-pie-filling red. “Come on, Dan. Just leave it. We don’t have time for any more delays.”

And just like that, Robbie rips a mighty wet rumbler, the entire contents of his belly slopping from his ill-fitting diaper all down the front of Hank’s pants.

We are running. The three of us. Tearing through the terminal at top speed, dodging suitcase draggers, sunglasses kiosks, shoe-shine stalls, and special-offer credit-card vendors.

We’ve each got our carry-on bags in tow, and Hank, the front of his pants drenched from the clean-up, has the yowling Baby-Real-A-Lot doll tucked under his arm like a football.