Dan Versus Nature (9 page)

Once again it took much longer to change Baby Robbie than it should have — thanks in large part to several more doctored diapers. Hank was practically pulling his hair out with frustration as the three of us stood around the changing table in the men’s room, tossing aside diaper after useless diaper, all while Baby Robbie screamed bloody murder and I fretted loudly about the neglect points I was racking up on my ID bracelet. I’ve never seen Hank so close to losing it.

“This is the last and final boarding call,” a female gate attendant announces, “for Alaska Airlines flight two-four-zero-four to Boise. All passengers should board at gate twenty-eight. Final checks are being completed, and the captain is about to order the doors of the aircraft closed.”

“Hurry!” Hank shouts, pumping his arms faster. “We miss this flight, we miss the trip.”

I look down at my ID bracelet strapped below my dad’s old Timex. “You’re shaking Robbie too hard. I’m getting mistreatment points.”

“Aw, Christ.” Hank takes the baby from under his arm and holds him against his shoulder, like a real baby.

Baby Robbie immediately stops crying.

We sprint past gates seventeen, eighteen, nineteen . . .

“Jesus,” Hank huffs, his head twisted toward the gate numbers. “It has to be at the end of the terminal, of course.”

Just then Charlie trips and goes flying, his body and his backpack tumbling over each other like he was thrown from a speeding car.

I stop. Look back.

Charlie reaches a hand in the air like he’s drowning. He wheezes, “Go on . . . without me! Don’t miss . . . the plane! I’ll get . . . a taxi home.”

“Like hell!” I race back to Charlie, grab his outstretched arm, and yank him to his feet. “You’re not bailing on me now.”

“Stop messing around!” Hank hollers over his shoulder, still trucking it toward the far end of the terminal, the baby jiggling on his shoulder. “Move!”

“You have . . . the list. And my . . . supplies,” Charlie says. “You don’t . . . need me anymore.”

“That stuff is useless if I freeze up,” I say. “I need you egging me on. Besides, you owe me, remember?”

Charlie sighs and hoists his backpack onto his shoulders. “I guess . . . it’s nice to be needed.”

I stagger off once more, dragging a stumbling Charlie behind me.

“Wait!” Hank bellows to the Alaska Airlines agent as she’s shutting the doors to gate twenty-eight. “Don’t close that! We’re here. We’re here.” Hank turns and waves Charlie and me forward toward the empty waiting lounge. “Come on, guys.”

The agent
tsk
s us. “Cutting it pretty close, aren’t we, fellas?” But she pulls the glass door open again, then stands behind the podium to scan our tickets.

“Thank you . . . so much,” Hank says, trying to catch his breath.

“Cute . . . doll?” the attendant says, furrowing her brow.

“Oh.” Hank flushes. “Yeah, it’s, uh, a school project. My stepson’s. Here.” He passes Baby Robbie to me, then pulls our boarding passes from his pocket and hands them to the agent. “Thanks again. We really appreciate it.”

The agent takes the tickets, scans them, and gives him a twinkling grin. “My pleasure.”

I guess these are the times when it really helps if you look like a handsome movie star.

“Holy moly.” Hank huffs and puffs as we head down the Jetway and wipes his sweaty brow. “That was too close for comfort.”

“Truly,” Charlie says, fastening a surgical mask over his nose and mouth. “Let’s just hope this doesn’t augur a disastrous trip.”

“What’s with the mask, Charlie?” Hank asks.

I guffaw. “Yeah, you planning on performing an operation on the flight or something?”

“How very amusing, Daniel,” Charlie says as we step onto the plane, his voice muffled through the mask. “Airplanes are one of the world’s largest breeding grounds for bacteria and germs. You’re one hundred and thirteen times more likely to catch rhinovirus or influenza during a flight than during your normal daily life.” He tugs a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and snaps them on as we make our way down the aisle. “I’m just taking the proper precautions.”

I shrug, watching the other passengers stare at him. “I guess if you don’t mind looking like a freak.”

“Yes, Daniel, I’m the freak.” Charlie shoots me a look over his shoulder. “This from the person cradling a relentlessly defecating toy child. The same individual who tried smuggling a year’s supply of hand lotion onto the plane.”

“All right, guys,” Hank says. “Enough. How about we just relax and have some peace and quiet for the rest of the flight, hmm?” He rubs his temple. “I could sure use a break.”

Fat chance of that, buddy.
We’re just getting started here.

We find our seats and strap in. Charlie takes the window so I can sit across the aisle from my future stepdad.

I settle Baby Robbie in my lap, then take out another bottle filled with chocolate Yo-Gulp and shove it into his mouth. He starts to drain the thing dry almost immediately.

Meanwhile Charlie is swabbing his video screen, tray table, seat belt, and armrests with a handful of disinfectant wipes. The harsh bleach smell burns my sinuses.

I cough. “Jesus, Charlie. Really?”

“You should do the same,” he says. “Sanitizing your surroundings is the first line of defense.”

I give my seat belt the tug test as the plane backs away from the gate. “I’m more worried about falling out of the sky than catching a cold,” I say, loud enough for Hank to hear me.

“Excuse me?” A female flight attendant with big hair and too much makeup stands over me. “I’m going to have to ask you to put your little dolly either in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you.”

“Oh,” I say, flushing. “Yeah. This isn’t a doll. It’s a Baby-Real-A-Lot. It’s for school. If I put him under the seat or in the overhead, he’ll start crying.” I hold up my wristband. “And I’ll be docked compassion points.”

“I see.” She fake-smiles at me, her makeup mask cracking at the corners of her mouth. “Well, then, I’ll have to ask you to hold him like a real baby when we take off, OK? In the burping position, with your hand supporting his head. Would you like me to show you how?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I got it.”

Another foundation-fracturing grin. “Excellent.” She pats my shoulder and continues down the aisle.

I pull the empty bottle from Robbie’s mouth and return it to my bag. Then I turn to Hank. “Can you show me the burping position?”

Hank’s got a camping magazine open in his lap. He looks over at me. “I thought you told the flight attendant you knew how to do it?”

“Yeah.” I twist around and look back down the aisle. Then whisper, “But that’s because I was embarrassed.”

“Well, just turn him around,” Hank says. “So he’s looking over your shoulder. Hold him to your chest. Support his head and bottom with your hands.”

I furrow my brow. “I don’t get it.” I hold up the baby. “Can you just show me, please?”

Hank exhales. Shuts his magazine. “Sure.” He reaches out and takes the doll from me. “I’ve never really done it myself. But I’ve seen my sister do it.” Hank turns Baby Robbie toward him and does exactly what he told me to do. “See. No big deal.”

“Why does she want me to hold him like that?” I ask, stalling for time.

“I don’t know,” Hank says. “I guess so he doesn’t go flying across plane if we stop suddenly.”

Baby Robbie starts to whine.

“Dang it. Again?” I look at my ID bracelet. “Could you pat his back a little? Before my neglect score goes even higher.”

Hank gives the baby’s back a few taps. Baby Robbie whimpers even louder.

“You have to jiggle him a bit,” I instruct.

Hank holds the doll out to me. “Why don’t you do it? We wouldn’t want to cheat you out of the experience, now would we?”

The plane starts picking up speed. Racing down the runway.

“Oh, boy,” I say, pressing back into the seat. “We’re going.” I clench my eyes shut. “Could you hold him for takeoff, please? I have to . . . focus. I don’t really love flying so much.” I swallow. “I’ll take him back when we’re in the air. I promise.”

I sit stock-still. Eyes closed. Doing my best to look terrified.

To my right, I hear my baby crying. Louder. And louder.

I open one eye and see Hank frantically jiggling and patting the weeping doll.

Hank looks at me with a pained expression. “He’s not wet. And you just fed him. I don’t know what he wants.”

And just like that, Robbie blows his baby brack all over Hank’s shoulder, the snotty, sepia spew oozing down his back.

“Lovely,” Hank says, cringing.

I reach my hands out. “Here, I’ll take him.”

“Sure,” Hank says, looking into the infant’s suddenly silent, sick-smeared face. “After I take the barf shower and get him all settled down.”

In response, Baby Robbie shoots another powerful geyser of hurl all over the front of Hank’s shirt.

“Jesus.” Hank holds the baby out like it’s radioactive. “It’s like this thing’s possessed or something.”

The lady in the powder-blue jumpsuit sitting next to Hank looks even more horrified than he does. She hugs the window, trying to avoid any collateral damage.

Charlie’s got his camera out, snapping a series of action shots, the flash popping over and over again. “This is exactly why Ms. Drizzler wants us to do this exercise,” he says. “To show us just how difficult it is to be a parent.”

Hank pulls a face. “Yeah. I can see how it would be an effective mode of birth control. Here. I’ve done my tour of duty for the day.” He hands the baby off to me, then removes the barf bag from his seat-back pocket and uses it to wipe the brown sludge from his doused shirt. “At least it’s a short flight.”

Yes, but it’s going to be a long week, Hank.

A very long week.

When we arrive at carousel number three, everyone from our flight is greeted by someone — with hugs, kisses, and whoops of delight.

We, however, are met by no one. Our representatives from My Woodland Trek Adventures — the grinning, chapeaued, and bevested greeters from the website — are missing in action. According to the description, they were meant to meet us “with snacks and smiles” before dumping us off at some lake where our “beautifully restored” bush plane is awaiting our arrival.

“They’ll be here,” Hank says, reading my mind. He flips his wrist to check his mega-watch. “Maybe they got caught in traffic.”

“Or were killed in a fifty-car pileup,” Charlie offers as he removes his surgical mask and gloves.

“Right,” Hank says. “Though, unlikely.”

“Not as unlikely as you’d think,” Charlie corrects. “There were nearly six million car accidents last year in the United States alone. That’s one every five seconds.”

“I’m sure our people are fine.”

“And I was sure my parents would be fine,” Charlie says matter-of-factly, “when they drove off for their anniversary dinner. But forty thousand people die in the United States from automobile accidents every year. That’s over a hundred people a day. One every fifteen minutes. It’s almost like a plane crash every twenty-four hours. Ponder that a moment. If a plane crashed every single day, do you think anyone would want to fly ever again? And yet we get into these rolling death machines willy-nilly. Even if our hosts
do
arrive, it’s entirely possible we’ll be killed on the drive to our next destination. It might actually be better if they
don’t
show up.”

Hank’s eyebrows are squished together. “Wait, what was that about your parents?”

“Charlie’s parents died in a car crash,” I say, feigning impatience. “Five years ago. I told you that.”

“What? No. I don’t . . . think so.” Hank swallows. “Jesus, Charlie. I’m so sorry.” He looks at me. “I really don’t think you ever said anything about that —”

“Yes, I did,” I lie. “When I asked you if Charlie could come on the trip, I said it would be really good for him to be around a father figure, since Mom’s been his only real parental influence for the last five years. Well, and his grandparents, of course, but they’re, you know, old.” I sigh. “I guess you weren’t listening.”

It feels wrong using Charlie’s parents’ accident as a way to make Hank feel terrible. But it was Charlie’s idea, and he claims they would’ve fully supported us in our efforts to rid the Weekes family of the detestable dentist.