I'm with Stupid (10 page)

“Cool,” Max says, patting William’s shoulder. “I’m in. If that’s the best you got, good enough.” Anything that involves making an authority figure unhappy is sanctioned by Max.

That night, as promised, William whisks us away from the lodge, and he takes the truck off road. We drive in the dark over tall grasses, under glimmering stars. Gentle breezes blow through the trees. For a time there is silence, there is magic. He drives us to an open field, to the edge of a lake, and stops the truck. The moonlight reflects off the gentle ripples. I stare at the back of his neck until he again drives off. As we approach an area of low, bare trees, thick branches, really, poking out of the ground, he spots a pack of scrappy, white-and-brown-spotted wild dogs fleeing from the headlights. He excitedly tells us that wild dogs are his favorite among the animals on the reserve. They are, he adds, some of the more elusive. “Give them a chase!” Max urges. “Let’s see how fast this baby can move!” For a time, William tries following the pack so as to give us a closer look. In this South African middle of nowhere we hoot and holler as he plows through the bush, defiantly mowing down branches in the process. “Faster!” we scream in encouragement. “Faster!” Only when the dogs disperse among taller trees do our heart rates return to normal. William checks his watch. It’s something I notice him doing often.

We get back on one of the main dirt roads, still giddy from the wild-dog adventure, when William stops the truck and tells us to close our eyes. Of course we don’t close our eyes. We are babies. We want to see right now whatever it is we are supposed to close our eyes for. I look down the dirt road but don’t see anything other than a dirt road illuminated by headlights. William urges us again to close our eyes. He tells us he has a surprise. We reluctantly agree to obey our master. “Fine,” I say, closing my eyes. “I’ve closed my eyes.” Libby giggles. “This feels so good,” she says, “it’s been a long day.” Maybe William is kissing her. I open one eye to check. Nope, that’s not it. She’s just happy to have her eyes closed. I put my hand over my eyes—it’s the only thing I can think to do to stop from peeking.

“I’m peeking,” Max announces. William tells him not to peek. Max assures him that he’s no longer peeking. We are again asked if our eyes are closed. They are. We mean it this time.

William gently puts his foot on the gas pedal. The truck lurches forward. “I just peeked again,” Max whispers. “I can’t help it. When I close my eyes I can’t see William, which is a problem, at least for me personally.”

William slams on the brakes. I open my eyes just in time to get lots of dust in them. My eyeballs are burning. I glance at Libby—her head is all the way back and her mouth is wide open. Is she asleep?

I squeeze my eyes shut and advise Max to do the same. He reluctantly cooperates. William again puts his foot on the gas pedal. I feel the car moving. Not five seconds later Libby screams that she thinks she just swallowed a bug. “Oh shoot!” she howls in disgust.

“Just swal-low,” Max sings.

I hear Libby spit. “I don’t swallow,” she coolly corrects him.

“Guys like it when ya do,” Max sings. “It turns ’em on. Get with the prooo-graaam.” If only Manuel were here.

Max leans over and whispers in my ear: “I hope he’s pulling down his shorts. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise?” he says. “And I hope he slaps his dick against my cheek.” I start laughing as the truck inches along the path.

Moments later William stops the truck and tells us to open our eyes. I open my eyes and nudge Libby, whose head is now against her chin. When she doesn’t move, I nudge her again, harder this time. She jerks away, then lifts her head. “I think I have jet lag,” she says with a yawn.

“You were born with jet lag,” Max points out.

William puts his finger to his lips to signal that we should be quiet. Good idea. “What are we looking at?” Max says in a loud stage whisper. “I knew there was dirt here before I closed my eyes.” William points to a cluster of trees to the left of the truck. “There,” he whispers and shines a long beam of light. I look over. In the center of the light is an elephant, its ivory tusks much bigger than my cranium. “How’d you know it was there?” Libby asks. “Wow!”

William shrugs: It’s his job to know. Max leans into William. “Can we ride it or teach it to paint for money?” he asks. William turns around. His mouth is open. “I’m just goofing around,” Max explains. “What I meant to ask is if we can poach it.” William is bewildered. “I’m just teasing,” Max assures him. “I just wanted to know if we could murder it and boil the bones—”

I hit him so he’ll shut up.

None of us has ever seen an elephant around which there weren’t at least ten barbed-wire fences. It’s thrilling and very intimidating. This thing could charge. It’s right in front of us. William looks at me. Oh, beautiful blue eyes. Oceans, two of them. Skinny-dipping, anyone? “What do you think?” he eagerly asks. I nod. About what? “This time of year the elephants eat fruit from the marula tree,” he begins, his voice set on autopilot. “The fruit has a soft, yellow skin that . . .”

“Absolutely wonderful,” I whisper, forgetting about the elephant and his fruit.

Only when William resumes the drive do I return to consciousness. As we travel along yet another dirt road William periodically looks left and right in an effort to spot more game. But after another half an hour it is evident that there is nothing more to be found. Four out of five ain’t so bad. The elephant was cool. William again checks his watch and tells us he has to be up early tomorrow. His day starts when the sun comes up.

We agree that it was fun while it lasted. William puts pedal to metal. The lodge’s ornate arch is visible in the distance when I feel the truck slow down. I look at William, thinking he’s probably spotted an animal. Shall I close my eyes? “Oh no,” William groans as the truck’s engine sputters and we come to a standstill. William shifts gears. He examines the gadgets on the dashboard. He tries starting the truck. “Oh no,” he repeats.

“What’s going on?” Max asks, jumping up in his seat.

William orders him to sit back down and looks around. “We’re out of fuel,” he reveals. “I should have checked that before we left. That’s rule number one.”

Max makes a face. “Oooo-uuuu,” comes out of his mouth. He turns to Libby and teasingly tells her to get out and push. We’re close now.

“Yeah right,” Libby says in disbelief. William again tries to start the truck, to no avail. “We should walk back, huh?” Libby finally asks. Shit, he wasn’t supposed to have this truck out in the first place. Can we just leave it here? Libby pulls her compact out of her purse and flips it open. The mirror’s border, encrusted with specks of (I’m betting cubic zirconium) crystal, is illuminated by light. She checks her makeup.

“That thing is wild,” a now curious and distracted Max says, before snatching the compact. “Does it have a battery in it or what? How’s it stay lit, mama?”

“Yeah, babe, I think. It’s Chanel,” she says, trying to get it back from him. “Give me.” Max playfully throws back the hand in which he is holding the compact so as to keep it away from Libby’s fingers. The compact slips from his grip. It falls out of the truck. “Max!” Libby pouts. “That thing is expensive, watch it!” She abruptly gets out of the truck and picks it up off the ground. As soon as William notices that Libby has exited the truck, he stands straight up. He orders Libby to get back in. I turn to Libby. She’s staring straight ahead, her mouth open. She presses her tongue to her upper lip, makes a face, and points a finger. “William,” she says in a soft voice. William turns around to see what Libby is pointing at. Max and I look, too. “William,” she repeats, “is that a—”

“BUFFALO!” William screams. “STAY CALM!”

But there’s nothing calming in William’s voice. Libby swiftly spins around and begins running toward the golden arch, flailing her arms. “Help!” she shouts. Max bolts out of the truck and follows suit. “Mother fucker!” he yells. William told us on day one that whatever we do we should never get out of the safari truck. When we are inside the truck the animals think we are the truck. When we are outside the truck, we are just tiny prey.

The buffalo begins to toss its horned head up and down and side to side. It flares its nostrils. I am frozen in my seat. William jumps out of the truck and drags me out by the waist. I bump my knees against the door. He throws me over his shoulder, caveman-style, and starts to run. I begin to slide off and tightly grip his neck and wrap my legs around his torso like a child in a BabyBjörn. My upper and lower teeth bang against each other as we cover ground. I turn my head and see the buffalo moving toward us. William shouts to Libby and Max to keep moving left. “Left! Left! Left! Go! Hurry! The buffalo can reach speeds of forty-four kilometers per hour!” I momentarily squeeze my eyes shut. William finally catches up to Max and Libby, gets between them, and grabs them both by the waist as I hold on to his neck and press my heels into his ass. I feel myself being raised into the air as Libby screams. We are airborne.

The four of us simultaneously crash into a body of water and sink. My skin stings from the impact. We untangle limbs, kick at one another wildly, and return to the surface with our hair attractively plastered to our skulls. Only then do I realize we’re in the swimming pool. Libby’s compact floats by on a wave. I cough and attempt to catch my breath. “We’re safe now,” William says and spits. “The buffalo won’t come into the pool.” I look up and see a black buffalo with imposing gray horns, the ends of which curl as if in a smile, standing at the edge of the pool, looking down at us.

“It’s gi-normous,” Max marvels. “Look at its hooves.”
Gi-normous
is a combination of
gigantic
and
enormous
. Usually when he uses the word he’s referring to . . . never mind, get your head out of the gutter.

We all tilt our heads back. It’s like staring up at a building. The deep layers of skin under the buffalo’s moist eyes sag heavily. He, she, it, whatever, blinks. I try not to make any sudden movements.

“What is this commotion?” someone behind me says. I recognize the accent and ever-so-carefully turn my head. It’s Manuel, at the other end of the pool. Max points at the buffalo. Manuel notices Libby and swims over from the deep end. The buffalo turns and slowly walks away. It flicks its tail once, then disappears. William tells Manuel what just transpired: that we ran out of gas, that Libby got out of the truck . . .

“You saved us,” Libby says to William. “You saved our lives.” Manuel studies Libby as she compliments William, who swells with pride. I cough again and wipe mucus from my nose. Max moves to the edge of the pool. “How you like me now?” he says, leaning out of the water. I presume the question is meant for the departed buffalo.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Libby,” Manuel says. He admires her white dress, which is soaked. Luckily, her polka-dot bikini top is all that’s visible underneath; thinking we would go to the pool after our Big Five hunt, Max, Libby, and I wore bathing suits under our clothes.

Manuel volunteers to Libby that he was enjoying an evening reciting Shakespeare’s most famous soliloquies under the stars when he heard the commotion. He rattles off the names of a few plays—
A Midsummer’s Night Dream, The Taming of the Shrew, Henry IV Part 2, Love’s Labour Lost, Troilus and Cressida, Romeo and Juliet
—and mumbles something about killing the envious moon because Libby is so pretty.

“Thanks for saving me,” Libby says to William.

“Pleasure,” William responds.

Manuel interjects that William hardly saved Libby if the truck ran out of gas. In fact what he did was put our lives in grave danger. He turns to William and reminds him that he should not be in the pool. “Go on now,” he adds. He looks at Libby. “I’ll take over.”

Max returns to the group. “What are you talking about?” he asks, annoyed. He peers into William’s baby blues and tells him to stay put.

Manuel grabs William’s left arm. “This is an employee,” he reminds Max. “He is forbidden to enjoy the swimming pool.” Max in turn grabs William’s right arm. William resembles a
t
that’s just been crossed.

Max takes a step toward Manuel. Sensing that Max means to inflict bodily harm, Manuel, still gripping William’s arm, hides behind his back. William starts to say something but is drowned out.

“Take a walk,” Max tells Manuel.

Manuel lets go of William and shakes his head no. “If the park ranger is staying in the swimming pool,” he retorts, “then I have no choice but to stay as well. It is my duty as a gentleman to ensure the ladies’ safety.” He bows dramatically.

Max carefully pushes back Manuel’s head with his open palm. “You’ll drown,” he tells him.

Manuel straightens his back and pats his hair. “I certainly will not. I am an accomplished swimmer,” he begins, the volume of his voice steadily rising. “I have a medal in the field. I was the envy of my peer group. I AM—”

“We should lower our voices,” William interjects.

“Shhhhh!” Libby commands in a panic and looks around, evidently hoping not to wake Helga from the dead. Not likely; I mean if the buffalo didn’t do it, I’m guessing we’re fine.

Manuel catches himself. He begins to whisper to Libby: “My apologies for raising my voice. It was my attempt to convey that I am trained in an array of fields, including pole vaulting, marksmanship, and ventriloquism,” he tells her. Libby looks at William. “Ventriloquism is the art of voice projection,” Manuel adds without moving his lips. My head jerks back. Did anyone else notice that? That was spooky it was so good. His lips did not move. I thought one of the trees was talking.

Manuel repeats that he will report this incident to William’s supervisors. Libby’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “Like heck you will,” she says in a huff. Manuel can’t believe his ears: “Do you mean to say that you would permit a staff member to swim alongside you?” he asks. She nods. Yes, she would. “Think of your reputation,” Manuel pleads as Libby smiles at William. “You could be mistaken for a tart, a Jezebel!” Manuel repeats his warning. “I am going to report this,” he threatens. “This is against lodge rules. It is a gross violation of etiquette . . .”