I'm with Stupid (4 page)

Like I can. I thumb through my guidebook—of course I brought one. I drop my bag and squat down. I begin frantically turning pages. Where is it? Max takes the opportunity to push me. Good one, bud. I put out my hand to stop from tipping over. I stand back up—now my palm has gravel indentations—and announce that there are seven rand to the dollar.

“Seven rand to the dollar,” Max repeats to himself, then glances at Libby.

“I’m terrible at math,” she says. “Don’t look at me.” I remind Max that I’m not good at math, either. The only reason I passed calculus was because he stole the final exam for me.

Max turns to the driver and holds up a finger: This will just take a minute. But this will take longer than a minute. This will take a correspondence course. My Barbie doll never did arithmetic. She was too pretty. I venture that we need to divide, multiply, add, or subtract something and then do something else.

Max takes the guidebook from me. “That’s helpful,” he says with an eye roll. I hesitate: “It’s like one over seven times five hundred over x,” I continue, “or is it one over seven times x over five hundred?” Libby is puzzled. She demands to know what this x business is. I explain that x is the number we are trying to find. That’s how you solve these kinds of problems. You need an equation.

She puts her hands to her hips. “Look at you,” she says with admiration. I quickly add that that’s all I know and that I didn’t even follow what I just said. I’d rather be popular.

Max squeezes his eyes shut and begins mouthing something; I start moving my finger over an imaginary chalkboard like a savant; Libby repeats over and over the equation “One over seven times x over five hundred” while applying sunblock.

After a painful moment I put my hand to my cheek as if nursing a toothache. “I’m totally confused,” I admit before reaching for Libby’s sunblock. “The numbers are all jumbled up in my head.” Libby informs me that that’s a sign of genius. I’m sure it is. It feels like it. I squirt a drop of her sunblock onto my index finger and dab it underneath my eyes. I throw the tube back at her. She doesn’t catch it. It hits her left boob and falls to the ground. Uuuuhhh, someone has to pick that up. I stare at the tube, which will probably still be lying here in three thousand years, when they begin excavating the site, looking for evidence of former civilizations. When it’s finally unearthed, every news source throughout what’s left of the world will run a story announcing that Coppertone SPF 45 was invented in Africa. For that they’ll have Libby to thank.

Max smiles at the driver, who’s standing with his arms folded over his chest, watching us. “Excuse me,” Max says. “Do you happen to have a pen and paper we could borrow?”

Libby finally picks up the tube of sunblock. “Or one of those things,” she suggests. “Those things where you move the beads from one side to the other.”

I look at her. What is she talking about?

“It’s like an ancient calculator,” she explains, “and it’s got these circle things you move around every which way.” I lift the guidebook over my head like a visor to block the sun. I know what she’s talking about. It starts with an
a
. Libby adamantly shakes her head: No, it doesn’t. I tell her that I think it does. It’s an ab, ab something. Max lifts up his shirt and points to his stomach: Perhaps it’s abs. He does have very nice abs, but, no, not abs.

The driver looks at him with a blank expression. Every one of his stereotypes about American tourists has been confirmed. He’s probably nailed down a few new ones in the past two minutes. He nods at Libby. “You’re thinking of an abacus,” the driver finally says, “and, no, I do not have one. The ride to the game reserve will cost each of you approximately twenty-four dollars.”

Max is relieved. “Why didn’t you say so?”—he offers a smile—“that’s nothing. Libby here thought you were ripping us off. She was raised by wolves.” He turns to us. “Ready?” he asks, already moving.

We’re ready. Lead us into South Africa so we can damage its natural resources.

We are barely out of the parking lot when Libby shouts that she just saw an elephant. “Where?” Max and I scream in tandem, craning our necks. Libby taps her finger against the dusty window. We begin picking up speed down a two-lane road. If there was an elephant Max and I didn’t see it. “Over there,” she continues more softly. “Now it’s gone but it looked like it might be an elephant.” We all press our faces against the glass. She pipes up a second time. She thinks she saw something again. It’s hard to tell, she admits. It looked like some sort of brown animal but it could have just been a rock. I turn away. I bet it was a rock. Max concludes that it was definitely a rock. “What is that?” she shouts, pointing again. “That big brown thing, there, there, there, hurry up!” She points to something on the left side of the road. The driver slows and looks over. He reveals that it’s nothing more exotic than a termite hill. “Oh,” Libby says. “That looks like what I saw earlier. Forget I mentioned it.”

I continue gazing out the window. The landscape is not what I imagined it would be. When they talk about being in the bush they mean that literally. These are really bushes, low-to-the-ground tangled bundles of dry twig. I tell Max that I was expecting something more cinematic. He accuses me of complaining and threatens to slap me one. Is he kidding? I’m not complaining. I’m excited to be here. I’m merely observing. I’m ordered to observe in silence because he happens to like the bush. He takes out his camera, snaps a picture, and continues looking through the viewfinder. “I just said I like bush,” he marvels.

Libby rummages through her purse for her sunglasses. When she takes them out Max snatches them from her and tries them on. Before she can protest he tosses them in her lap—his are better—and goes to take my picture. I cover my face with my hand. “Come on and smile,” he urges. “I want to steal your soul.”

“Get away from me,” I order, keeping my face covered, “pictures of me never look good.”

“Is that the fault of the pictures?” he asks as the flash goes off.

Libby, sunglasses resting on the tip of her nose, asks if I want a cigarette. I nod. Libby is one of those mystery people who has been smoking on and off for years but has not gotten addicted. She can go for weeks without. She leans forward and asks the driver if we can smoke in the car. To Max’s great dismay, he gives permission. “For you,” the driver says to her with a smile. “Okay.” Ah, the benefits of being Libby. She smiles at him warmly. “Thanks!” she says. “I like your shirt,” she adds for no reason and pulls out two cigarettes. Max gives me a dirty look and pinches his nose before we even have a chance to light up. “Smells like roadkill,” he offers.

After struggling for a while to light her cigarette (she pulls it out, stares at it to see if it’s lit, then tries again when she sees it is not), Libby finally hits gold. “I’m so happy we’re here,” she says, blowing a gust of smoke at the closed window. It bounces off the glass and hits Max in the face, or so he claims. “We’ll be able to see the stars at night,” she continues unfazed. “Do you realize that?” I rest my head against the back of the seat and mention that we’ll soon be able to hear birds chirping. I forgot what that sounds like. Max rolls down the window all the way, creating a tornado effect. “It sounds like a car alarm with wings,” he tells me as my hair blows around wildly, whipping me in the face, “now put out your pipe.” When I refuse to cooperate he leans over me so that he can roll down the other window. He jerks the handle so hard that it comes off in his hand. Broken. He stares at it. I look up at the rearview mirror to see if the driver noticed. His eyes appear to be focused on the road. Max stuffs the handle between the seats. That’s a much better place for it.

It’s late afternoon when we pull up to the lodge. Max jumps out first and lifts his shirt to his nose. “I stink like smoke,” he complains. “You two have a serious problem.” Well, at least I didn’t rip off a piece of the vehicle with my man grip.

After climbing out of the van we pay the driver (the tip comes out of Max’s pocket and I think we all know why). He removes our luggage from the trunk and offers a quick good-bye. “See you soon, babe!” Libby says and waves. A group of uniformed staffers are already waiting to greet us at the entrance of the lodge, under an ornate arch that reads
AKUJI GAME RESERVE
in gold script. Everyone is smiling like it’s their job. “This is going to be fancy,” Libby comments. Max tells her it better be for the money it cost: The rooms are six hundred dollars per night. We need to get ready for the royal treatment.

A businesslike woman in white shorts and a starched white blouse marches over, checking her watch. Her movements are as sharp as knives, creating perfect geometric angles. “Late arrival,” I hear her say from a distance. I throw my purse over my shoulder. “My name is Helga, the director of the lodge,” she says in what sounds, at least to me, like an accent from some really mean country full of really mean and jealous light-skinned people who want to conquer Europe, or at least blow up Warsaw, Poland, rendering it unrecognizable. She squeezes my hand. “I trust you will have a pleasurable stay,” she threatens. “We will soon be taking you to your individual chalets. Please follow me.” Libby asks what a chalet is. I explain that it’s a six-hundred-dollar-per-night room.

We are following the officious Helga over to the group of staffers for what we are told will be a brief introduction when Max gasps. I ask what’s the matter while keeping my eyes trained on Helga, whose spiky haircut reminds me of a hedgehog. “Well, well, what do we have here?” Max adds. I turn to him. “What?” I repeat. “Look in front of you,” he says loudly. I look in front of me. There are about ten uniformed individuals standing in line, yet I know immediately which one Max is referring to. Tall, I’m guessing about six foot four, lean, tanned, light brown hair, blue eyes, dazzling—there is no other word—white smile. It’s the ranger, a vision in khaki short shorts. I recognize him from the South Africa brochure. Holy shit, hotter in person. I have two thoughts; they come in rapid succession. One—he must be a playboy. I want nothing to do with him. Two—he’s the most beautiful humanoid I have honestly ever seen. The brochure picture was cute but it didn’t do him justice. Libby sees him, too. It’s not like you could miss him. “Wow,” she marvels in a discreet whisper. When Max asks her if the ranger is gay or straight she flips open her compact. “Straight as an arrow,” she says, staring at her reflection. As she applies blush to her cheeks Max again points a finger. “I need to lie down,” he loudly says. “With him. I’m trying anyway.” I elbow him to shut up; he’s so inappropriate. I try to distract myself from what’s in front of me. I try casually looking at everything but the ranger’s face. But it’s so hard and, well, the lookin’ is pretty fucking good. We’re all undressing him already. How’s my hair?

Helga, who is not wearing a whistle around her neck but should be, introduces us to the people whose job for the next three days, at least according to her, is to make our stay as relaxing and enjoyable as possible. Helga is very adamant on this point. We are there to have a great time, like it or not. I briefly wonder if she has ever dropped sniffling employees through a trapdoor that leads to a cold basement. The introductions begin and I go down the line like a politician. I shake the first hand, I shake the second hand, I shake the third hand—I think of Max and start chuckling. I wonder what kind of tip he’d have to leave if he ripped someone’s arm off right now—the fourth, the fifth, the six . . . “William,” he says, extending his arm. I take his hand and tell him my name. “Pleasure,” he says with a smile. You wish, I find myself thinking. Wipe that smug expression off your beautiful face right now, player. I can see that you’re trouble and I’m not falling for it.

Following the introductions we gather around Helga, who will be escorting us to our respective chalets. When William picks up one of Max’s suitcases she steps forward and, if I’m not mistaken, reprimands him. He nods and walks off. Damn! A group of porters take his place. They carry our bags while Helga describes some of what we will be seeing in the next few days. There will be loping giraffes, tamboti trees, and various other things that will relax us into a stupor. Libby points out a monkey jumping in the grass as Helga reiterates that our stay will be pleasurable (I think we get it). She stresses that the professional staff—porters, rangers, cooks—must cater to every whim. We are strongly encouraged to immediately report any concerns regarding their performance. One of the porters carrying Max’s bag of dumbbells begins sweating profusely while trying to keep smiling. I don’t blame him, though I could. According to Helga it’s within my rights as an asshole on an expensive vacation.

As we approach the row of chalets I notice that each has a veranda. This discovery nearly brings tears to my eyes. This is so much nicer than my fire escape and the creepy neighbors Max spies on while standing out on it with binoculars. Our chalets are the last three in a row of ten. Max and I are next-door neighbors. Fun! Max puts out his hand to Helga. “Where are the keys to my kingdom, Helgie?” he says. “I want to get in there.” Helga shakes her head no. There are no keys. The chalets are left unlocked. The theme of this experience is “no worries.” Keys would just remind us of our everyday lives and that is not the intention here.

“Oh good,” Libby says, relieved. “I always lose my keys.”

Helga, whom I’m pretty sure has never lost her keys, gives us a final handshake (she has the grip of a maniac) and tells us to meet in the garden for an orientation in one hour. Okay, Helga, no problem. Now march off and do some more geometry and architecture with your weird stiff legs that make me nervous and concerned. PS I hate you. Quit being mean to the staff members, because one of them is super-foxy. I’d like to keep admiring him from a safe distance if it’s all the same.

The porter carrying my suitcase motions for me to follow. When he leads me through the door of my very own chalet—
chalet
being a fancy word for very fancy hut, it turns out—I let out a whistle. The space, which consists of a sitting area/bedroom combo and a bath, is adorned with rich fabrics and mahogany furnishings. White mosquito netting has been draped over a bed that’s bigger than my studio apartment. To the right is a big window and beneath that a sleek table on which a silver tray holding a crystal decanter of brandy has been placed. It’s all very posh. If I were rich I might take the setup for granted, or at least at face value. But I am not. And while the chalet’s interior is beautiful, I wonder what sort of mood the designers were trying to capture or reproduce. Clearly someone (Helga?) was feeling nostalgic for those good old days of colonialism. Put it this way: I would never pay for the privilege of staying here, if only out of guilt. Not that I’m complaining. I promise I’m not, and neither is my libido. William is so much fun to look at. Seriously, people, how’s the hair?