The Enthusiast (18 page)

“Nobody should ever tell anybody to calm down,” Kris said. “That's the worst fucking thing you can say to someone.”

There was a moment of silence as Dane realized they were listening to him, and then he said, “I didn't need to be told to calm down. I was making a rational point.”

“Yeah, but either way,” Kris said. “It's like, ‘Calm down? Oh,
thank
you, man. I didn't know I was, like, showing signs of
life
there. God, think what could have happened.'”

“People with cars are out of control,” Strother said.

“Well, this was like let's see if we can break the infrastructure completely,” Dane said. “I said, ‘Craig, at least concede to me that it's unfair to the poor slobs that pay for stickers and you take their parking space because they don't possess your skills for making decals at the level of Revell in about 1981.' And everyone goes—” He gasped. “Like ‘What a terrible thing you did!' Not at Craig, at me.”

“Yeah, because you broke his shit down,” Kris said.

“I said, ‘If I had that kit,' the kit he's been making, I said, ‘I would have scratch-built everything but the wheels or I wouldn't have even bothered.' Because he makes a few brass parts and we're all supposed to go over there today and say this is the best One-forty-three Jeep of the year?
Bull
shit.”

“Go
ahead,
caller,” Kris said.

“Some people really are named Dicker, though,” Strother said. “I knew a guy that was named that.”

Dane said, “So now everybody is saying stuff. Things that have nothing to do with modeling. I said, ‘Everybody out.'”

“Hell, yes,” Kris said. “It's your house and your snacks.”

“So he's going to be where we're going now?” Strother said.

“Craig?”

“We all have a table together,” Dane said.

“You think something's gonna go down?” Kris said.

“What do you mean?” Dane said.

“I'm going to go in with Dane,” I said. “I'll just be a few minutes.”

“What, we don't get to go in?” Kris said.

“We have to get you to your event.”

“But this is a public thing, though, right?” Kris said.

“If it's in a hotel, yeah,” Strother said. “It's for everyone with the money to get in.”

“Strother has the money for us both to get in,” Kris said.

“No,” Strother said.

“Patti's husband, come on,” Kris said. “You're being the guy from the company. You're like, ‘You guys just shut up and perform.' You're like, ‘I just want my thirty pieces of flesh.' Hey, guy?”

“Dane,” Strother said.

“Dane. That's great,” Kris said. “Dane, do you mind if we go in?”

“I don't know. Do you know what the event is?”

“I know what it
should
be,” Kris said. “It should be a salute to excellence. To those who have shaken off the false thing of, you know, glue huffing.”

“The stereotype,” Strother said.

“The stereotype, and they've stepped forth into excellence,” Kris said.

“The glue thing is such ancient history,” Dane said. “Anyone that would level that at us. That's not even a consideration.”

“Dane,” Kris said, “have Strother and myself had some shit leveled at us? I would say we have.”

 

W
e walked down the center aisle of the show, Dane staring straight ahead as if he were integrating a high school, Kris and Strother walking a step behind us like muscle in the movies. We stopped where four guys sat on folding chairs behind a table with a dozen models on it, including a minutely detailed Vietnam-era Jeep.

The four of them stood up to face the four of us. People nearby grew quieter, as if expecting someone to slap leather. One modeler was consumptively thin, one was fat, one had a thick beard, and one wore a striped short-sleeve business shirt with a tie and no jacket, the Controlled Dynamics look.

I introduced myself, but no one answered. I said, “This Jeep is great. Who did the Jeep?”

“I did,” the thin guy said. Kris's eyes did a Secret Service flicker.

“I work for the company that publishes the magazine Dane writes for,” I said.

“Did you know Dane writes for a magazine?” the bearded guy said.

“No, he never mentioned that,” the fat guy said. There was some dry laughter.

“Guys, I'd like to display my model so it's entered,” Dane said.

“How about these guys?” Craig said. “Would they like to display some things too?”

“No,” Kris said. “We're just here to improve on our model-making skills.”

“You guys aren't modelers,” Craig said.

“I wouldn't be saying that to me,” Kris said. “I made a model of the Stonestown mall out of Fudgsicle sticks and Vaseline. It wasn't that scale shit, either. Everything in it was a different size. The muffin thing was three times as big as the parking lot. It was great.”

“Oh, these guys are cute,” the bearded guy said.

“I don't think that shirt is cute,” Craig said, pointing at Lucy jerking off. “I think it's disgusting.” He turned to Dane. “What do you think of that?”

“What?” Dane said, and focused on the shirt for the first time. Kris obligingly turned around to show him
I'M COMING, YOU BLOCKHEAD
. They'd done a nice job on the
Peanuts
font.

Craig said, “How come that's okay and what I did isn't okay?”

“That's not okay with me,” Dane said. “I think it's disgusting too.”

“No, but wait,” Strother said. “Look at what kids go through. All the time you're a kid, everyone's telling you what to do, and then you finally find something that's yours.”

“Yeah, and maybe it isn't baseball,” Kris said. “Maybe it's your pussy.”

“This is unbelievable,” the thin guy said.

“Look,” I said. “Excuse me. I'm just giving these guys a ride,
okay? I was giving Dane a ride, and my wife asked me to give these guys a ride as well.”

“Oh, your wife asked you,” Craig said, waving mock-forgiving hands. “Say no more.”

“How about if you say no more?” Kris said.

Craig pointed at the shirt again. “There are kids here today. I can see kids six years old, seven years old, eight years old. That's going to taint…every time they see Snoopy from now on, that's going to be tainted for them.”

“Yeah, you know what?” Kris said to Craig. “
I'm
offended by
your
shirt. That's a polo shirt, right? That's like the people that fucked over India. They played polo while they fucked the people over. I don't think that's appropriate. I'm very sensitive about what they did to India.”

“We toured in India,” Strother said.

“We have to go,” I said, and my cell phone rang. I said hello and someone said, “Henry?” but the connection was so bad it sounded like he was standing in a high wind.

I said, “Hold on,” gestured an apology at Dane and the others, went to a concession alcove, and shouted, “Can you hear me?”

“Hi. Listen, I've got a question for you. I'm at Haystack Peak. I'm at the base of the mountain.” It really was wind. “I'm—”

“You're where?”

“Haystack Peak. Boy, it's snowing like crazy. It's blowing straight across. I wanted to know, when you were at
Ice Climbing
, you guys had an article on this area. I've got it here. It's called ‘Winter Wonder Badland.' It's—hold on. I'm trying to turn the page but I've got these gloves on.”

“Wait,” I said. “Why are you—?”

“Here we go. Yeah, the article says to go up the northeast face—”

“Why are you reading—”

“—but I'm looking at the west side here and it looks like a cleaner line. There are some huge ice chutes up there. So I'm thinking of going that way, if you don't know of a reason why not. Do you remember what it looked like?”

“No. Are you—have you ever climbed anything before?”

“Not really, but I understand it.”

“Are you with a guide? Can I talk to—?”

“No, I'm doing it solo. I've got a Quark Ergo axe. The leashless one? It got four icicles on the gear page last month.”

“I don't think you should do that. It's too—”

“Henry? You're breaking up. I'll call you when I get down.”

“No, wait,” I said, “Barney, wait,” but he was gone.

 

I
looked around the concession area. I'd been in a million of them, with people eating their $3.75 hot dogs and shouting into their Nokias by the vestigial pay phones, but now I was lost. Barney had never before mentioned reading a magazine I worked for. It had been a few months since our visit to Kansas, but he'd sounded normal when we'd talked on the phone. Was he really in the mountains? My mind filled with slipping ice axes, crumbling toeholds, and avalanches.

I called his cell back and got voice mail. “Barney?” I said. “It's Henry. Don't do that climb. Call me back, okay?”

I heard someone yell, “I said put it down!” realized it was Dane Fredericks, hurried back to the table, and pushed my way through a knot of spectators. Kris was holding Craig's Jeep, waving it around as he examined it. “Why?” he said. “I'm appreciating the different insignias on it.”

Dane, bright red, pointed his finger an inch from Kris's face. “Put it down, asshole. You don't even deserve to be touch
ing something as good as that.” Kris smirked and put Craig's Jeep on the table.

“We have to go,” I said.

“Yeah,” Dane said. “Thanks a whole lot, Henry.”

I said, “Not now, Dane.”

“Oh,
sorry
.” He turned to Craig. “Anybody got working steam engines?”

Craig hesitated and then said, “Yeah, Harry's showing one.” Dane went behind the table and opened his model case.

I headed for the exit with Kris and Strother following me, and called Deirdre as I walked. “Is Barney there?” I said.

“No. He's at a conference in Idaho.”

“Do you know where he's staying there? I just had a question.”

“It's the Westin something.”

I got the number from her, tried it, and left him another message. Strother called shotgun. As I drove onto the freeway I called Information and got connected to
Ice Climbing
. No one I knew still worked there. I asked the woman who answered the phone where Haystack Peak was.

“Idaho,” she said. “Caribou National Forest.”

I called 411 again and got through to park headquarters. “I want to report someone trying to climb Haystack Peak,” I said.

“I'm concerned about his safety.”

“Okay, sir,” the ranger said. “Is he in distress? Has he contacted you that he's in distress?”

“No. I just don't think he knows what he's doing.”

“Does he have appropriate gear?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“We can't tell him not to go up. That's not in our purview.”

“Can you go by and see if he's okay?”

“I can mention it to the next ranger going out in that area, yes.” I thanked him and rang off.

Kris said, “Patti's husband is like a guardian angel of some kind.” I glared at him in the rearview mirror, heard Strother yell, “Look out!” and saw a Presto Rooter van cut in front of me. I hit the brakes, fishtailed for an epic second, barely missed the van, careened onto the shoulder, and stopped. Strother, ashen, said, “Should I drive?”

“No,” I said. “I just need you guys to shut up.”

“Patti's husband, come on,” Kris said. “Didn't you like it when that guy was friends with his friends again? I loved that part.”

“I'm going to drop you down there and someone named Cici is taking you home,” I said.

“I'm gonna skate some great shit today,” Kris said. “I can feel it.”

 

I
n the lot next to the skateboard store in Pacifica were a few hundred waiting kids, a two-story ramp, and a Swag Van from the heavy metal radio station with the grow-light sponsors. I decided to call Patti from a pay phone so my cell wouldn't be busy if Barney called, and found one in a restaurant over the beach. When she answered I said, “Barney called me. He said he was going ice climbing in Idaho. He—”

“Who
called you?”

“Barney.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know.”

“Did he sound upset, or…?”

“No, he sounded happy. He's supposed to call me back.”

“That's so weird. How did it go with Kris and Strother and the guy?”

“That was fine,” I said.

 

W
alking down to the beach, I heard cheers a block away, looked over, and saw Kris Santangelo shoot over the lip of the ramp. He was an arc of pure energy against the sky and so forth. I paced on the sand, trying not to worry about Barney, till it was time to go.

Dinner was at a modern Italian restaurant at the top of our price range, with Kristin, who designed shirts for Hindenburg; her husband, Jon, a graphic artist who did a lot of regional perishable foods packaging but was trying to get some more challenging things going; their friend Ed, who sold bulk telephony minutes; and his wife, Belinda, who customized RV interiors. I got there last. Patti said, “Did he call?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Patti was just telling us,” Belinda said. “Your brother is mountain climbing?”

“Ice climbing,” I said. “I think it's okay.”

“But he's never been up before?” Kristin said. “That's pretty technical if you haven't done it. It's like these huge icicles hanging off—”