Dusk was falling when Chris finally caught them. The miserable day was nearly done. Last to arrive, he was bone tired and wanted to sleep, but he wanted dinner even more. He had seen the twinkle of their campfire not long before he reached the island, his canoe grinding to a stop on a final hidden sandbar; he had to clamber out and drag it the last hundred feet through ankle-deep water. His feet sank in the muddy sand, his sneakers were filled with it, but he no longer cared. He just wrenched each foot from the sucking bottom and plodded forward, finally dragging his canoe onto the island, out of the river’s reach, then throwing himself down in the gathering dark, on dry ground again.
Snatches of their chatter drifted to him. His shoulder muscles, his arms were screaming. He never wanted to rise from his heap on the edge of the island, but he had to put up his tent while there was still some light. And he was starving.
+ + +
“I’ve never been on an adventure like this,” Martha had said with the innocent sparkle that popped into her words sometimes. All huddled at the put-in point that morning, hands deep in pockets and arms held close to their sides as they tried to ignore the chill. The prospect of a day on the water daunting and possibly unpleasant to most of them; it had sounded much more fun around the conference table at the office. The paved road they’d come down had given way to gravel and finally to dirt that disappeared into the river before them. The battered metal canoes were lined up and packed with their gear, ready to launch. Mackie and Eric were the last to arrive, as expected, so the group didn’t get on the water as soon as Danny had hoped.
Danny, perpetually upbeat, looked at his watch as they waited. He’d volunteered to organize the trip since he’d suggested it. That was Chris’ first staff meeting as supervisor. No one was sure of their changed relationships, and he thought the meeting had come off surprisingly not terrible. Even Mackie kept himself under control then, though no one expected that to last, least of all Chris. Corporate said it would help pay for monthly team-building, in part to ease the transition of the new boss, and when Chris reached that point on his agenda, Danny spoke first. Chris hadn’t been on a float trip since he was in Scouts a decade before. Those had been on fast-running, clear Ozark streams, not the sluggish, muddy water of the Kaw. But the Kaw River was close to the city; everyone could manage it. And when Danny suggested camping overnight on a sandbar – he’d done it a half dozen times himself – he was so caught up that no one wanted to deflate his enthusiasm. And so the department found itself waiting on the banks of the river that Saturday morning, ready to set off on an overnight float but unable to get started, looking to Chris for direction. He quickly deferred to Danny who actually knew what he was doing.
Danny had lined up their equipment beside the road: the tents, the coolers of food and beer, all of their personal things mostly in trash bags. He parceled it out evenly so no one’s canoe would be weighed down with too much gear. And though everyone had already paired up for partners, Misty made a last-minute, giggling defection to ride with Willy and Pete. So Danny shifted some of their gear into Chris’ canoe since he no longer had a partner.
Chris knew what was going on. Misty would certainly have more fun with Willy and Pete, but what was left unspoken was that without her, his canoe wouldn’t ride as low in the water. It was already going to carry the weight of two with just him in it. Misty was trying to be nice in her indirect way. He knew that much; they all did. Everyone was polite enough not to discuss the purpose of the new arrangement, and about then Mackie and Eric had arrived, so they were finally ready to get underway.
Danny waded directly into the water, holding his canoe steady while Martha stepped into the bow gingerly, her natural caution mixed with genuine excitement. All of the others got themselves launched behind Danny, their new leader for the weekend, but when Chris plopped into his canoe and attempted his first stroke, his paddle scraped across the sandy bottom and his canoe did not move.
“Try to stay in the channel, everyone,” Danny shouted from ahead. “The water will be deeper there.” Chris watched as the other canoes drifted away. He sat mired on the bottom, and he tried to urge his canoe ahead by pushing his paddle into the sand and leaning on it. Only inches. Finally, he stepped out of the canoe and walked it into deeper water, the first of many times. By then the others were already strung out ahead, the way it would be for the rest of the day. He could see their canoes dancing through the eastern light glinting off the water.
+ + +
Now Chris lay in the sand. He didn’t want to get up, ever, but his stomach growled, and there was still his tent to pitch. So with his screaming muscles he pushed himself from the yielding sand and sought the tent he had lashed in his canoe. Long years had passed since he’d used the tent, and he had set it up in his parents’ back yard a few days before to be sure all of the poles and stakes were still there. It came back to him after a few fumbling moments, so on the island he managed to pitch it in the gathering dark without much trouble. Far from the others so his snoring wouldn’t keep them awake. He didn’t need that added to the department fodder. Yet when he opened the tent to throw in his sleeping bag and other gear, he kicked in a spray of sand. Inevitable.
He didn’t know what else he had carried in his canoe – Danny had given careful thought to what he shifted when Misty defected – but it didn’t look as though they needed any of it just then. No one had hurried over when he arrived to fetch anything. Among the various bags he’d carried was another tent; someone was going to need that soon, but they could find it themselves. He staggered back to his canoe, his feet twisting and sinking in the island sand, and grabbed a couple of the dry bags to carry over to the fire. Martha was suddenly at his side.
“I came as quickly as I could. Let me help.” She took one of the bags then led him to the fire. Up the river to the west the sun was setting with last shreds of a purple blaze, but Chris was too tired to notice, and the rest of them were too far along to care. Someone knocked down the logs of the towering fire; it sent a shower of orange sparks into the night. Silhouettes of people before the flames. The smell of wood smoke.
“Didn’t think you could miss us if I made the fire big enough,” Mackie said, holding a piece of driftwood in one hand and a beer in the other. He threw the wood onto the fire. Chris dumped the bag he was carrying next to the others.
“Careful,” said Danny. “Our breakfast is in there.” But he didn’t sound too worried.
A few of them were sitting in folding chairs. Where had they packed those? Where had all of the baggage been? One of them would probably get up and offer him a chair, but he knew that if he sat in it, the feet would sink deep in the sand and he’d look ridiculous; probably topple out of it. Better to get seated on his own quickly and avoid that whole awkward situation. He’d have to sit cross legged in the sand, if he could manage it, and his legs would fall asleep, but he didn’t want to get up once he was down, and he didn’t care anymore. He was tired. He was hungry. His shoulders hurt. His hips hurt. He wanted a beer. The first day was finally over. One more day and the trip would be over. He was not having fun.
At the edge of the firelight he saw the coolers lined up, and he eased over. Inside the first he found a few cans of pop and many cans of beer sloshing around in the remains of the ice. Grabbing his second beer of the day, Chris realized that if he dragged the cooler closer to the fire, he could sit on it. A solid seat with a broad base. Perfect. He could sit down and never get up, except to get more beer. He’d been sitting in an unsteady canoe all day, but he was constantly pushing himself out of it to drag the canoe into deeper water. It was time to sit and not get up for a while. He’d earned it.
Kim and Martha sat across from him, sharing quiet words. Martha held a beer in her hand. So alcohol did pass her lips. So sweet and so good. The angel of their office. Had she ever done anything to be ashamed of? Could anyone really be so good?
Beyond the firelight he could hear Misty giggling. “You are so bad!” she squealed, and he guessed she was speaking to Willy or Pete. Probably both. Chris pulled on his beer and felt his aching muscles begin to relax. A few more beers and a promised steak and maybe the insults of at least one day would drift away.
“Looks like the coals are ready,” Danny said as he poked the fire with a piece of driftwood. “Time to put the steaks on.”
Mackie brought over the grill and balanced it between a big log and the pile of rocks Danny had arranged. Rocks on a sandbar? Where had those come from? Chris figured he should probably know about such things, but his outdoor adventures were just memories, selectively tinted with the golden light of his youth. He dropped his empty can on the sand and rose from the cooler to get another beer.
A dozen steaks sizzled on the grill. In a minute everyone was gathered around the fire. A few flashlights were trained on the steaks, but it was hardly necessary. Once they were sufficiently cooked they would be pulled from the grill and devoured. And then more would be laid on. Plenty for everyone. A bag of chips was passing around, but when it reached Chris it was mostly crumbs. He held the bag to his mouth and tilted his head back, pouring it in. Some of it went down his shirt.
He closed his eyes and felt the exhaustion of the day mingle with the mellowing of the beer. The fire toasted his face and the front of his legs. Voices murmured and the coals hissed, but he wasn’t listening. He smelled smoke and cooking meat and always the wet, fecund smell of the river. Once or twice the beam of a flashlight swiped across his face, but all anyone saw was what looked like a contented smile. The beer was doing its job, taking him out of himself for a while.
By the second bend in the river that morning, Chris felt the first twinges in his shoulders, and he gave up any hope of staying with the pack. They had drifted ahead, staying in the current without effort, while he struggled for every inch. It seemed like that. When he did find the channel in the murky flow, when he thought he might make some time and get closer to them, he still had to paddle constantly. It was always work to keep moving forward. Everyone else made it look easy. Why did he always have to struggle? Danny could read the river. He knew how to work it to his advantage. But Mackie and Eric? How did they manage it? “Remember, everyone,” Danny had shouted when they started. “It’s not a race. There’s no prize for getting there first.” Soon all Chris heard were snippets of laughter that drifted upstream, the others’ canoes just colorful dots on the water far ahead.
Chris had two large pockets in the vest he wore. He’d packed them with Milky Way bars: a half dozen for each day. Snacks and a little quick energy from the sugar. He needed to stop eating that way, he knew that, but a weekend float trip was not the time to begin.
After an hour he’d lost sight of them altogether. He was a seasoned canoeist, not as much as Danny obviously, but experienced with a paddle. He assumed that was why they felt they could leave him behind. That and the inevitable way people just drifted along, mostly heedless of anyone else.
“There’s Chris!” Misty shouted when he had come around a bend midway through the morning. The other canoes were pulled onto a sandy beach. They had waited for him to catch up. He saw a few beer cans and a chip bag on the ground among them, and he watched Willy pour a half bag of chips onto the sand and then crumple the bag and drop it. As he drifted up to the beach, the others were already getting into their canoes and pushing off. Waiting for him to catch up did not include waiting for him to rest up as well. He had his bottles of water, and he still had two of his Saturday candy bars left, but he wanted some greasy chips, and he figured it wasn’t too early in the day for at least one beer. But off they went, with all of the snacks and beer in their canoes. He wondered if that was part of Danny’s thoughtful rearrangement of the gear too.
Lunch wasn’t much better. By the time he reached the sandbar where they had pulled out, the gang had eaten most of the sandwiches. They’d left only one for him, which he ate in three bites, and a greasy napkin holding some Doritos. They had one beer for him, already warm from sitting on the sand waiting.
The outfitter had described the approach to the perfect island for their overnight, but no one was exactly sure where it was. Even Danny admitted he wasn’t certain since the features of the river changed so much. Thus Mackie and Eric volunteered to go ahead and find it. Soon Misty, Willy, and Pete had their canoe in the water too. Chris begged them all to linger a bit so he could rest, but off the two canoes went. He lay in the sand, staring at the empty blue sky, never wanting to rise again. He heard the snap of a trash bag being opened. Someone was cleaning up this time. Chris figured he should help, so he rolled onto his stomach then pushed himself up. He stumbled across the soft sand to where Danny was. On the way he bent to grab a napkin, but the breeze sent it tumbling toward the water. He didn’t chase it.
But the day was done now and he sat on his cooler before the fire, gorging himself on the smell of the steaks cooking. They would burn but he didn’t care. He would devour his and gnaw on the bone to get every crispy ounce of gristle and fat. When he opened his eyes he saw Martha stabbing a steak from the grill and sliding it onto a plate. He could have crowded up with the rest of them and gotten himself a half-raw, half-burnt steak right away, but he knew that was not the right behavior for a fat man. Despite his hunger, his exhaustion, despite all of the beer in him, he still retained some dignity.
Someone passed between him and the fire; he felt sudden coolness sweep over him. It was Martha, holding a plate with the cooked steak before him.
“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to curry favor with the boss,” she whispered. “But you looked so tired.”
Had she really brought him the first steak off the grill? He screwed his beer into the sand and accepted the plate. She gave him a napkin and a half-full bag of chips.
“Hardly the boss,” he said, delirious from the smell of the meat. “I just check your reports and pass them up line.”
Even if she weren’t already married with two little boys, Martha was out of his league. She was maybe his age, but she was a pixie. Her husband took her to Royals games and the ballet. She sent Chris postcards from places like Malta and Barbados.
“Enjoy,” she said. Maybe she smiled at him, but he couldn’t tell in the darkness. All he could see was the nimbus of her short hair backlit by the fire.
The plastic knife and fork Martha had given him didn’t work very well on the paper plate; he didn’t have much lap to balance it on. Finally, he just took the steak in his hand and tore off a piece with his teeth, washed it down with a gulp of beer, then followed with a handful of chips. He finished his dinner in a couple of minutes, and he threw the bone into the darkness, hoping to hear it hit the water. But he had no arm and it fell short.
There would be more steaks than takers, he knew, but he wasn’t going to get himself another in front of everyone. Rolled up with his dry clothes was a plastic box full of chocolate chip cookies. And he still had two of Sunday’s Milky Ways left in his vest after a late, famished raid on them. He poured the last crumbs from the bag of chips into his mouth and opened another beer. Then he collected his trash and carried it over to the fire. The plate flared up, but the chip bag and plastic utensils just shriveled and smoked. He’d lost the napkin.
Kim stumbled through the group, handing out beers and veering close to the fire. Misty was somewhere beyond the firelight, laughing again. “Stop it!” she said, but it didn’t sound like she meant it. Everyone was fed and mellow. Danny made an effort to pick up the empties and the other trash, but he couldn’t see much beyond the ring of light from the fire, and he soon gave up. Danny had no trouble dropping cross-legged in the sand.
Chris pulled his cooler closer to the fire to be with the others. Their faces wavered before him in the flickering light, so different from the steady glare of the fluorescent lights at the office. He closed his eyes.
“This float trip was a great idea, Danny,” Mackie said.
Chris figured he should have said that. He was supposed to be their boss.
Everyone agreed with Mackie. Danny bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and then they let a genial silence fall among them again.
After a while, Danny said that if no one was going to eat the remaining steaks on the grill, they’d have to throw them in the river. Otherwise they’d have raccoons visiting the camp that night.
“Then by all means, throw them in the river,” said Martha.
No one got up to do it, though. Tired and half drunk and comfortable, they all leaned back and let the silence enwrap them.
After a sufficient time, Chris pushed up from the cooler. “I’ll do it.”
There were five steaks left. They had been moved to the edge of the grill where they wouldn’t burn, but even so, they felt dry and crispy. He stumbled through the sand toward where he thought the river was, and when he got past the tents and the ring of fire light, he began tearing bites from one of the steaks. His prize for coming in last. The edge was burned and crunched in his teeth, but he spit that first piece out and tried again, finding better meat in the center. By the time he got to the water, he had eaten as much of the first steak as he could find in the darkness and started on the second one. He ate all that he could from the five then threw the bones into the darkness, listening for their splash each time. He bent toward the water with a grunt and rinsed his hands, drying them on his pants, then he turned toward camp, using the fire has his beacon.
Still beyond the light himself, he could see several faces painted with the orange glow from the fire.
“Did you see how high his bow was above the water?” Mackie said.
“I started laughing when I looked back and saw it!” That was Eric. Chris wasn’t surprised.
“I think he walked more miles than he floated.”
“Stop it you two,” said Martha. “You’re drunk. Don’t be so mean. Chris is a good person.”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy,” Mackie conceded, and then they fell silent.
Chris let the quiet collect before he stumbled toward the fire.
“Hey, welcome back,” said Mackie quickly. “What took you so long?”
“Too much beer.” That raised a chuckle.
Before taking his seat on the cooler again, he opened it and pulled out a beer. “Anyone?”
A few hands raised, and he began tossing cans. Only Danny caught his. The others thudded into the sand, but they were opened without too much mess or complaint.
Another bag of chips made the rounds. Kim suggested making s’mores, but no one had the energy to bother. The conversations dissolved to sporadic murmurings. A few more beers and Chris was ready for bed.
“How far to the take out point tomorrow?”
“Not far. Less than five miles, I think,” said Danny. “A couple hours.”
“Well, I’m going to bed. See all of you in the morning. We’ll skip our regular staff meeting.”
That raised a laugh too, and with a last wave, he turned from the group to go find his tent. The flashlight he should have been carrying was rolled up with his dry clothes and the cookies. He knew he was close when he tripped over the extra gear he’d removed from his canoe. Someone hadn’t set up their tent yet, and he was glad it wasn’t him. They were all too drunk by then to manage something that complicated, especially in the dark.
He didn’t want to climb into his tent wearing his sandy, wet sneakers, but he worried that if he left them outside, some animal would carry them off in the night, so he tumbled into the tent and zipped the door shut behind him. He’d clean it in the morning.
Taking off his dirty sneakers. Peeling off his wet socks. Drying his feet. Pulling on dry socks over his ragged toenails. All of this was close to impossible for Chris because he could barely reach his feet as he sat on the tent floor, and after he managed each step, he fell onto his back and gasped for air. The sand beneath the tent yielded with each fall, and by the time he was finished, a crater formed where his head had struck.
He expected to have a bad night, waking every twenty minutes feeling like he was suffocating, because he would be. He’d gasp for air in a panic then try to relax so he could fall asleep and do it again in another twenty minutes. It was like that whenever he tried to sleep without his CPAP, but his doctor said that if he just lost a hundred pounds, he wouldn’t need the machine at all. More like a hundred and fifty pounds, Chris knew.
He pulled the sleeping bag over his shoulder and rolled on his side, hoping he was tired enough or drunk enough to fall asleep quickly. He tried not to remember the things they said about him around the fire. Things they were probably still saying.
+ + +
He was the first in the camp to wake in the morning. It was pointless to keep trying to fall asleep only to wake up in a panic soon after. Once he saw the first hint of dawn through the fabric of his tent, he figured his punishment was sufficiently over; a different punishment replaced it. His arms and shoulders ached. He could barely move his fingers. His hands were claws, and he never wanted to hold a paddle again. His head pounded, but that was normal, an old friend come for a visit.
As he moved, his muscles began to loosen, and by the time he pulled his sandy sneakers on, he thought he might make it through the morning.
Outside, no one else was awake. The campfire, farther away than he realized, sent a reluctant string of white smoke into the air. At his feet was what he had tripped over in the dark. Someone hadn’t set up their tent after all, and before he could consider the implications of that, he knew he had to get something to eat.
He guessed one of the coolers had breakfast in it, but he didn’t remember seeing anything when he had dug in them the night before. Plus he was reluctant to raid the supplies and be caught stuffing his face with everyone else’s food.
On the ground by the fire he found a box of graham crackers half eaten. Beside it was a open bag of marshmallows that were dusted with sand. If there had been any chocolate bars for the s’mores, they were all gone. Or maybe hidden in someone’s tent.
A pair of crows passed silently over the island. Those early birds were out to get the worm, he guessed, and so was he. He took his same seat on the cooler. Then he picked up the box of graham crackers and began shoving them in his mouth as fast as he could. When they were gone, he put the box on the coals, willing it to flare up and destroy the evidence. Then he took the marshmallows out of the bag one by one and dusted off the sand before popping each into his mouth. They were awful, but he was hungry. When he was finished, he twisted the marshmallow bag into a tight ball and shoved it deep in the sand. Danny wouldn’t approve, but he didn’t have to know. He rose from the cooler and opened it. After briefly considering a beer, he opened a can of pop and washed down his dry and sticky breakfast. That would hold him until his real breakfast, and he worried that would not be for a long time while everyone slept off their hangovers.
The sun was inching over the trees down river. Soon it would hit the tents directly, and maybe then some of them would stir.
He sat on the cooler and tried not to think about how much he hated his life. They all thought he was a nice guy, easy to get along with, not a difficult boss. At least not yet. He was amazed that nobody could see how miserable he was, how terrible everything really was. Every day, waking with a shriek of recognition. Every day another struggle. Every day the same struggle. He was the same man he had been the day before, and he had to live the same wretched life he had the day before. He worked. He paid his bills. He saved a little. Sometimes he went to the movies, but he hated going alone. He got carry out all the time, except when he had pizza delivered. Even so, his grocery bill was big enough for a family. He hated climbing the stairs to his second floor apartment. He hated the way his seat belt barely reached the buckle and the steering wheel rubbed his stomach even with the seat back as far as he dared. He hated dropping anything on the floor because he could scarcely bend over enough to reach it. His knees were starting to hurt. His feet had always hurt. He hated all of those things, but he hated himself most of all. Something had to change, and nothing ever did.
He wiped his eyes then pushed himself up from the cooler. Maybe by the time he had his tent down and his gear stowed in his canoe, someone would have breakfast started. He walked to his tent, his ankles twisting in the sand. His life was no life.
It was when he had his tent down, rolled and ready to be slipped into its bag that he saw it. There, right where his tent had been, close to the canoes where everyone would be returning, was an impression of his bulk in the sand. Negative space showing just how much space he claimed, twice his share of the world. He could make out where his shoulder had pressed in, where his hips were, and a circular crater between them that was most of the rest of him. There was the truest summation his life for all of them to see.
He looked toward the other tents. No one was stirring. He fell to his knees with a thud and started scattering the sand with his hands. He pushed it around and dug deep holes where there weren’t any before. He jabbed the sand with a piece of driftwood and pounded it with his fists, silently screaming all the while. And when he was done and had erased all sign of himself, he zipped open the pocket on his vest where he had his two remaining candy bars. He shoved them into one of the holes he had dug and covered them with sand.
Then he fell to his side, exhausted. “No more. I have to change!”
After a while, he pushed himself up from the sand and finished packing. He stowed the gear in his canoe but didn’t tie it down because he knew he’d have other gear to carry.
Over at the fire he saw Danny poking the coals. Martha was working the tabs off the beer cans scattered around. Neither looked too happy to be alive, but at least they were finally up. Chris wandered over, trying not to seem eager.
“So I figured if I could reduce everything by one quarter,” Danny was saying to Martha, “my whole pack would weigh less. Look at each item and find a way to trim the weight. I cut half the handle off my toothbrush, for example. And that’s how I travel light. By an accumulation of little things.”
“Good morning, fearless leader,” Martha said as Chris stumbled up.
Danny picked up one of the dry bags that Chris had carried in his canoe the day before. “Breakfast is ready.”
From inside he pulled out several boxes of glazed donuts. How they had survived the journey without getting smashed Chris did not know. Danny opened the boxes and set them on the coolers beside the fire.
“There are enough for six donuts apiece, but I only want two, so you can have my other four,” he told Chris.
Sticky, messy glazed donuts. The very worst thing. Chris grabbed a box and didn’t stop eating them until they were all gone.
