He was best man at my wedding. His easy-going sense of humor kept me calm in the hotel room before the ceremony. His friendship in the years that followed was a treasure. I miss him.
Gary Brandner
FLAME DANCED AND crackled on dry evergreen boughs in the center of a small forest clearing. A young man sat on one side of the fire, three boys across from him. Four pup tents were set up at the perimeter pointing in four directions.
Neal Baines was the young man. He had blond hair cropped short and soft blue eyes. He wore jeans, a white sweatshirt and a quilted jacket. It was Neal who had insisted on the canvas pup tents, holding that lighter nylon shelters were not manly. He grinned now over the fire at the three boys.
“Okay, troopers, we’ve had hot dogs and beans cooked over our own fire. Pretty darn good, right?”
There was no response from the boys, who were attired in a mixed collection of new outdoor clothing.
Neal tried again. “What do you say to some toasted marshmallows?”
“Big whoopee,” Casey Poole muttered. Casey was a wiry youth, 12-years-old, with a mouth set in a permanent smirk. Like the other boys he was here at the insistence of his parents, who were home now enjoying a rare quiet weekend.
“Hey, it could be worse,” Moons Henafin said. “He could’ve brought rice cakes.” Moons was twenty pounds overweight, and his rear view accounted for the nickname. At home he was fed a diet of fruits, veggies, and tofu by his mother, who detested fats and was built like a golf club to prove it.
The third boy, Travis Walker, said nothing. Hot dogs, marshmallows, Neal Baines, camping trip...he would put up with it, but all things considered, he’d rather be home with his computer. His father was resigned to the fact that Travis would never be an athlete, but saw this as a chance at least to get him out of the house.
Neal took the tepid response for assent. “Henafin, you get the marshmallows from my tent, Poole, you poke up the fire, Walker you get the pointy sticks.”
The boys moved to their tasks with reluctance.
“Where do I find sticks?” Travis asked.
“Try pointystick.com,” Casey said, looking to Moons, who snickered.
“We’re sitting in a forest full of them,” Neal said. “Go cut four thin branches and whittle them into points. Get some use out of the new Woodsman set your father gave you.”
Travis adjusted his glasses and peered into the darkness. “Am I supposed to go out there alone? A guy could get lost.”
“You won’t get lost, Walker. Just keep the campfire in sight and you’ll be fine.”
“Don’t worry,” Casey said, “bears don’t eat geeks.”
“Unless they’re really hungry,” Moons added.
“Ha ha,” Travis said without mirth, and edged away between trees into the shadows. By the time he returned, the fire was banked and the marshmallows divided among the four of them.
Neal Baines inspected the sticks. “Good work.”
“Give him a merit badge,” Casey said.
Neal frowned him into silence.
The marshmallows were impaled and suspended over the coals for browning. Above them the night sky showed through the dark branches in patches of velvet pinpointed by glittering stars. A late summer breeze soughed through the forest carrying the tang of firs, spruce and juniper.
Moons Henafin eyed Travis’s marshmallows and spoke around a mouthful of his own. “You gonna eat all those?”
“You can have them.”
“Keep your fat hands off mine,” Casey warned.
“Who said anything about yours?”
“You were going to. You already ate most of the hot dogs.”
“Well, I was hungry. Is it my fault they starve me at home?” Moons stabbed the last three marshmallows from Travis’s stash on the point of his stick and thrust them toward the coals.
Neal Baines dabbed at his mouth and looked around with satisfaction. “Okay, troopers, it’s still a little early for sleep. Who’s got an activity to suggest?”
“How about Botticelli?” Travis suggested.
“What’s that?” Moons asked.
“It’s a word game. Something like Twenty Questions.”
“Word game!” Casey spat it out like an obscenity. “No way!”
“All right,” Neal said. “Let’s be cool. If you’ve got another suggestion, Poole, let’s hear it.”
“How about we pack up and go home?” Casey said.
“We could make it in time for Saturday Night Live,” Moons added. Travis rolled his eyes and said nothing.
“Troopers, I’m disappointed in you. I think we can get along one night without television. Try to enjoy the out-of-doors for once. What do you say, Walker?”
“Actually,” Travis admitted, “this is kind of boring.”
“Boring? Doing guy stuff? Hey, this is what they call male bonding. Being together out here in the night air under a canopy of stars, breathing in the sweet fresh air. Boring?”
“He’s a poet” Casey said sotto voce to Moons.
“He’s a pain in the ass,” Moons amended.
“Give him a chance,” Travis said. “He’s trying.”
Oblivious to the remarks across the fire, Neal raised a forefinger in inspiration. “I know what will liven things up.”
“Please tell me we’re not going to sing,” Casey said under his breath. Moons rolled his eyes, “Here it comes: Kum Ba Ya.”
Travis leaned close to the other two. “Do you know what it means? Kum Ba Ya?”
“Do you know how much I don’t care?” Casey muttered back.
“Scary stories!” Neal said. “I’ll bet you’ll like that. How about it, troopers?”
“Oh gosh, yes,” Casey said, not bothering to feign enthusiasm.
“Look out,” whispered Moons. “Here comes ‘The Hook’.”
“If he calls us troopers once more...” Casey muttered.
“Who wants to start?”
The three boys looked off in different directions.
“Come on, I know you guys like horror movies. Who has a good gory story?”
“There was the time the TV in my bedroom broke and I had to watch reruns of Matlock with the old folks,” Casey offered.
“Very funny, Poole. How about you, Henafin?”
“There was this little girl in the forest and this big bad wolf...”
“Never mind. Walker?”
“I’m not much good with stories.”
“Then I guess it’s up to me,” Neal said. “I’ll bet I’ve got one that will scare the pants off you.”
“Uh-oh,” Casey said. “I got holes in my underwear.”
“Do you guys want to hear this, or do you want to hit the sleeping bags?”
“It’s not even nine o’clock.”
“So what’ll it be?”
“Tell us the story,” Travis said. The other two nodded glumly.
“Now settle down and listen up...”
The boys exchanged a look and arranged themselves as comfortably as possible on their side of the dying campfire.
“There was a little boy named Robin...”
“This isn’t going to be Winnie the Pooh, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. Anyway, that was Christopher Robin.”
“Oh, right.”
“Robin was not any kind of special little boy. He was a lot like you guys. He could be a smartass sometimes.”
“Who does that sound like?” Moons smirked, nudging Casey.
“And he wasn’t the brightest student in class.”
Casey gave Moons a slug on the shoulder. “How about it, Brainiac?” “And sometimes he was very quiet, and didn’t want to talk to anybody.” Casey and Moons pointed exaggerated fingers at Travis.