not battery acid material. This is Starbuck’s Colombia-New Guinea blend.”
“It will be industrial waste when you’re through boiling it. By that, I mean if you wish your he-man, fisherman coffee, you are going to have to prepare it yourself.”
“Heath-er,” the man whined. “ I built the fire.” Even as he protested, however, he was unzipping the tent’s front flaps.
By rapping her ornate handle against a metal tent stake, Spoon sounded the alarm. Deftly, like a Pamplona bull hooking a drunken tourist, Painted Stick hooked Dirty Sock and began pulling him toward the bushes. Conch Shell pushed from behind. As for Can o’ Beans, he/she had just been rolling off the flattened sock at the instant that the stick jerked it up and away. The sudden yank sent Can o’ Beans rolling right off the rock and into the path of the approaching camper.
“Heather! There’s something out here!”
“Oh, my God!” gasped the woman. Visions of Ted Bundy, of hairy Charlie Manson, stretched in her mind like blood-drenched elastic.
The man forced a deep chuckle. “It’s only animals, dear,” he called. “Some small animals attracted to my fire.”
“They could be rabid,” snapped the woman. Then, abruptly conscious of her hysteria, she added in a steadier tone, “Toss some pebbles at them, dear.”
In teal flannel pajamas, over which he had Velcroed a raspberry nylon parka, the man was having a look around. He was not old, probably between thirty-five and forty, yet he hobbled like a nursing-home lecher in his spanking new Timberland brogans. Although chunky spectacles rode his sharp little nose like the wheels of a chariot overrunning an emaciated fourth-century Christian, he still appeared handicapped by myopia. He had the look of a midlevel academic, perhaps one of those literary moles who compound their pallor in stuffy rooms, stroking the musaceous nuances of E. M. Forster; or else the editor of an urban weekly newspaper that fills its pages with wine-shop and gallery advertisements and earnest evaluation of the anal-retentive sawings of European string quartets. Only a day or two before, that same man had glared at Boomer Petway with such haughty disdain, as the Volvo passed by the giant turkey, that Boomer turned to Ellen Cherry and asked, “Do you think there’s males that suffer from penis envy?”
“Heather,” called the man. His bugged eyes had discovered an artifact in front of the campfire.
“Yes, dear.”
“Did you bring pork and beans?”
“What?”
“Pork and beans.”
Squinting hard, he squatted in the firelight. The Chinese fingers of dawn, slender and opium stained, were massaging the bruised bottom of the sky, and owl-hoots were beginning to be supplanted by benevolent birdsong and what may have been the sound of the night shift punching off duty at the bugworks. On the sidelines of a planetary routine that seldom has failed to inspire the poets—those among them who’d been awake and sober at that hour—the man made as if to pick up Can o’ Beans, then thought better of it and prodded him/her with a length of store-bought kindling.
In the underbrush, Spoon emitted a tiny squeal. “Oh, what can we do?” she asked.
“Do not move,” ordered Painted Stick.
The woman emerged from the tent. She looked remarkably like her husband, down to the flannels and the aquarium-weight eyeglasses. She may have been an inch taller than he, which meant that she still would have had to stand on a peach basket to curry the ears of a Shetland pony. Aggressively as a TV cop, she strode up to the helpless bean tin.
“You’re asking me if I brought pork and beans? Dabney, I shopped for this excursion for over a week—”
“For more than a week.”
“Excuse me. More than a week. Are you aware of the money I spent?”
“So these aren’t our pork and beans?”
“Really, Dabney!” The woman looked as if she had just gotten a whiff of a Calcutta latrine. Then, she softened and
“It will be industrial waste when you’re through boiling it. By that, I mean if you wish your he-man, fisherman coffee, you are going to have to prepare it yourself.”
“Heath-er,” the man whined. “ I built the fire.” Even as he protested, however, he was unzipping the tent’s front flaps.
By rapping her ornate handle against a metal tent stake, Spoon sounded the alarm. Deftly, like a Pamplona bull hooking a drunken tourist, Painted Stick hooked Dirty Sock and began pulling him toward the bushes. Conch Shell pushed from behind. As for Can o’ Beans, he/she had just been rolling off the flattened sock at the instant that the stick jerked it up and away. The sudden yank sent Can o’ Beans rolling right off the rock and into the path of the approaching camper.
“Heather! There’s something out here!”
“Oh, my God!” gasped the woman. Visions of Ted Bundy, of hairy Charlie Manson, stretched in her mind like blood-drenched elastic.
The man forced a deep chuckle. “It’s only animals, dear,” he called. “Some small animals attracted to my fire.”
“They could be rabid,” snapped the woman. Then, abruptly conscious of her hysteria, she added in a steadier tone, “Toss some pebbles at them, dear.”
In teal flannel pajamas, over which he had Velcroed a raspberry nylon parka, the man was having a look around. He was not old, probably between thirty-five and forty, yet he hobbled like a nursing-home lecher in his spanking new Timberland brogans. Although chunky spectacles rode his sharp little nose like the wheels of a chariot overrunning an emaciated fourth-century Christian, he still appeared handicapped by myopia. He had the look of a midlevel academic, perhaps one of those literary moles who compound their pallor in stuffy rooms, stroking the musaceous nuances of E. M. Forster; or else the editor of an urban weekly newspaper that fills its pages with wine-shop and gallery advertisements and earnest evaluation of the anal-retentive sawings of European string quartets. Only a day or two before, that same man had glared at Boomer Petway with such haughty disdain, as the Volvo passed by the giant turkey, that Boomer turned to Ellen Cherry and asked, “Do you think there’s males that suffer from penis envy?”
“Heather,” called the man. His bugged eyes had discovered an artifact in front of the campfire.
“Yes, dear.”
“Did you bring pork and beans?”
“What?”
“Pork and beans.”
Squinting hard, he squatted in the firelight. The Chinese fingers of dawn, slender and opium stained, were massaging the bruised bottom of the sky, and owl-hoots were beginning to be supplanted by benevolent birdsong and what may have been the sound of the night shift punching off duty at the bugworks. On the sidelines of a planetary routine that seldom has failed to inspire the poets—those among them who’d been awake and sober at that hour—the man made as if to pick up Can o’ Beans, then thought better of it and prodded him/her with a length of store-bought kindling.
In the underbrush, Spoon emitted a tiny squeal. “Oh, what can we do?” she asked.
“Do not move,” ordered Painted Stick.
The woman emerged from the tent. She looked remarkably like her husband, down to the flannels and the aquarium-weight eyeglasses. She may have been an inch taller than he, which meant that she still would have had to stand on a peach basket to curry the ears of a Shetland pony. Aggressively as a TV cop, she strode up to the helpless bean tin.
“You’re asking me if I brought pork and beans? Dabney, I shopped for this excursion for over a week—”
“For more than a week.”
“Excuse me. More than a week. Are you aware of the money I spent?”
“So these aren’t our pork and beans?”
“Really, Dabney!” The woman looked as if she had just gotten a whiff of a Calcutta latrine. Then, she softened and
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