Pictures of Houses with Water Damage: Stories (8 page)

“I’m so happy,” my wife says as she breastfeeds the little baby girl in the hospital room. “Aren’t you happy?” she says. “You’re a Daddy now,” she says.

I smile and think about leaving the hospital and going somewhere—a stripper bar, maybe.

“W
hat do you mean what you said about what you said!” said twenty-seven-year-old Ripped van Wrinkle when he abruptly and unexpectedly woke up from a forty-five day coma and found himself inside a science station at the South Pole.

A man with a long thick beard said: “Hey, doc, surfer guy is awake.”

Ripped asked: “Who are you?”

The man with a long thick beard said: “The real question is, who are
you?
”

Ripped noticed, then, he was lying on a flat metal bed in what seemed like a doctor's office. He was wearing what seemed like a patient's blue gown; this was not what he was wearing when he was out in the New Zealand ocean; he had been in his favorite black body suit, that's what he last recalled.

A short woman in her late 50s with white hair and thick glasses, wearing a white doctor's smock and a stethoscope around her neck, waddled into the room (like a penguin, Ripped thought). “Well,” she said, “the Mystery Man is finally awake. I bet you’re hungry.”

As a matter of fact, his stomach was growling and hurt.

“…in the hospital?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she said. “Sickbay.”

Two other men with long scraggly beards and hair in ponytails entered the area. “Hey,” one said, “the dude is awake.”

“Doooooooood,” said the other, wanting to high five.

Ripped did not want to high-five.

“Okay,” Ripped said, “where am I and how did I get here?”

“Oh dear,” said the doctor.

“You’re in the South Pole,” the first man with a scraggly beard said.

“The what?”

“Antarctica, dude.”

Ripped was alone with Dr. Helen Mann in sickbay. The bearded men had brought him some food—macaroni and cheese and canned peaches. He ate it fast and wanted more. Dr. Mann told him to take it easy.

“Tell me the last thing you recall,” she said.

“I was out on the water, catching some waves. I’m a competitive surfer. I live in San Diego, California, in a place called Ocean Beach. I was in Auckland for a big comp. I was, I was practicing, you know, gotta keep it up. I,” and he had to think; “I think I fell asleep on my board.”

“Indeed you did.”

“And I woke up here.”

“Oh my.”

“What is it, doc?”

“Here's what I know, as best I know,” she said. “You fell asleep on your board, as you said, and you drifted all the way to the South Pole.”

“How is that possible?”

“You went into some kind of coma.”

“I don’t understand, coma.”

“I don’t know how long it took you to drift from Auckland to here, but you’ve been asleep in sickbay forty-five days now.”

“Wow,” he said. “I didn’t even dream.”

“You kept saying ‘Rosebud’ in your sleep. Is that the name of your surfboard?”

“It's what I call my girlfriend's… ”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“It's okay.”

“So you found me out in the water?”

“Not exactly. Half a dozen Emperor penguins carried you here, with your board.” She nodded at the surfboard leaning against the wall.

“Emily,” he said, smiling fondly, “she and I have been through a lot. Wait, did you say
penguins
carried me?”

“Yes.”

“How? They’re small.”

“Ever seen an Emperor penguin?”

“They’re big?” he asked.

“Indeed.”

“That's very kind of them,” he said, after thinking about it.

“They’re full of surprises,” Dr. Mann said.

The Emperor penguins who had carried him to the science station wondered about him now and then. They had rescued Ripped from the waters because they were afraid killer whales would eat him. Eventually, killer whales ate all six of the penguins that carried Ripped, so his story was forgotten among their tribe.

This calls to mind something Bernard Stonehouse
^*1
once said: “I have the impression that, to penguins, man is just another penguin—different, but predictable, occasionally violent, but tolerable company when he sits still and minds his own business.”

“I need to contact my people, my girl,” Ripped said. “You have phones here, right? How do you get out of the South Pole? Helicopter? Plane? Boat?”

“Um, that's the problem,” the doctor said.

“What?”

“It's winter here. Twenty-four hours of darkness. The conditions are so harsh we can’t even leave the station, and no transports. Too dangerous.”

“Are you serious?”

“Afraid I am.”

“How long we talking?”

“Four months.”

“Four?”

“Maybe five. Four and a half. But not six, so don’t you worry none.”

“Wait,” he said. “Are you saying…?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re stuck with us, inside here.”

The phone lines were touch and go, especially to the United States. He tried calling his manager in Malibu and his manager kept saying, “What? What? Who is this? Speak up! Where you calling from? What's the meaning of this? Call back.”

The Internet worked. He sent off emails. Ripped wasn’t much of a writer, so he kept it brief:
I am still alive and in the South Pole. Long story. Keep a candle burning. It's very cold down here. I’ll be back in the Fall
.

It would be summer here when it was fall back home.

He was about to send an email to Jolene Nemo-lavokis, his girlfriend. He stopped. What would he say? Then he noticed there was an email from her in his Inbox, dated six weeks ago.

yo, r:

i dunno if yr alive or dead or what or what happened but i cant let it drive me crazy anymore. i have a feeling yr wholed away w/ some beach bunny bimbo on a remote island out there or in the mountains of n.z. so you know what, thats ok. if you get this email i just wanted to write & tell you that i met someone here in la la land & weve become close & eye think im in love & ah might even marry him. he has proposed but eye havnt given him an answer yet. If aye say yes or no it doesn’t matter b/c its later city 4 you & me. yr a sweet & hot guy & great in bed & you make me laugh & feel safe but lets face it yr a surfer & women throw themselves @ you all the time. i have to get on w/me life & so that is what im gonna do. U take care & eye hope U R ok & having fun which im sure U R.

xxoo
,

jo-jo nemo

p.s. rosebud will always miss ya!

She was a model in Los Angeles, a half-Greek, half-Russian six-foot-one beauty he’d met on a photo shoot for some fashion magazine, he couldn’t remember the name but it was one of those generic 200 page things with slick pages and Photoshopped pictures of the beautiful people, made to look more plastic than they really were, including him.

He wrote back:
Good luck, Captain Nemo. Sweet dreams, Rosebud
.

At first, he was the novelty. Everyone on the station wanted to chat with Ripped, know all about him, and in turn tell him about their lives, since having a new audience was also rare. After a few days, though, people lost interest and he was just another body stuck inside the geodome. That was okay with him.

The winter personnel consisted of several scientists doing arcane research on the atmosphere, ice, and rocks—they were called “beakers.” The rest were support personnel: the cook, janitors, and general maintenance. One doctor. One researcher: a twenty-nine-year-old sociologist/ anthropologist named Kate Drew.

“I’m doing a post-doctoral study on how people relate and interact within intense, enclosed structures,” she told Ripped, “and I was hoping, over the course of your stay here, you’ll allow me to observe and interview you.”

He shrugged. “Do I have a choice? I’m trapped here, you’re trapped.…”

She smiled. She had a very nice smile, he thought. She was a plain-looking girl with long brown hair pulled back in a tail. He couldn’t tell what her body was like because she wore frumpy, baggy sweaters and pants. With some make-up and fashion sense, he decided she could be hot on the outside world. “You do have a choice,” Kate said, “because ethics requires I obtain your consent to be a subject of my study, and you can choose to decline…if you so choose.”

He shrugged. “Why not. All in the name of science, right?”

“Science,” she said distantly; “yes.”

There was a well-stocked library of videos and books. Ripped spent a lot of time in the library. After watching the 213 available movies three times each, he started reading the books. There were 2,417 books, ranging in fiction, poetry, scientific studies, and memoirs. Ripped had never been much of a reader—he was a surfer, after all: waves before books. Now that he had the time, now that he had nothing better to do, he found the act of reading enjoyable. He learned some things.

He started to grow a beard. There was no practical reason to shave and a beard helped keep the face warm. Now he knew why all the other men had thick beards. He had never had a beard before, always kept at least a three-to-five day stubble because the image consultant his manager had hired told him that was sexy, it looked good, that's what the cameras and women wanted to see in a surf hero.

“Cheers and all that,” Ripped said.

“Salut,” said Kate Drew.

They were drinking tequila shots and she was interviewing him for her project. She turned on her minitape recorder. “Third interview with Ripped van Wrinkle, American surf hero, stranded here on Ice Station 33.”

“‘Stranded’ is such a—harsh word,” he said.

“Circumstantial guest?”

“I’ve had time to do a lot of thinking,” he said. He poured them both another tequila shot. “I have been thinking about fate,” he said, “and how there is an order to the universe.”

“You’ve been reading those books.”

“More than the books,” he said. “I’ve been thinking I’m here for a reason, like maybe I’m meant to be here.”

She poured another tequila round.

“Interesting,” she said. “Have you always had this belief or is this something new?”

“Good question. I’m not sure. I think I always have, but I never thought about it. I never, um, put it into words. Like, ever since I was a kid I knew I would be famous somehow. I didn’t know how—actor, politician, surfer. I just knew.”

“Interesting,” she said. “What religious background did you have?”

“My parents were Zen Buddhists.”

“Ah.”

“Hippies.”

“Of course.”

“More?”

He grabbed the tequila bottle.

“Oh,” Kate said, “I’m getting drunk.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

They drank another shot.

“I notice people drink a lot here,” he said.

“It helps,” she said.

“It's a lonely place.”

“No kidding.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you choose this place for your research?” he asked.

She looked uncomfortable. “I’m the one asking the questions,” she said. Ripped thought he touched something touchy. “I’m the interrogative one,” she said, and she thought that was funny because she let out a small laugh and a small burp “Excuse me,” she said.

“What about sex?” he said.

“What?”

“Do people have sex here?”

“Oh, Rip, I thought you’d
never
ask!” she cried and jumped into his arms, curling up like a small child, kissing him all over his face.

“Wow,” he said.

She stopped. “Is this okay?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Do you want this?”

“Sure,” he said.

“I’ve been wanting this since the day you got here,” she said.

Then they fucked.

They fucked a lot, hours and hours every day because, like drinking and growing a beard, there wasn’t much else to do. When the others on the station found out, which they did pretty fast, they were jealous at first, and then they didn’t care.

Outside, the night was clear as Siberian grain alcohol and a trillion stars twinkled in the dark sky like a trillion stars twinkling in the night sky. The southern lights—the
aurora australis
—danced across the heavens like a French ballet company on tour in New Zealand. Inside, our hero had a birthday but he did not tell anyone this because he did not want anyone to know, to make a fuss, and he did not care.

“What do you mean you did that about what you did and all that!” said twenty-eight year old Ripped van Wrinkle as he sat upright in Kate's small bed in her small quarters, waking her up; she was just as started as he about the sudden outburst.

“Hey, what's wrong?” she said.

“What?”

He was disoriented.

“Are you okay? Rip-o?”

Took him a moment to get his bearings. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird dream I guess.”

“Guess so.”

“I’m okay. Let's go back to sleep.”

They snuggled.

“What was that you said?” she asked. “What did that mean?”

“What?”

“What you said.”

“What did I say?”

“You said.”

“It was dream talk,” he said.

“The language is in code, only the subconscious can comprehend,” she said, to herself really.

“What?” he said.

“Never mind,” she said; “give me a kiss, honey.” They snuggled, which lead to making love, and then they went back to sleep.

A month later.

Outside, near the station, a helicopter malfunctioned and crash-landed in the snow. The pilot smashed his head against the windshield, very hard. His helmet was inferior and he cracked open his skull and broke his neck and died on the scene.

There were three passengers: Henri, Axel, and Paul: French-Canadian documentary filmmakers in their mid-30s. They were scouting scenery for their current project, looking for the perfect setting in the Southern night.