A Land Far, Far Away Pt. 02

"Two fucking days, Mecca. Are your underlings so inept they can't survive two fucking days without you?"

She clenched and unclenched her hands. "You just. Don't. Understand!"

"'I'm so tired, Daniel. They drive me crazy, Daniel. I just can't take it, Daniel. It's so much work, Daniel. I'm so stressed out, Daniel. They expect me to do everything.'"

She slumped back into her seat.

"'They don't appreciate me, Daniel. I didn't get my raise, Daniel. I need another job, Daniel. Just two days, Daniel. Two days away from the job, away from the phone, away from the people and far, far away from town. Is that too much to ask? Is that more than I deserve?'"

She slumped further down in her seat, rubbing her temples, shrouding her eyes.

"'It's been over a year, Daniel. Five, six and sometimes seven-day work weeks, and I haven't had time to use a minute of my vacation. But I don't even want a vacation. I just want two days off. Two days--"

"Far, far away from everything." Mecca sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have cussed you; you were only . . . Well, you had my best interests at heart. I just don't know how to relax, anymore. I tell myself I'm going home; I tell them I don't wanna be bothered, but the minute that phone rings, I'm there. I'm a fucking slave to that place."

"Well, just call me Frederick Douglas."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Mother-fucking April."

"Stop it. It's over. It's done. You're not gonna hear anymore about it till we get back in town late Sunday night."

She sighed again, then nodded.

"Take a deep breath and count to ten."

"There are just so many people that want me to fuck up, Daniel. There's a big chain I'm a part of--60 operations--and I'm the only black manager. And that either speaks really highly of me, or really stupid of me."

"'Stupid' of you?"

"This place has gone through so many managers just like that, and I ain't the one. People are cursing me, wishing me ill, hoping I fall flat on my nigger face, and I ain't going out like that. They will have to pry that place from my cold, dead hands before I give it over to somebody else."

"But if it makes you miserable," he tried to argue.

"You make me miserable, too, sometimes. Or at least you used to," she corrected herself. "I didn't give you up, though."

He smiled to himself.

She began to hum. Some tune that he thought he'd heard before, a distant memory, a half-remembered dream, hazy, diluted and unclear. Then words followed. He thought he knew those, too.

"Trees

Trees

Charlie's Arbor Day Foundation

Spreads the word across the nation

About Trees."

"What the fuck was that?" he laughed.

"It was Charlie the Cardinal. And there was a line about," she covered her mouth with her left hand while snapping her right. "It's practically a crime when someone damages a tree . . . Or something like that. I can see the cartoon really clearly, but everything else is iffy. It used to come on around the same time as School House Rock and uh, shit. What was it? Ah! The Tootsie Roll commercial. You know, 'the world looks mighty good to me, cuz Tootsie Rolls are all I see. Whatever it is I think I see. Becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.'"

"I remember that."

"I know, right? Nothing but good times back then."

"Well . . ."

"Childhood trauma aside, life was a lot better back then."

"Agreed."

"You know what I liked best about the old Happy Meals? The ones in the boxes?"

"What?"

"The entertainment value."

"What?"

"Like grown-up meals were huge in comparison to that little bit of shit we got, so you'd be finished in like two seconds, and everybody else would still be chowing down and running their mouth, and you'd just be sitting there with your box. You'd already taken the toy out and did whatever can be done with it, but the family's still nowhere near being done eating, so you look at the box. There's Ronald and Grimace and the Fry Kids, the Hamburglar and the . . . Pirate Guy or whatever. And they had word finds, pictures you could color, mazes you had to find your way through, stupid trivia, awful jokes, and before you knew it, they were done eating, and it was time to go."

"They were really hard to fold, though. Or maybe I was just really stupid. Anyway, my mom always had to re-close it after I'd opened it."

Mecca laughed. "But that's what's wrong with kids today: they don't know how to entertain themselves. If they don't have TV, video games, or the Internet--"

"They're masturbating in the bathroom."

"What!"

There was nothing more attractive than the sound of her unrestrained laughter. "Kids these days," he said. "If they're not watching TV, playing video games or surfing the net, they're discovering new ways to . . . get off."

"Speaking from experience?" she asked.

"Puh-lease. I played sports."

"And that's how you get off. Swingin' the bat around them tight ends, then kickin' some balls around till you score."

He glowered at her, a fake frown on his face. "Woman, you better remember who you're talking to."

She jumped out of her seat. "Stop!"

"What!" He kept going, unable/unwilling to stop in the middle of the highway.

"We just missed our turnoff."

"What?"

She turned all the way around, pointing to something unseen behind them. "Tomlinson Run State Park. That sign said it was the next right, and we just passed the next right."

"Mother fucker."

She turned back around and sighed, slumping down in her seat. "No big. We'll just take the next exit and backtrack. We're both smart people; we can do this."

"I blame you and your Happy Meals. Not so happy, now, are we?"

Mecca laughed.

Three wrong turns and thirty-five minutes later, they were there.

Mecca was the first to exit the vehicle. She reached her hands high up to the sky, stretching up on her tip toes, her head falling back as her mouth hung open. "Can you smell that?" she asked.

"What?" he secured the driver's side door, then moved to pop the trunk.

"Air," she said. "Not the paper mill or the meat packing plant, the stables or one of the many farms we live around, but air. Plain, simple, unadulterated air." She drew in a deep breath and pushed it out. "Ever been to Canada?"

He shook his head. "Can't say that I have."

"It smells just like this."

He smiled then through one of the packs over his shoulder.

"Use the shoulder straps and the hip strap or you'll hurt yourself."

"Fuck that," he poked his arm through the other shoulder strap. "I may be old, but I'm not that old."

She walked up to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Hold still." She reached behind him, unlatching the hip strap, adjusting it to the required length, then securing it snuggly, but not tightly around his midsection. Her movements were measured and sure, her touch light and reassuring. And having her so near him again, free to see her and to touch her without fear of running off the road . . .

He smiled down at her. "You've done this before."

She shrugged. "I used to be a Girl Scout. Troop 2023. I earned just about every merit badge there was. I was a chronic overachiever."

He allowed a sly smile to quirk the corners of his mouth. "And speaking of chronic . . ."

"No," she warned him. "We have to check in at the ranger station, claim a campsite, set up our tent, grab a shower, and then you can huff and puff all you want while I get dinner ready."

"Heh. Like I'm the Big, Bad Wolf and you're Little Red Riding Hood."

Her hands remained at his sides though the pack was in no danger of slipping from where she'd positioned it. She pressed her hips against him then pushed herself away. "Not this time."

He watched as she grabbed her own pack and put it into place with effortless expertise, and then grabbed the beverage cooler and a canvas bag full of groceries, including bread, marshmallows, dry cereal, graham crackers, peanut butter, popcorn (of the non-microwave variety) and Hershey bars. He was carrying the tent, the pots and pans, the dishes, a couple of fishing poles, some bait and tackle, a grilling rack, some skewers and a hunting knife. She carried the sleeping bags, their clothes, toiletries, toilet paper and towels. They both had water bottles, sunscreen and insect repellant.

"All set?" she asked.

"Gimme the cooler, bitch. You'll break a nail."

She swung it beyond his reach. "Fuck you, carrot-top. You'll sprout another hernia."

Daniel frowned.

"This shit ain't heavy, anyway. Do you know how much a case of wine weighs? Like, in the wooden crates?"

"A lot?" he ventured.

"A lot," she nodded. "And try carrying them up two flights of stairs from the basement to the kitchen and from the kitchen to the banquet room. Harsh!"

He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"Well, we can't stand around in an empty parking lot all day. Let's go."

"And exactly where are we going?" He took a passing glance at the scenery around them. Directly ahead of them, about 30 feet from their current location, was a large cabin with a super-sized map of the grounds encased in Plexiglas, posted beside what-seemed-to-be the main walkway. Off to its left was a large pond of clear, sparkling water, its edges lined with green grass and fragrant flowers, newly blossomed in the un-seasonal heat. Behind the pond was a smaller cabin with a big sign hanging above its porch, proudly proclaiming "Dump Station." Beyond the dump station, the main road broke off and divided into two forks, both sides leading to similar sites. There was a wooden walkway on either side of the forks, and at the end of the walkways, positioned off the side of the road were these tan and green, circular tent-like structures equipped with wooden doors.

He couldn't help but point. "What the fuck are those things?"

"Yurts," she shrugged.

"And a yurt is. . ."

"It's like a big, circular tent. Because of their unique construction, they're supposed to be more durable and weather-tight than regular tents. And those particular ones come with a cooler, a propane stove, a lantern, a picnic table and cookware."

"What! And you made me dig out all this crap because?"

"One: I didn't rent a yurt, and two: I plan on doing this quite often with you in many different locations, so I figured we might as well get the stuff, now, and get as much use out of it as possible."

Daniel sighed in defeat. "But that looks so cool."

Mecca shrugged. "If you wanna stay in a yurt, stay in a yurt. But I'm taking the tent, and I'm pitching it at one of the non-electrical sites."

He rolled his eyes, trudging after her towards the check-in site. "Let's defeat the purpose of the whole trip, shall we? Not even married and you already want separate rooms."

The girl giggled. "I assure you I will never want to sleep away from you. Unless you impregnate me with septuplets and I grow unwieldy large. Then I want my space."

He laughed. "Septuplets, huh?"

"Don't think you're up to it?"

Against his wishes, he felt his face flush.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You do want kids, though, right? I mean, with your whole we'll-blow-the-world-up-before-we-cut-down-all-the-trees point of view, you may not want to 'put forth' new life on a seemingly doomed world."

He shrugged yet again. "We've all gotta go sometime, and we're supposed to live each day like its our last. I think I'd make a good dad. I could certainly tell them plenty of things not to do while they're growing up."

At last they made it to the cabin's entrance.

"I have no idea what that'd be like," she said. "Having a man around to help raise the kids."

He grabbed the door handle and held it open for her.

"I mean, I was practically grown by the time my step dad came into the picture, and I didn't wanna move in with them, so I stayed with my grandma."

He followed her inside. "My dad wasn't always there maybe when he should've been, but he did what he was supposed to do. He paid the bills, kept us fed, and if he felt the need to run off and drink himself half-dead, he always came back."

Mecca stopped in her tracks between the main doors and the doorway at the end of the vestibule, staring him dead in the face.

"Or at least that's what my sisters and my brother told me. He never ran off as far as I know." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "But what do kids really know about their parents' problems?"

She seemed to be at an unusual loss for words. "Paul never struck me as that type of man. He seems really . . . family-oriented, I guess?"

Daniel shrugged. "Even more so since mom died. He calls me every fucking day."

She laughed, dipping her head forward, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. "Did you tell him what you--we've been doing?"

"I think he came in his pants."

She opened her mouth wide, her eyes crinkling up with laughter.

"Seriously. It was a really weird situation. I was apologizing for not stopping by more often because I was busy, you know, boning my new girlfriend."

"You did not say 'boning' to your dad."

"No," he admitted. "I didn't. But I almost did. Just to see what he'd say."

"Awww, you'd probably give him a heart attack."

Daniel scoffed. "More like, his heart would explode with joy."

"You and your dad," she laughed. "And your brother, too. Why isn't he married?"

He laughed out loud, slapping his knee, stomping his foot.

"C'mon, now. Don't be mean."

His laughter died to a chuckle, he wiped tears out of the corners of his eyes, then he raised his head to regard her face-to-face, the humor of the moment having faded. "Because, Mecca, not everybody sees people the way you do."

She shook her head, lowering her lashes, her blush tinting her toasted almond complexion a subdued rose. "Now, who's full of shit?" she asked.

He gave her a slight push forward. "C'mon. I'm sure the check-in guy's getting creeped out. He heard the main door open, and he hasn't seen anybody, yet."

The check in was smooth, easy and painless. They paid in cash, signed the register, and read over the rules. The registrar, a tall, thin, tan vaguely teenaged-looking man, gave them a campground map, a key to the bathhouse (seeing as how it was just him and them there) directions to the various campsites and a guide book, pointing out the highlights of the park's two hiking trails. He then told them about the drinking water supply, located in the nearby pond, and then warned them of the dangers of leaving food out or failing to completely extinguish your campfire. Daniel and Mecca smiled and nodded at the appropriate places, took the offered pamphlets and set out to find their campsite.

"Wouldn't think they'd have a stuffed and mounted bear in a ranger station."

Daniel laughed. "So much for animal conservation."

They continued to walk on. This being day 2 of camping season, they had their pick of the sites. Some had electric hook-ups; some didn't. Some had a nice view of one of the many ponds in the park; some didn't. Some were handicapped accessible; some weren't. There were four that were close to one of the two shower houses. And then there were the four yurts . . .

He gave the circular-shaped tent a longing look as he passed by. "If we ever come up here again, we're getting a yurt."

Mecca laughed. "Until 20 minutes ago you didn't even know what a yurt was."

"But now that I do know, I can't imagine my life without one."

"C'mon, doofus," she grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the wooden walkway. "We can take that site up there. We can see the yurts and the pond, and it's near the shower house. E3."

"You just like to tease me," he pouted. "I can see the yurts, but I can't touch them."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, giving him a sly smile. "I've got other things you can touch, though."

He stopped resisting her pull, actually lifting his feet as they traveled down the fork in the main road to their chosen spot. "Just touch?" he asked.

"Touch. Taste. Smell. See. What's the fifth sense?"

"Hear," he replied.

"And that, too."

A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he imagined all the ways he could engage his five senses with her firm body. Touching her all over. Tasting her sweet center. Smelling her arousal. Seeing his cock disappear into that hot, wet slit. And hearing her scream his name as she climaxed beneath him.

They stopped at the spot marked "E3" and began to unload their packs.

"Tent first," she said. "Then everything else."

"I've already pitched a tent. Now, it's your turn."

She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head at him.

"What?"

"Didn't you say you used to be a Boy Scout?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "But I got kicked out for eating a Brownie."

A tight grin spread across her face, repressed chuckles causing her chest to heave. "You just ain't right."

He shrugged, throwing his hands up in the air, feigning innocence.

"Now, get the tent out, set it up, then I'll see about taking care of your pole." She crouched down, reaching into her own pack, pulling out the toiletries and a mini-sized duffel bag.

"And what are you going to do? This is supposed to be a group effort."

She looked up at him. "I feel dirty, and I'm sure I smell gross. I'm gonna grab a shower before it gets dark, and then I'm gonna cook for you."

"If we'd rented a yurt, the tent would already be up."

"If we'd rented a yurt, we wouldn't have had any need for sleeping bags--two single sleeping bags that zip together to become a double."

"Say no more. The yurt is forgotten."

"No, it's not," she laughed. "But if we ever come up here again, you can have a yurt."

"And you'll share my yurt?"

"I'll share your yurt."

"Nice," he nodded. "Now, go get cleaned up, so we can get down and dirty."

"Listen to you," she laughed. "What do you know about getting down and dirty?"

He shrugged. "I know there's a pavilion on the other side of the campground."

"Where?"

"If we'd turned left when we left the check-in center instead of turning right. And a pavilion is kind of like a gazebo."

She shook her head. "You don't have the balls. Even though it's basically just you and me, the thought that Ranger Registrar could catch us doing something naughty will you keep you from doing anything out in the open."

"Bullshit."

"I'll bet you," she said.

"Bet me," he repeated.

"I'll give you till the time we pull out on Sunday to make love to me in the pavilion."

He started briefly, not sure he'd heard her right.

"What?" she asked. "What's that smile for?"

He smiled at her, completely unabashed. "You didn't say 'fuck;'" he said simply.

She chuckled uneasily, her features again taking on a rose tint. "Fuck you, asshole. One turn of phrase is as good as another."

He shook his head. "No. Certain ones are undoubtedly better than others."

She scoffed, grabbing her belongings and rising to her feet. "Whatever."

"And just because of that, it's gonna happen."

"Sure it will."

Before she could take two steps away from him, dismissing him in her infuriating, yet flirtatious way, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him, her athletic frame crashing into his nylon-covered chest as her toiletries landed haphazardly on the earth around them.

"What the fuck, Daniel?" She tried to stoop down to retrieve her things, but he held her tight. "Daniel, what?"

He said not a word, merely stared down at her.

"What?" she asked again.

He continued to stare at her, her wrist still held captive by his hand, her full breasts and child-bearing hips pressed snuggly against him.