I've been digging through my life lately, and I found this story (or fragment) that I wrote when I was twenty-two. It is based on an incident that happened on a school trip to Mexico when I was twelve. It was an unusual school, with unusual teachers, in an unusual time, the mid 70s.
Stingray
"What is it? It's too late for this. . ."
"No, get up! Chris passed out; we can't wake him up!
Ellen pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt, and zipped herself out of her tent. Ellen is my seventh-grade teacher and we're in Mexico. We all call her Ellen. She's a lesbian.
It has not been a fun school trip so far. There's sand in all the food, and the water is undrinkable! Lots of us are kind of sick from it. We've been purifying it, (the teachers put Clorox in it, yuck!) but it tastes terrible! This is our fifth day here and we have three more days to go. There are nineteen of us: five adults, and fourteen kids, ranging in age from a strange little girl named Monkey who's six, to Adam who's fifteen. Chris is eleven; and I'm twelve.
Back to the trip being so bad--the adults really aren't taking very good care of us. Whoever cooked dinner tonight tried to avoid the wind and sand, and they took the campstove INSIDE the tent! I GUESS they spilled gasoline on Chris's sleeping bag. 'Cause right after we went to bed (we were talking and playing with our flashlights) Chris was sitting there giggling in his underwear and he said "I feel weird," and then he was just lying there against the side of the tent, kind of caving it in. After we decided he wasn't fucking around, we dragged him outside, and I went to get Ellen.
"We pulled him out, but he won't wake up," I said sitting down in the sand next to him.
"Adam get a flashlight," said Ellen rubbing the back of Chris's neck and peeking into his eyes.
"What? What? No I'm not . . ." (Chris was coming around) "Why 'm I out here?"
"Somebody spilled gas on your sleeping bag," I volunteered, "and you, uhm, fainted."
Chris was crying now.
"You're not supposed to be cooking in the tent! I could be dead! Did you-- use my-- sleeping ba ...bag ... to ... heh ... heh ...
Ellen told Chris to stop talking and to breathe slow and deep. She said he was hyperventilating. Chris began to breath normally after a couple minutes. Ellen got up, walked over to the tent, stuck her head inside, and said: "You guys can't sleep in there tonight, it 'll have to air out. Monk, you and Jennifer go over to my tent. David, Chris and Adam can sleep outside.
"What does Chris sleep in," I asked. "His bag is ruined!"
"You and Adam open up your sleeping bags and make a pallet. Chris can sleep between you. Sit up with him for a while. He can use the night air. I'm going to go get the girls set up." Ellen glanced around, decided she was finished, and went to bed leaving me and Adam (big deal) to care for Chris.
I tossed the two sleeping bags out of the tent and Adam started to make up our beach bed.
"Chris," I said "I've got a Seven-Up I've been hiding if you're thirsty?"
"Sure, Thanks," he said, wiping the last of the tears out of his eyes. I padded through the sand to the ice chest, and Chris went and sat in the middle of the sleeping bag bed.
"Here." I handed him the opened can and sat down next to him. He took a sip and he started to breathe funny again; he swallowed quickly and stopped himself with the Seven-Up.
I'm starting to feel a little guilty. Right after Chris passed out, my first thought wasn't saving him, but feeling him up before he was revived. In all the confusion I think I could have gotten away with it --and that almost makes me feel worse.
"You can take my pillow," I said "yours is kinda' gassy." We both giggled.
Chris sprawled out on the beach-bed.
The men in the village fish for sharks. I guess they throw the heads back in the water. The sharks are only about three feet long, but I'm still too scared to go into the water more than a couple feet. Besides the waves are too high to swim.
"We could share the pillow if you like," said Chris opening his eyes.
"I thought you were asleep."
"I think I was."
"You really think you're Ok," I asked putting my head on my half of our pillow?
"Uh Huh--but in the morning I'm gonna kill whoever cooked dinner last night!"
I can smell Chris's breath. I keep looking at his mouth and his teeth.
"Are you having fun on the trip?"
"I was until somebody tried to kill me!"
"You're Ok. We saved you!"
"Thanks! Night."
"'Night."
Yesterday I was sitting outside the tent and I started to feel so awful I started to cry. I didn't want anyone to see me, so I walked down to the water and splashed myself so no one could tell I was crying and would just think it was the ocean on my face. And I just cried. I don't even know why! Monkey was down at tide level making a sandcastle of some kind, and Ellen was sketching the island, the dolphins were playing a couple hundred yards off shore, and Adam and Chris had gone into the village. And I wasn't doing anything! Just sitting in the tide and crying!
Everybody else was having fun, and I was sitting in a big pile of sand and crying. And I DON'T KNOW WHY! Nobody even knew I was crying. The dolphins were just diving in and out of the water, Monkey was into her stupid sandy world, and Adam and Chris had left me at camp while they went into the dumb old village. I don't know why I should care, there isn't anything to do in the village but order "Naranja Soda". (That's the only thing we've figured out how to buy.)
After a while Ellen put down her sketch pad and I helped her straighten up the tents. Chris and Adam finally came back, Adam with a huge stingray by the tail. No doubt he planned to throw it at me later on, when no one, (or EVERYONE!) was looking. The dolphins left, and Monkey's castle washed out to sea.
Chris is asleep. His hair looks like it's glowing he's been out in the sun so much! I'm trying to decide whether to put my arm around him. People are so stupid --I don't know --I just don't understand why he helped Adam throw dead stingrays at me, when he's nice to me when we're alone--it's like he's two people. I know I want to do it and everything, but if I put my arm around him, I'm afraid I'd still feel all alone--and it's dumb-- 'cause we should be friends.
When you talk about this blog later, and you will - be kind.
Copyright 2006 D. H. Maxine.
All rights reserved.
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