© 1996 mike chmielecki
I FELT the small daddy-long-legs brush against my hand as I opened a corner of the tent to let some air in. There were dozens of them. They scurried through the hole I'd made; their legs tickled the meat of my palm, their small circular bodies caressed my fingertips. They looked like fat orange and green dandelions with the stems plucked out, with wire-thin legs grown in the place of petals. I dropped the nylon flap and zipped it shut.
Sweat covered my face and back. Every breath I took condensed in beads on the inner walls and ceiling. Ghostly shadows and light played on the walls, and caused the tent to become a world of swirls and smears instead of solid cloth and sturdy rope. Steam rose from the lantern set on the floor. The rain knocked against the cloth, the wind oscillated between fierce and nonexistent. The severity of the lightening and thunder, the smell of rotted pines and oaks among piles of leaves--it all proved I was living this nightmare. I couldn't catapult up in bed, open my eyes, look around at the darkened room, glance at the clock, realize it was all a dream, and fall back asleep safe in the knowledge that nothing bad had really happened.
I'd decided two weeks ago that I needed, no, required a trip into some woodlands, away from humanity, to regain my senses. I hated my job at Wal-Mart. I hated everything about it--from the pushy, rude customers to the domineering managers, to the tedious work, to the meager amount of money that disappeared in seconds from my wallet. I was sick of it, sick and tired. As I came home one night with my blue HOW MAY I HELP YOU? apron draped over my back, eyes barely focused on the road ahead, evil thoughts swirling through my mind as I absent-mindedly ran over one curb and then another, I heard an interview hiss through the radio. Some woodsman talked about how much he loved the outdoors. How it was a great way to unwind and get in touch with nature. How everyone, from the rich to the poor, from the smart to the stupid, should take time out of their lives and go up into the mountains or a forest, breathe in the fresh air, and just sit back and admire everything for a few weeks. Sounded fine to me. I'd much rather wake up to the sounds of a squirrel as it scurried across the forest floor than a tasteless cup of coffee in the lounge room, or a greasy-haired, grim faced old woman that demanded to speak to the manager because I hadn't helped her find the right brand of shoelaces.
So I said goodbye to my wife and kids, packed dusty, cobweb-ridden pans and pots, a moth-eaten bug net and sleeping bag, sooty lanterns and stoves, bent fishing poles and near-empty tackle boxes, and a faded, corroded map that made a better nest for rats than a way to find where I was going, stuffed my blue on brown station wagon to overflowing with this survival gear and many other things, put the car in drive, and slithered away from civilization, toward a few weeks of relaxation.
The road unwound before me like a gray and black river dotted with flecks of yellow and white. Road signs greeted me everywhere. They said things like BIENVENUE AU NEW HAMPSHIRE and REST STOP AHEAD. Headlights passed over the car, and showed in detail all the zippers and ropes that swung from various packs and bags. The radio kept me awake. So did the rain, when it started.
I splashed through puddles left and right, left arcs of water to douse the road on either side of me. A few pools of oil lay in the road. They shined up from the pavement like dead slugs. I avoided some, went through others. The road continued to unwind and push me in its current.
A large, wooden brown placard floated by on the right a few hours later. It said WELCOME TO SQUAM LAKE RESERVATIONS AND CAMPGROUNDS. A small illustration etched into the wood showed the outline of a middle-aged man dressed in plaid, a baseball cap pulled back over his head, a smile planted on his face, standing near a still pond. A fishing pole jutted out from his left hand, and he was in mid-step of casting his reel. ALL FISHERS AND HUNTERS WELCOME! the sign said underneath the picture.
"Yes!" I said to myself and slammed my hand against the ugly blue steering wheel in excitement. "I made it. I fucking made it."
I drove past the sign, under a shadow-infested copse of trees, and into a land of dreams and escapes. Raindrops splattered against the windshield like egg yolk, and left a filmy yellow residue. Was that normal? I didn't think so, but what did I know. I'd never been camping in my life--the equipment I'd brought had been passed on from my grandfather to my father to me without seeing any use.
Now, as I saw the woods stretched out before me, I couldn't believe I'd never tried camping before. Everything was beautiful. Chocolate brown layers of mud covered the ground, light white mist billowed off of dark lakes, colorful trees with colorful leaves swayed past me, the moon could be seen out of the windshield, low and full of sullen light. Stars pockmarked the sky with light and beauty, tiny suspended dots overhead.
I started to laugh uncontrollably until twin streams of tears slid down my face. I couldn't believe what I'd missed. This was the best. The fucking best.
I continued to drive down the trail. This place was perfectly deserted of human life, it seemed. Black, luminescent crickets hung on pieces of tall grass and rubbed their legs together. Birds were silhouetted in the trees ahead; their tiny feathered chests heaved as they slept. My presence here seemed alien. The unnatural light that belched out from the car seemed like a rape to this beauty. I flicked off the lights. It wasn't hard to drive in the dark once you got used to it.
That woodsman on the radio had been keeping secrets to himself. He'd said it'd be good to come up and just soak in the sights. He'd never mentioned how beautiful and numerous these sights were.
A sharp thunk underneath the car brought me back into reality. I must've been in a daze, thinking about things that were unimportant when I should've been driving. The car jolted forward once, pulled back, and died. Night sounds rushed in from all sides.
"Great, Robinson. Just great. Drive with the lights off. Lovely idea." I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. I tapped the gas pedal, then started to press it down. No reaction from the car. More likely than not I'd flooded the engine.
"Well, guess I should find a site," I said, and began to root through my packs, as I tried to find where I'd put the poncho. I found it in a side pocket, crumpled into a wad. I smoothed it out as best I could, put it on, and opened the car door. The rain pasted the yellow suit to me, and brought it to almost transparency. I could see a hint of the red shirt and black pants that lurked underneath.
My foot went under an inch of mud and came back up covered with brown filth. I hadn't been smart enough to bring boots--hey, this was my first time--and immediately regretted it. The mud softened my shoelaces, squirted between the tongue of my sneakers, enveloped my socks in sludge. The rain came down harder, and hammered the poncho to my skin with little nails of pain. I reentered the car.
"Goddamnit. This sucks." Thunder rumbled across the sky, then exploded, rocking the ground. Leaves were torn to tattered shreds as the rain slashed through them. Lightening turned the entire world a violent white, then thunder roared again. I could feel the vibration in my bones.
I tried to take off my poncho and found it stuck to me. That strange residue, like the film of slime on the windshield, shined up from the sleeves and front. I grunted and pulled as hard as I could. It tore off with pieces of my red shirt attached to it. Long swatches of fabric became holes through which skin could be seen, then fabric again. Cold air goose bumped my body.
"This isn't right. It can't be." Something strange was going on. How could rain stick to clothing, and make it impossible to take something off without getting it destroyed? I thought what would've happened if I'd worn a short sleeve shirt instead of a long sleeved one, and tore off layers of skin instead of cloth, let bone and muscle and blood vessels shine through instead of bare skin. I shivered.
I stayed in the car for what seemed like hours, huddled myself, got groggier, and finally, fell asleep. I woke up when the rain stopped. Drool lay pooled on my left shoulder.
The inside of the car smelled like decomposed bodies bathing in manure. That wasn't just a result of wet clothing. It had to be that residue.
I opened my eyes and looked around me. My stuff had somehow fallen against me and spilled everywhere. Clothing clogged the spaces where the gas and brake pedals used to be. Dental floss and toothpaste covered the passenger side seat in a puddle of white and green. Reading material lay ripped up and discarded like confetti. The trunk was open, and fishing poles and tackle boxes and crates of pans had spilled out the back and onto the ground.
"That's it. I'm out of here," I said, and turned on the ignition. Nothing happened. "C'mon you damn car. Start. Start." Then I remembered the damn thing had died on me a few hours ago, and was likely to stay dead.
I started to cough on the stench, until wads of phlegm fell against the steering wheel and dashboard. This was too nauseating. I got out of the car, careful to step over the mud that had caused me trouble before.
I looked at the car, and my mouth dropped open. The entire left side had been cleared of paint. Metal shone through, along with a few scratches from several parking lot bang-ups. Flakes of rust and blue paint lay on top of the mud like frosting on a cake. Paw prints and claw marks and slither trails surrounded the car. Mud was caked on the back window, and the objects that had fallen out of the trunk hissed and steamed. Melted.
The more surprising thing to me was that it was no longer night. Everything was fresh and wet with morning dew. Birds were just starting to wake up and call to each other. Twigs snapped and claws scraped across trees in the underbrush ahead.
How could I have stayed asleep for so long, with a million and one different creatures looking in on me? What was going on?
"This is nuts. This is psycho. Nothing else to describe it."
A bird shrieked somewhere ahead, agreeing with me.
I peered around at the side of the car and saw similar damage done--paint gone, flakes in the mud, tracks leading from the woods. There was one major difference: sticky yellow batches of slime, like runners of snot, clung to the side of the car near the wheels. The wheels themselves were dissolved. No rubber was present anywhere, just burnt-black rims. There was no way I was going to be able to drive home in this hunk of crap. I'd have better luck finding a few dozen logs to roll home on.
"Well, might as well get my stuff." I went back into the car, got the only things that weren't ruined or covered in residue--a lantern, a bag of oranges, a tent, a sleeping bag and pillow, a notebook and pen, and some clothes--and carried them outside the car. I took the keys out of the ignition and walked toward the woods with the few things I had. I didn't bother to shut the door.
It occurred to me that I hadn't eaten yet. I stopped walking, placed my things in a pile on a moss-covered rock that sat directly beneath a large, fanned-out tree, and opened the orange-colored net of oranges. The smell of citrus permeated the air. I picked an orange from the net, peeled it with my fingers, and squirted citrus juice up my fingernails and onto my skin. The peels came away and fell to the ground below, orange on one side, whitish-yellow on the other. I ate the orange in small sections, and left the peelings and white strings of skin and hard seeds to biodegrade among the twigs and acorns and leaves.
After I finished my orange, I closed the net, wiped juice off my hands onto my pants, picked up my things, and walked forward again.
I realized how strange it was that animals had somehow gotten into my car, wrecked almost everything, but had left the oranges. Weren't animals supposed to go gaga for food, actually invent new ways to obtain it? Squirrels and raccoons were known to do high-wire stunts and chew through coolers to get to a snack bar or a bag of chips. So why were the oranges here?
And why had the animals left only the most basic things alone? Things that were required for survival. They could've just as easily destroyed my tent as wrecked my stash of dental floss. Objects seemed to have been...selected. And it gave me the creeps.
A few minutes later I came onto a good spot. It looked level, free of twigs, and dry. Perfect. I set down my stuff and after a few unsuccessful, fumbling attempts managed to pitch a tent. I didn't have stakes, so I'd have to hope and pray the wind wouldn't become strong enough to blow my tent away.
I was hot, sweaty, and tired. I rolled out my sleeping bag, climbed inside with nothing on, and fell asleep, feeling like a baby nestled inside a nice warm womb.
When I awoke God knows how long later, I realized two things: the tent flaps were wide open, and I was not alone. The ceiling swarmed with daddy-long-legs. They hung five feet above my body, crawled all over each other in a colorful mesh. A few trundled over my sleeping bag, toward my bare neck. Something tickled my legs and feet underneath the bag. I started to get out.
An overcoat of shimmering insects clung to my skin, my arms, my stomach, my legs. They moved everywhere in their insects ways on their insect business. Large, brown shelled beetles crawled between my fingers. Long-antennaed praying mantises ate in silence on my knee caps. Segmented worms slithered over my flesh in trails of slime. Wasps buzzed busily above, watched, and sometimes landed on my chin or in my hair. Every movement I made crushed something--lopped the head off a hairy caterpillar, spewed the contents of a beetle over other insects, tore the leg off a spider the size of an apple. The movement of millions of tiny legs and pinchers and mouths and feelers passed over my flesh, tickled and nauseated me. I tried to move my legs or arms and found it nearly impossible--they were weighed down by the insects that infested my body. I started to cry. The insects ignored me.
This was worse than Wal-Mart could ever be. I'd much rather be reprimanded by a mustached gentleman who believed that I had a size fifteen shoe in the back room and was hiding it from him than be pasted in insects. Anything but this. Anything.
I closed my eyes and opened them, and hoped this would be like one of those cheesy movies in which the persn wakes up and says, "Thank God, it was all a dream!" then stays in freeze-frame as the credits roll and disgruntled movie-goers file out of the theater.
The insects still covered me.
I lost control and screamed. Blacked out. When I awoke, the insects were still on me, but they began to slow down. A few squeaked or screamed as they fell over, shriveled up, and died. Soon, I was covered in lifeless shells. All the insects had somehow died. Except for the daddy-long-legs. They still climbed over the ceiling like experienced rock climbers.
A few minutes later it started to rain. Thunder and lightening joined in. Abnormally severe.
I sat up and brushed the dead shells off me. They clattered to the ground, knocked hollowly against each other like castanets.
I zipped the tent flap shut. Not only was it raining, it was also night again. Days were going by awfully quick. Was this just another aspect of the strangeness of this trip, or was I genuinely sleeping through whole days without knowing it?
With the tent's door and windows zipped tight, and with the odor of rotting insects, it soon became unbearably hot. The rain shower should've been blessed for its relieving coolness, but the severity of the storm and its habit to cover things in slick residue made me fear it. The daddy-long-legs scurried from side to side, as they tried to find a section on the ceiling that was less damp than the others. They found one, and stuck to that spot; right above me. The daddy-long-legs could be seen for a brief second as lightening illuminated the inside of the tent. It casted alien shadows against the far wall and allowed me to see the multitude of legs and bodies. They moved slowly, hypnotically, as if they dared me to knock against the side of the tent and let them come crashing down.
I suddenly, inexplicably, felt tired again, and I fell asleep on top of my sleeping bag, the pile of dead shells brushed over to the side near the oranges.
I woke up with a monstrous, pounding headache accompanied by a strange buzzing. I looked above me, and expected to see living wasps in a swarm around me again. The only living insects were the daddy-long-legs. The only wasps were still dead.
I peeled and ate three oranges, one after the other. Juice dribbled down my chin and spotted the floor of my tent. I didn't care. I put the inedible pieces--the skin, the peels, the seeds--among the insects. They protested by shifting their weight, and toppled over each other.
I unzipped one of the screen windows to see if it was day or night. I wish I'd worn a watch on my trip, but I'd left it for a glow-in-the-dark compass attached to an elastic wristband.
Colonies of flat, brown insects clung to the screen with their legs poking through. By the thin slivers of sky I could see between the insects, I could tell it was night. I zipped up the tent window, lit my lantern on the third try, and placed it at the foot of my sleeping bag. Sweat glistened on my body. I opened the windows again. Insects be damned.
I've gone through the same routine for fourteen days now. I only leave the tent when I need to piss. This is the first, and probably last, journal entry that I'll write in this notebook.
I still have plenty of oranges. I'm sure I can stay alive. I'm sick of these headaches. They've gotten more and more frequent. And the buzzing. My god, the buzzing. I keep on feeling the urge to eat. I'm always hot. The residue's everywhere. Some of it's leaked through the open screen. I don't care anymore.
The hunger's driving me nuts. Now and again I look up at those daddy-long-legs, and wonder what will become of me.
I feel different these days. Strange thoughts and memories inhabit my mind. I feel excited, restless, tired, sick. Something's happening to me.
I--
****
The thin blue pen clicked against the ground. A long blue line, the ghost of a word, followed the letter "I". A small gray beetle that hadn't been there before began to trundle across the paper, covered in a film of yellow slime that was pooled from the screen, across the wall, to the floor. It crawled off the paper and over to a net that contained three oranges. It started to crawl over one of the bumpy pieces of fruit. It tried to puncture one with its pinchers. After a while it gave up, and fell asleep. A few hours later it was dead.
The daddy-long-legs crawled onto the floor for the first time. They devoured the small beetle, then started to pick through the pile of dead insects, as they looked for ones that still contained life-sustaining juices.
****
"This is creepy as shit, Bill. Just creepy as shit."
"Yeah, Bob, I know. What do you want me to do about it?"
"I'm paying your wages, you know. That's what our taxes are for, to pay your wages. It's a crying shame."
Bob Watson--Bill Palid's best friend--was beginning to get on Bill's nerves. Just because Bob was a game warden, which made the forest him territory, gave him no right to mock Bill like that.
"Hey, I'm hel