It Might Even Be Romantic.

A short story about surviving embarrassment.

Image by Haytham Reslan from Pixabay

“I’ve been on so many blind dates, I should get a free dog.” Wendy Liebman

We had this friend named Suzie, and Suzie wasn’t meeting anybody and neither was Jeff, this other friend of ours. It seemed natural putting the two of them together, both being attractive in their own way, but Stan, our resident archeologist, who kind of ruled the roost in our group, told us to stay out of it. Ann, his wife, said he was just being an old stick-in-the-mud. Why shouldn’t we try to put Suzie and Jeff together?

Well, Stan was absolutely unmovable on the subject, until Ann mentioned our group’s annual camping trip coming up in two weeks. Wouldn’t the sleeping arrangements be a lot easier if Jeff and Suzzie were a couple instead of two singles?

“It might even be romantic,” Ann added.

Stan sort of relented at that point, saying, “Propose it but don’t force it,” which, of course, Ann did. She just blurted the whole thing out over lunch (Ann and Suzzie worked at a travel agency together), telling Suzie about the annual camping trip, and wouldn’t it be nice if Suzie and Jeff came up as a couple instead of two singles. “It might even be romantic,” Ann added.

Surprisingly, Suzie said, “Jeff’s not bad,” even though they’d only met the one time. Jeff said pretty much the same thing. Without too much ado—which Ann isn’t good at, anyway—the group got together at Prezzie’s Bar, and let nature take its course, so to speak.

Both Jeff and Suzie were “game,” as they say, Jeff even offering to pick up all the food and necessary gear. That was good since Suzie’s idea of roughing it was “slow room service.”

The following week, we were heading north, tents, gear, and any libations we felt necessary (which was a lot). Suzie came up with Ann and Stan. She figured she’d see enough of Jeff over the weekend. Jeff was up there already, getting the tent ready, including flowers on a little camp table.

We all gave her the thumb’s up, including Jeff, who’d already had two beers.

When Stan and Ann’s car pulled into our group’s camping allotment, Jeff’s was the only tent up. The rest of us were having drinks. “Well, at least we’ve got one serious camper,” Stan said, hauling his big frame out of the car. Suzie got out wearing white shorts and a white halter, looking quite nice in her cork-wedge shoes. We all gave her the thumb’s up, including Jeff, who’d already had two beers.

“Let me show you our luxury accommodations,” he said to Suzie, walking her across to his tent. She seemed satisfied enough, asking where the washrooms were. “Just down the path there,” he said. “Want me to show you?” She said she’d be fine. Then she toddled off the way women in cork-wedged shoes do, and Jeff got himself another beer.

Well, we did everything campers do, eating, drinking, even hanging the food up in the tree at Stan’s insistence. “You’ll be waking up with a bear next to you, if you don’t,” he said.

Numerous drinks later, Ann was the first one to get “droopy eyelids.” Her and Stan went off to their tent and the rest of us soon followed.

“What are they?” we heard her say followed by a womanly hoarse chuckle. “Are those cowboys?”

Jeff said he’d go make sure the tent was free of mosquitos, and Suzie took her toiletries to the communal washrooms. She must’ve decided to have a shower, too, because she was gone quite a while. When she finally came back, Jeff was already in his pajamas. “What are they?” we heard her say followed by a womanly hoarse chuckle. “Are those cowboys?”

They were, actually. We’d seen them when Jeff had passed by our tent, getting something out of his car. My wife had asked, “What’s on his pajamas?” and I’d said, “Cowboys on bucking broncos.” I figured it sounded more macho than just cowboys. “Sure it does,” my wife had said.

Anyway, being in the tent next to theirs, we heard Jeff telling Suzie they were his favourite pajamas, and he wished she wouldn’t make a big deal out of them because he wasn’t feeling great. “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize you weren’t feeling well. You seemed fine when you were—you know—getting rid of mosquitos. Should I turn out the lantern?”

“He just puked all over the tent,” Suzi was saying.

“No, I may have to get up in a minute,” he said. Then he let out something like a grunt or a gurgle and Suzie sort of squealed saying, “Jeff, for God’s sake.” Next thing we know, she’s outside, standing there in her pajamas, talking to Ann. “He just puked all over the tent,” Suzi was saying.

Others started coming out of their tents, too—me and my wife included. Ann was consoling Suzie while Stan went in Jeff’s tent. Being an archeologist, I guess Stan had a strong stomach from mummies and stuff, but even he looked a bit white coming out. Ann took Suzie back to her and Stan’s tent. Suzie kept saying, “I can’t go back there. Don’t make me go back in that stupid tent, Ann. Seriously.”

Ann got Suzie’s sleeping bag out of Jeff’s tent, looking a little green herself when she pulled back the flap. Meanwhile, Stan was washing Jeff’s sleeping bag in the lake, then his cowboy pajamas, then the whole tent ’cause it stank so much. “You’d better come and sleep with us,” he told Jeff.

“I’m so sorry,” Jeff kept saying, and then he was crying, and Suzie got mad, telling him to go sleep in his car if he was going to be a big baby.

He was back in Stan and Ann’s tent, crying again, and probably about to hurl, too.

So Jeff went and slept in his car, but he had to leave the window open so he wouldn’t asphyxiate, and the mosquitos moved right in. He was back in Stan and Ann’s tent, crying again, and probably about to hurl, too. Stan finally got an old car blanket out of his car, putting it in the cooking tent.

Things calmed down until the morning when it turned out the wind blew Jeff’s tent into the lake and one of Suzie’s tops into the barbecue pit. Seeing it still smouldering, Suzie ran off to the washrooms.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Jeff kept saying. “Maybe I’d better leave.”

He sure didn’t have much to pack, now that the tent was at the bottom of the lake. He took his pajamas off a line Stan had fashioned between two trees, folded them up, then put them in his car along with his cooler, camp stove and two air mattresses since deflated.

“Say goodbye to Suzie,” he said when it seemed clear she wasn’t in any hurry to return. Then he drove off. Suzie came back and saw the car gone. That seemed to suit her, although—technically speaking—he’d abandoned her.

“Rode off into the sunset,” someone said, possibly my wife, which got more laughs than my wife usually gets. You kinda have to pick your situations.

Someone would say, “What do you want to do after breakfast?” and someone else would say, “Maybe horse ranch?”

Well, none of us could stop mentioning those cowboy pajamas. Someone would say, “What do you want to do after breakfast?” and someone else would say, “Maybe horse ranch?”

“Oh, stop it, all of you,” Ann said at one point. “He’s supposed to be our friend. You don’t hear Stan making fun of him, do you?”

Truth be told, Stan had been very quiet—or at least he was until Ann turned our attention to him. Then he stood up, put his hands forward like he was holding a set of reins, neighed, and galloped down to the lake.

“Very mature,” Ann called after him. He was in the water by then, diving down, looking for Jeff’s tent. It must’ve floated along the bottom. A sad end, as Stan would say later, to a cowboy’s dream of life on the range.

Later, making coffee, Ann asked Stan where the cream and sugar was. “The cream’s in the cooler,” he said. “As for the sugar, it may have gone home with Jeff.” Well, that set us all off. “One lump or two, Stan?” we said, and Stan let out another neigh. Meanwhile, Suzie was laughing the hardest. Each time someone said, “One lump or two?” she’d have her hands in the air like she was holding reins, saying, “Giddy up.”

He just rolled his big shoulders and said, “Get me my saddle, woman. It’s time I was moving on.”

“See what you’ve started?” Ann said to Stan. “You, of all people, making fun of someone. And a scholar at that.” She didn’t look very severe when she said it. She’d had quite a few vodka and tonics. She swayed a bit, giving Stan a smack. He just rolled his big shoulders and said, “Get me my saddle, woman. It’s time I was moving on.” We all thought that was hysterical. Ann must’ve thought so, too. She gave him another smack and almost fell in the fire. “Stanley—” she said, but he already had a hold of her shirt.