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“Hoo-rah!” he shouts, to no one person in particular, before eagerly sniffing the powdery contents. “Ooh, goody, corned beef hash.”
For reference, it’s 7:30 a.m. He’s just been presented with a complimentary fruit cup and a mimosa. He’s in no need of survival food.
“What did I miss?What did I miss?!” Camila asks, rushing through the side doors of the lobby. She’s in a hurry this morning as well. She’s in uniform, but her hair isn’t done. She’s still working through a cup of yogurt, and her eye makeup is smeared. Her shoe is only half on her right foot.
“Nothing!” I assure her with giddy anticipation.“Nothing!”
Now, the thing I love most about this convention is the pageantry of it all. You cannot say these men (and handful of women) don’t put their heart and soul into this hobby.Yes, hobby. Don’t get it twisted. The army fatigues, the eye black, the night vision goggles—none of it is serving a purpose here. What is that man going to do with his three-in-one Antarctic-approved parka on a tropical island in August?Who cares?!I love it!
Another important thing to mention is that most, if notall, of these “survival” items are brand new. The guy currently stuck in the turnstile entrance—“Help! Someone help!”—still has the tags hanging off his desert-op jacket.
I catch wind of a conversation taking place beside me. A man who looks like he’s currently on the run from raiders in a zombie apocalypse has unzipped his oversize military-issue pack (because none of these people would be caught dead traveling with a normal suitcase) so he can show off his new gear to his friend. “Yup. These are my ice-assault socks. These ones? Rock-infiltrator socks. And of course, I’ve got my sand-raid socks.”
Across the lobby, I hear, “Damn it! I forgot my sleeveless holster shirt.”
Then, at the front desk, a man asks, “Now, do the rooms come with down pillows? Because I’m allergic to most synthetic alternatives.”
I’m immersed in my viewing experience—a veritable fly on the wall—when Cole walks up and falls in line with Camila and me. Without a word, he joins us in surveying the scene. He’s sipping coffee slowly. I’ll bet it’s his second or third cup. Not that it matters. Slightly more caffeine won’t suddenly make these people make sense. I want to look up at him and crack a joke. I know he finds this as silly as I do. We’d never admit it, but we share the same sense of humor. I’ve been in group meetings and conference rooms where something funny happens—a tab is left open on Todd’s computer with the search “hair plug Groupon”; Todd has a disastrous Freudian slip in which he introduces Alicia, the busty new accountant, to us all as our newaccountit. I’ll search frantically around the room for someone to share the moment with, and then I’ll see Cole, with his head down, smiling to himself, completely in on the same joke I am.
“This week won’t be easy,” he starts. “Every year these people devise new ways to test my patience. Last year it was an underground government they ratified within the first forty-eight hours. By the time we got word of their insurrection, they’d already established a currency and trade routes to neighboring islands.” As Cole continues, he sounds like a tempered war general giving a prebattle pep talk to his otherwise doomed warriors. “We’ll be outnumbered ... but wewillsurvive.”
I almost pump an imaginary sword in the air and pound my chest plate, responding with a mighty “For the king!”
“Camila? Where do you start today?” Cole asks, keeping his attention on the growing crowd.
“I have a deep-sea fishing charter that leaves in about an hour.”
“Okay, make sure Oscar goes with you. After last year, I don’t want to take any chances.”
Oh right. I’d almost forgotten about that.
One of these guys insisted on catching fish with a harpoon rather than a fishing pole. The details are fuzzy. I’m not sure the boat captain knew about the harpoon beforehand, and things devolved quickly. A guest ended up in the water by mistake, screaming “Mayday! Mayday!” instead of listening to the boat captain’s calm instructions to swim overand find the ladder to get back up into the boat. Or, at the very least, grab ahold of the life preserver they’d tossed in.
“Paige?”
Cole’s looking down at me with careful assessment, as if he might be genuinely worried for my welfare.
“I’m taking a group out on a hike, and I already know how it’s going to go ...”
I did a hike with these guys last year. One guest came prepared to suck murky brown groundwater through an off-brand LifeStraw before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and raving about the 99.99 percent filtration abilities. The rest of the group was suitably awed, but given the opportunity to sample it for themselves, 99.99 percent stuck to their run-of-the-mill CamelBaks.
“But if you’re worried about it,” I continue, “I could take someone with me. Oscar’s taken, but maybe Blaze?” I say it like the thought had onlyjustoccurred to me.Oh right, that one guy, Blaze. He could work.
Cole’s mouth flattens into an unamused line. “Somehow I think you’ll manage just fine without an accomplice.”
Right. Good to know he values my well-being far less than Camila’s. She gets a beefy Australian bodyguard.Ihave to fend for myself.
The hike takes it all out of me. The guys aren’t even listening to me talk about the trail’s history. Like toddlers intent on putting anything andeverythingin their mouths, they immediately home in on the plants surrounding the path.
“What’s edible here?” one of them eagerly asks.
“Oh ... actually, I’m not an expert on that. Let’s stick with the trail mix the resort provided us. If you’re allergic to nuts, I also have some jerky.”
Not two seconds after I finish this polite but assertive recommendation, one guy picks a few berries off a bush and eats them, claiming they’re “completely harmless and chock full of fiber.”
His tongue’s already swollen to twice its normal size by the time I get him back to Dr. Missick.
There are two other preppers sitting in the doctor’s waiting room when we arrive. One presses an ice pack against a pronounced goose egg on his forehead. The other clutches a barf bag, his face ashen, eyes glassy. I recognize him as the corned beef hash guy from the lobby that morning.
