The Survival Methods and Mating Rituals of Men and Marine Mammals

by Chris Kenry

Genres: Literary Fiction; LGBT Gay

Synopsis

There are times in life when you suddenly begin to rethink your choices. For children's book author Davis Garner, such a moment comes when he finds himself hiding in a pile of dirty laundry, trying to avoid his landlord. . .

Desperate times lead to desperate measures, and so Davis signs on to be a technical writer on a research vessel in Antarctica. What Davis knows about marine technology would comfortably fit in a tweet, but he soon realizes that no one around him is quite who they seem--including Maureen, an ice-cold network administrator partial to hacking others' emails; a lovelorn vessel technician known by the acronym Worm; and Artaud, a charismatic scientist with dubious motives. In between waves of seasickness and self-doubt, Davis finds creative inspiration and an unlikely passion for his new job. And something more unexpected still. . .the willingness to fight for the principles he believes in and the life he still loves.

Praise for the novels of Chris Kenry

"Kenry's masterful use of a disarmingly forthright first-person viewpoint invites readers' trust and keeps them turning the pages right up to the surprise ending." --Booklist on Confessions of a Casanova

"The great leap to more substantial literary terrain feels but a book or two away for this talented author." --Publishers Weekly on Uncle Max

"Well written with bold humor and witty asides." --Library Journal on Can't Buy Me Love

The Survival Methods and Mating Rituals of Men and Marine Mammals is Chris Kenry's fourth novel. Much to his surprise, two of his novels have inexplicably been translated into Polish. He currently resides and writes in Colorado.

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

Four months earlier

The worst thing about the waiting room of the STD clinic was that there weren’t any magazines, as if the lack of reading material would force you to reflect, without distraction, on your sins. The waiting room was really nothing more than a hallway lined on both sides with banks of connected chairs. The design ensured that when the place was full—and it always was—you were forced to either stare at the person across from you, keep your eyes up to the heavens, or keep them closed or cast down, as if in prayer or deep remorse.

Candy-colored condoms overflowed from a Plexiglas box mounted to the wall under a sign (inviting or imperative, Davis was never sure) proclaiming Take One! Beneath the box was a rack of pamphlets, almost like tourist brochures in a motel lobby, with the notable difference that instead of touting the local attractions, these brochures featured gory photographs of advanced-stage syphilis, oozing gonorrhea blisters, cauliflower clusters of genital warts, and the yellow eyes of late-stage hepatitis.

For the past three years, Davis had made a habit out of going to the clinic to get checked out every six months, so he was prepared for the lack of reading material and had brought his own, but the book he had chosen was not entertaining and soon his eyes grew heavy and he dozed off. A jab in the ribs from his neighbor’s elbow woke him up. Davis blinked, looked at the man, a skinny Latino in a wifebeater and a sideways baseball cap. He had a gold incisor that glinted in the fluorescent light when he spoke.

“I think you’re up, bro.” Davis sat up and looked down the hall where a tall woman in pink floral scrubs stood scanning the crowd. Like a shy schoolgirl, she held a clipboard and a blue notebook close against her chest. She called Davis’s name again. He closed his book, lifted himself up from the chair, approached the woman, and gave her a smile. She smiled back and motioned him into one of the examination rooms. Once inside, she closed the door behind her.

“Have a seat,” she said, indicating one of two chairs in the small, windowless room. Davis sat. The nurse sat. Then, without a moment of hesitation, she flipped back a page from the clipboard and said, “You’ve tested negative for syphilis, gonorrhea, and chlamydia, but I’m afraid you’re positive for HIV.”

There was a pause while her words registered. Then it was like she’d pushed a button, ejecting his chair up through the roof. Or like the wheels of his car locked up on an icy road and he watched in helpless horror as he slid through the guardrail and over the cliff. It was, he would later reflect, almost the exact feeling he’d had when, on the advice of a friend, and with more than a few beers in his system, he’d been persuaded to step off a bridge with a bungee cord attached to his ankles: a face-first downward plunge, followed by a series of harrowing recoils.

When he came back to his senses and was again aware of his clinical surroundings, he looked down and saw a freckled hand sticking out from one of the sleeves of the pink floral scrubs. The hand was resting on his forearm.

“What are you feeling right now?” the nurse asked. “Can you tell me that?” He looked up, met her eyes, and thought only about her excessive and amateurish use of eyeliner. Then she went out of focus and he repeatedly smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand, hissing, “Stupid! Stupid! You stupid, dumb-ass idiot!”

The freckled hand retreated and her chair slid back on its casters.

Had it been drugs or dick? Davis asked himself. He knew she’d ask the same thing soon enough, and he knew he really couldn’t give her an accurate answer. There had been that rare and reckless night last February when he’d shot meth and shared the works with a “friend,” somehow persuading himself that if he wiped the needle clean on his sock before injecting it, that would make it okay. That had been in February.

February.

February had been a rough month. Two days before Valentine’s Day, Mark had left him. And in the months that followed, there had been no shortage of sexual partners with most of whom, he reflected, he had been relatively safe. He scrolled through the mental list but couldn’t pin down one specific person or incident that could have done it.

These thoughts were then interrupted by another, heavier one. One that made his stomach muscles clench and revived the plummeting sensation. The thought was that maybe he had, in the nebulous time since he had acquired the virus, and the present moment in this small examination room, passed it on to someone else. But another quick scroll through the mental list quelled that idea. The recent expansion of his waistline, occurring inversely with the contraction of the contents of his wallet, had not helped him attract partners, and had inhibited him from affording even the cheapest of recreational drugs. The only “action” he’d had of late had been with himself, and that, he knew, didn’t count.

Or did it? Another thought occurred to him and again he stepped off the bridge. The reason for this round of panic was his sudden realization that the one being that he might have infected was his dog.

This was not as unsavory as it sounds. No, the worry came from the simple fact that Davis, like most single men, often indulged in a round of beating the bishop at night before nodding off to sleep. Once finished, he would clean up with a handful of tissues, wad them up, and make a limp-wristed, three-point, shot-in-the-dark attempt to hit the trash can. The morning after, he would invariably discover that the dog, in one of the less charming aspects of canine behavior, had, at some time during the night, rooted through the trash and eaten the tissues.

The nurse was talking numbers—“about five hundred milliliter parts per million. That’s not bad. In fact, that’s really pretty good”—but Davis bobbed in and out of her narrative like an exhausted swimmer, catching only gurgled bits of what she said. The memory of the dog and the shredded tissues snapped him back to attention. He grabbed the nurse’s forearm and with a manic intensity related the story about his nightly ritual and morning discovery, concluding the tale with the anguished, but quite genuine query, “What if I’ve given HIV to my dog?”

The nurse, taking a moment to stifle her initial shock and subsequent amusement, gently lifted Davis’s hand from her forearm. She then gave it a few compassionate pats and explained, in the least patronizing tone she could manage, that the “H” in HIV stood for “Human,” “which means it is not at all, not by any method whatsoever, transmissible to dogs.”

“Oh. Well then.” Davis sniffed, managing an embarrassed laugh through his tears. “I guess that’s one good thing.”

Though not the death sentence of the 1980s and early ’90s, HIV in the new millennium does still come with the realization that life will, from the point of infection on, be shaped by the mirrored labyrinth of bureaucracy through which one must wander in order to get the medication needed to keep the virus in check. If you have lots of money, or good insurance, rest assured that there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a long and productive life. If you have neither money nor insurance (as Davis did not), well, the prognosis is not so rosy.

And then, of course, there is the stigma; again, not as bad as it was in the ’80s, when those infected were feared and avoided like lepers, but different. Different because those testing positive in the twenty-first century were less often able to claim the “innocent victim” status, bestowed on those who acquired it from a blood transfusion, an unhygienic dentist, or a cheating, duplicitous spouse. Instead, the majority of newly infected are seen as careless, reckless, and very, very stupid. Because, let’s face it, the cause of the disease, and the means to prevent its transmission, have been known to just about every semiconscious man, woman, and child on every continent of the world for over twenty years: condoms, clean needles, limit your sexual partners—what could be more straightforward and easier to understand? Use the standard precautions and it won’t happen to you. So ... (and here the unspoken question always hung in the air) ... what the hell happened?

As Davis saw it, what the hell happened was not all that different from what happened each and every day to any number of girls in the waiting room down the hall from the STD clinic, all hoping and praying that the little stick they’d peed on at home—the one that also showed a dreaded plus sign—had somehow been terribly wrong. Those girls, too, had known what precautions to take (condoms, the pill, be sober enough when you have sex so that you don’t forget one, or both, of the first two), but somewhere along the line they, too, had come to believe that although “it” definitely, most certainly, and without a doubt could happen, “it” probably wouldn’t, at least not to them. Which all goes to show that there are many different ways to play Russian roulette and never a shortage of willing participants.

Along with the feeling of devastation, what Davis felt as he left the clinic late that morning was something akin to buyer’s remorse—like he’d just purchased an item so beyond what he could afford (and, it goes without saying, an item he didn’t really want or need) that he’d have to spend the rest of his life paying for it.

Dejected, he walked along Sixth Avenue back to his apartment. He snuck quietly past the ground-floor unit housing his landlord, and tiptoed up the creaking stairs. There was a note stuck to his door. He didn’t remove it, didn’t even look at it. He didn’t need to. He recognized the tiny print, the spacing and numbering of the penal codes. He knew that what it said, in so many long and legal words, was “Get out!” and his hope was that if the note stayed there, stuck to the door, seemingly untouched, the landlord (a retired sanitation worker with a penchant for watching television game shows at an earsplitting volume while downing shots of Manischewitz), would think Davis hadn’t returned and would leave him alone for the rest of the day. Tomorrow he would deal with the rent. Tomorrow, just not today.

He dipped his hand in his pants pocket and clutched his keys, lifting them noiselessly up and out. He singled out the door key from the others on his ring and eased it into the lock with such practiced gentleness and delicacy that none of the teeth even touched the inner edges of the mechanism. When it was all the way in, Davis cupped his meaty hands around the knob to act as a silencer and then turned it to the right, stopping once he felt the pop of the lock disengaging. Then, with glacial speed, he inched the door open. This was supposed to prevent the hinges from creaking but really only succeeded at spreading the creaks apart in time. Still, he hoped that the effort, when combined with the clang and roar of The Price Is Right blaring up from the apartment below, would be enough to render his arrival inaudible.

When the door was open enough to allow him to cross the threshold, he squeezed inside, turned, and began the creaky glacial retreat. Before the door had traveled an inch, he heard another door open at the bottom of the stairs. The sounds of cheering and applause were louder, and Davis knew he had failed. His efforts had been for naught. He abandoned his attempt at silence, hastily closed the door, and locked the dead bolt. Turning, he scanned his apartment for a place to hide.

Davis’s dog, a pug, startled out of his sunny slumber by his owner’s arrival, shook the sleep out of his bulging eyes and leapt off the couch, his tail wagging. Davis held out a hand, indicating that the dog should sit. Sensing the gravity of the situation, the dog obeyed, settling on his haunches and cocking his head to the side. Davis surveyed the room for a place to hide. There was a small closet, but that would not be much help since it had no door. He looked at the couch / bed but knew he couldn’t fit behind or under it. His eyes traveled to the table, with a dust-free square in the middle of it indicating the former resting place of the TV; then on to the desk, with similar dust-free squares indicating the former resting places of the computer and printer. Those four items—dog, couch, table, desk—constituted the entire contents of his apartment. There were, of course, the fixed items—the stove and refrigerator—although they were of the miniature variety and had, Davis surmised from both their size and their dated avocado green color, been salvaged from someone’s wrecked Winnebago, and would be no help in concealing him.

The disappearance of his electronics hadn’t bothered Davis all that much since his cable and Internet services had been shut off long before the devices that channeled them were carted off to the pawnshop. In the past week the refrigerator and stove (as well as the light switches and electrical outlets) had been rendered similarly redundant since they were no longer being fed their necessary diet of electricity. That meant, too, that the alarm clock on the floor next to the couch/bed no longer worked, but that was not so important since there really was nothing all that pressing in Davis’s world that necessitated getting up for.

For Davis, mental depression had arrived first, followed shortly thereafter by economic. He had initially tried to arc up and out of them both, had read and studied self-help books, tried to stay in contact with friends and family, but the fact was he felt miserable and ashamed, like he had failed at even the most basic tenets of his life, and since he really didn’t want those who loved him to see him that way, he isolated himself, told friends he was fine, didn’t need a thing, and told himself he’d get back in touch when his life had stabilized.

It didn’t.

He hadn’t.

And when his money started to evaporate, at first he panicked. But seeing no way to recoup his losses, he embraced them and tried to put a positive spin on his economic downswing, tried to appreciate the quaint, Thoreauvian aspects of having minimal furniture, reading books and magazines by candlelight in the evening, the simplicity of eating food that did not need to be heated or refrigerated. There was, he reflected, something romantic and folksy about it—like he was guest-starring on an episode of Little House on the Prairie, or was hiding out from the Nazis in some abandoned French château or maybe even behind the revolving bookcase in that famous little Amsterdam walk-up that had sheltered the doomed teenage diarist and her family. Ah, the romance of adversity and persecution! It could get him through some days, but reality always came knocking.

As if on cue, these thoughts were interrupted by the all-too-familiar rap of skeletal knuckles against the hollow-core door. The dog lurched forward, growling, and snuffled the bottom edge of the door. In the corner, Davis spied the pyramid of dirty laundry and, almost without thinking, parted it and sat down. He then covered himself as best he could with shirts, pants, underwear, and socks—all so full of biological matter that they could probably have walked to the Laundromat themselves. Once concealed, he sat very still.

The knocking continued, more insistently. The dog gave a low, guttural growl that progressed into a series of pack-a-day barks.

“I know you’re in there!” the landlord yelled. “I seen your car parked out front.”

Beneath the laundry, Davis rolled his eyes. The car had little choice about being seen parked out front since it had been booted two weeks before. A lame bluff. Davis stayed put. He heard the muffled sound of metal jingling and imagined the man’s age-spotted hands arthritically flipping through the ring of keys he kept attached to his belt on a retractable metal cord. He heard the man curse as he jabbed several erroneous keys into the lock until finally happening on the right one, which he then drove in with a force and brutality that was the polar opposite of Davis’s slow, gentle technique. The lock popped, the door creaked, the dog barked, but Davis did not move, did not even breathe.

Davis had lived in this apartment for almost a year. He rented it when he and Mark broke up and he’d been forced to move out of the loft they had shared. They were on equal economic footing when they first met, Davis making money from his books and Mark having just been hired as a weekend weatherman at a local TV station. As time went on, Mark’s fortunes had ascended while Davis’s had gone the other way, and soon the insecurities and resentments surfaced.

Dating someone a decade younger is difficult. Dating someone a decade younger who soon makes three times the amount of money you do and never tires of reminding you of that fact requires a level of self-confidence that few possess. Nevertheless, Davis felt he should have possessed it. After all, he had very little respect for Mark’s profession, which was, Mark repeatedly insisted, “a meteorologist, not a weatherman.”

Meteorologist. What a joke. The guy had an associate degree in broadcast communications and a certificate of meteorology, meaning he had passed, with a C or better, two classes in weather forecasting. Slip up and call it predicting instead of forecasting and you got another lengthy scolding about how “predicting is what psychics do; forecasting is science.”

Right.

What the guy really needed, Davis had thought after watching him in action one night, was a class in U.S. geography, since he never seemed quite certain of the location of any states other than those that were easily identifiable by their size and shape: Texas, Florida, California, and the perfectly square state in which they lived were easy, but the puzzle pieces of New England? The blobby masses of the Midwest? Forget it.

But Mark was young, clean cut, Oklahoma-accented, and, when dressed in a suit, looked as trustworthy and earnest as a Mormon missionary, which all combined to make him a favorite with the largely elderly crowd who were his audience, and allowed them to overlook his intellectual shortcomings.

And Davis’s career certainly had its own shortcomings. When he’d met Mark, he’d been a successful author of children’s books and had established a brand character—a naughty pug named Edgar (the same pug who now stood whining next to the pile of dirty laundry and who, unbeknownst to his cadre of juvenile fans, so relished the taste of cummy tissues). Davis’s five previous books, which he had both written and illustrated, sold well, and for a very brief period of time he could not do a reading at a local preschool or toy store without being mobbed by groups of shrill, sticky-handed children. He had a following, groupies, what some might call rock-star success.

Okay, as children’s book authors go, maybe it had been only very marginal success. For a while, he had made enough money to pay his bills, get himself out of debt, and woo a trophy boyfriend, but then, flush with an advance on his third book and a few royalty checks from the first two, he went back into the red by purchasing a sporty convertible (at an interest rate usually reserved for downtrodden protagonists in a Dickens novel), moved into, and then lavishly furnished, an airy loft that neither he nor the meteorologist could afford, and dined out a lot. Soon, Davis reached the limit of his credit. Even worse was the fact that by trying to maintain his relationship and lifestyle, he had become lazy and sloppy with his work, hastily cranking out two “lesser works” in order to get paid. These effectively tarnished his earlier success and he was relegated to being what his agent, Estelle, referred to with the acronym MSCBA (Marginally Successful Children’s Book Author).

In spite of his initial success, or perhaps because of it, Davis’s later works were savaged by the critics, most of whom, he realized, were themselves nothing more than TUCBAs (Totally Unsuccessful Children’s Book Authors). TUCBAs were notorious for exacting revenge on those who, like Davis, were ever-so-slightly more marginally successful than they. Their method for doing this was by writing reviews in which adjectives like “rambling,” “weak,” “unfocused,” “offensively condescending,” and “cloying” were flung like paint from Pollock’s brush. Davis’s last book, for example, had been summarized by one bitter and yet flowery TUCBA as “stale, derivative, lacking any purpose or meaning whatsoever, illustrated with all the finesse, delicacy, and color capable of a fat crayon, and enveloped in a dust jacket so horrible that its horribleness almost eclipses the horribleness of the book it envelops.” And, sad to say, Davis knew there was some truth to that assessment. He had exhausted the character of Edgar, he lacked inspiration on ways to further develop him or even any idea of how to put him into an interesting plot, and should, therefore, have long ago abandoned him in favor of some other, more dynamic anthropomorphic creature. But then, along came Mark and the condo and the car, and Davis’s work became secondary.

In spite of the fact that his two later works had not been profitable, Estelle had somehow managed to get him a two-book contract and an acceptable advance from a new publisher, and that had been his undoing. For with the advance came two rigid deadlines. The first descended on him with the horror of a slow-motion guillotine, effectively paralyzing his already weakened self-confidence and neutering his imagination. He didn’t meet the deadline, which isn’t to say that he didn’t try. He did try, especially after the breakup and the change in his living situation. Motivated by a need for money and a desire for artistic redemption, he got up early, day after day, and set off, proverbial pick and shovel in hand, to mine the deepest recesses of his imagination, but the ore bucket almost always came up full of gravel. Gravel that he would dutifully unload and paw through, arranging and rearranging it, hoping that one of his arrangements might at least give the appearance of a gem.

In desperation, with the publisher and Estelle screaming at him, with bills piling up, and with Davis unable to pay back an advance he had long ago spent (on what exactly, he could not and probably did not want to remember), he dusted off the character of Edgar, placed him and a few other characters on the sandy foundation of a plot (a plot that had been largely copied—er, inspired by a faintly remembered episode of Land of the Lost), put some appropriately dumb dialogue in their canine mouths, and then, in a Ritalin-induced frenzy (Ritalin stolen from a bottle intended for his young nephew and replaced, by Davis, with identically shaped cinnamon candies, on which he painstakingly stenciled the logo of the pharmaceutical company) spent seventy-two manic hours producing the illustrations.

The end product, entitled Reigning Cats and Dogs, was this: Edgar and another dog, an inconsistently patterned collie (talk about cloying!), traveled back in time to the age of the dinosaurs (because really, what child doesn’t love dinosaurs?) in order to catch an evil cat who had devised a plan to cut off, at the evolutionary pass, the path of dogs and thus create a feline utopia in which there would be no dogs.

It was as bad as that brief synopsis makes it sound, but somehow it was published anyway and, by just about all estimations, failed miserably. And there’s nothing quite like failure, documented publicly and seemingly for all eternity, in the scathing reader reviews on Amazon.com, to pulverize a writer’s already brittle confidence, to make him physically tremble at the thought of summoning the courage and audacity to ever again put pen to paper.

Some artists attempt to blunt the pain of divorce and artistic failure with bourbon; some seek the syrupy solace of Xanax or Vicodin; still others pave the road to oblivion with maxed-out credit cards, but for Davis, this last time, the drugs of choice had been food and sex.

As before, he tried to force himself up and out of his depression and humiliation. He got up each day, rolled up his sleeves, and composed pages of junk; drew sketch after sketch of cartoon animal confections, but those fickle twin sprites—Inspiration and Confidence—were habitual no-shows at the meetings he held in his brain.

So, while waiting for the muses to return, Davis ate. He went through boxes of jelly doughnuts, packages of Oreo cookies, and bag after bag of tater tots. And while eating he idly cruised the M4M section of Craigslist, selecting random hook-ups from the endless parade of ads. But still the muses did not return. Oh, they made brief appearances, hovering overhead, visible but always just out of reach, watching as Davis’s life and apartment became progressively vacant, but never did they come within reach.

Which brings us back to the paused plot ... Our main character still artlessly concealed beneath the pile of dirty laundry. The two minor characters, growling pug and Manischewitz-guzzling landlord, each giving voice to his own part. The landlord entered stage right, approached the quivering pile of clothes, and pulled away, one by one, the socks, shirts, and underwear. When Davis was exposed, he was surprised to see the old man grinning, his wine-stained dentures exposed.

“Get yourself out of there,” he grumbled, pulling Davis up by the sleeve of his sweater, “and let’s have ourselves a talk.”

Davis allowed himself to be helped out of his stinking nest and the two sat together on the sofa, staring at the blank wall.

“Son, you’ve been a good tenant; quiet, no complaints from the neighbors. You keep the place clean,” he said, giving a grand sweep at the empty apartment, “but goddamn, you gotta pay rent!”

Davis nodded.

“I’ve got an order of eviction here,” he said, slapping a folded bunch of yellow papers on his palm. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t file it and have the cops toss you out on your ear.”

Davis shrugged.

“You gotta give me something,” the man said, an empty palm held out in front of him. “Anything. Work with me.”

“It’s like this ...” Davis started, but then could not follow through. He knew he needed to say something, would usually have been able to come up with an excuse, some plan of action that would sound good enough to put the man off for a while, but the shock from his morning visit to the clinic was still with him and his thoughts weren’t clear. Oddly, the best excuse, the truth—that he had just that morning been diagnosed with a terminal illness—never even occurred to him, and the best he could do was shrug his shoulders and try not to cry.

Three days later when he returned from his morning walk with the dog, the couch, the table, the desk, and the pile of laundry were arranged neatly on the front lawn of the apartment building.

As Jake rounded the corner, the first thing he saw was that stupid pug pissing on his hydrangeas. He could spot that dog, with its bowlegged gait and doughnut-shaped tail on its ass, from a hundred yards away, and he knew that if the dog was there, the owner must be close by. Since he didn’t particularly like to drink alone, the thought that he would have a drinking companion for the evening buoyed him somewhat. And in truth, he enjoyed Davis’s company in the way that most people enjoy the company of those whose life drama rises to, and often surpasses, the level of their own.

The dog lowered its leg and gazed up at Jake with bulging, cataract-covered eyes as he pulled into the driveway. It growled and approached the car, the hair rising up on the back of its neck. Then the wind shifted, providing the dog with a whiff of Jake’s familiar scent, and he came bounding toward the vehicle, ears back, tongue out, ass-doughnut wobbling.

Sprawled facedown on the lawn like a bearskin rug or someone downed by an assassin’s bullet was Davis, a bulging black plastic garbage bag of what could only be laundry next to him. Next to that was what looked like a table. Jake got out of the car, knelt down and patted the eager, snuffling beast at his ankles. Then he rose again, lifted his sunglasses and, addressing Davis over the roof of the car, said, “This doesn’t look good.”

Davis looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun, gazed at Jake for a moment, then dropped his face back onto the lawn. Jake shut the car door and walked over to Davis, the dog executing a series of hind-legged pirouettes around him as he went.

“I’m used to seeing you and the dog here, and certainly the laundry,” Jake said, “but the table? That’s a first.”

Davis pulled himself up and sat Indian-style, his belly resting on the ground. In the three days since getting his diagnosis he’d had almost no sleep. He tried to speak, but again, the words would not come. Instead he began to cry. The kind of crying that is so severe and genuine that it initially makes no noise but is, rather, a pantomime of convulsing and tears, the mouth open but no sound or even breath coming from it.

“Whoa!” Jake exclaimed, lowering himself to the ground. “Whoa, what’s this? Don’t do this!” he pleaded. Jake could handle any sort of drama better than he could handle tears, especially when they came from someone usually so jovial. “What’s the matter? What is it?” he said, lowering himself to the ground and trying to make eye contact, fearing that his comment about the laundry and table, as goo