Chapter 4 - Neal

H minus three

Sid and Neal finished an early breakfast of eggs, hash browns and little conversation. Unlike his normal practice, Sid waited for Neal to make the first move to talk and then to leave the table. With Neal in the lead, they bussed their trays into the multi-tiered aluminum racks by the door and walked from the warm camp cafeteria into the cool, moist morning air.

Their footprints added to those already pock marking the damp grass. Cold camp truck engines were just turning over to coughing starts that transformed into the pulsing hum of all pistons smoothly stroking and oil flowing.

The older man, walking with straighter posture than usual, and his tall adolescent son moved through the gray white steam of truck exhausts, crunching on the gravel driveway. Neal slung his rucksack onto his back and slid his sheathed hunting knife, along with his belt, to rest on his left hip. Sid carried the hatchet by the sheathed blade, as he had learned in Cub Scouts.

"Turn around son, and I'll strap your hatchet to the rucksack. Neal, I'm happy you wanted to go on this trip. I want you to grow up with self-confidence. The kind of confidence in your manhood that can only come from overcoming ordeals. Physical ones.

"We moved out of the old neighborhood, because of the gang violence. We didn't want you and Rachel to face that. But living in the suburbs; you're so insulated. Facing fear, and even pain, is not all bad, and coming out on top, that's a good thing.

"And girls, you shouldn't be afraid to try. If they turn you down, don't worry. There's a lot more. I was devastated when I got rejected, and too late I learned that the successful guys got rejected more than I did, but they had the guts to try more often. And girls like aggressive guys; being aggressive is more important than good looks. Look at Charles Bronson for God sakes."

"Don't worry Dad, this is not a hay ride," Neal deliberately stated while looking at his straps and re-adjusting his rucksack for the tenth time.

"Look, kid, don't get anyone pregnant. Here's some Sheiks. Just leave a little space at the tip.” Sid held out the tin to Neal.

"Jesus, Dad! I don't need those."

"Yeah, well that two year-old circle in your wallet has got to have rotted from air pollution by now. Keep this," Sid said preemptively, pushing the red and white tin into Neal's shirt pocket, trying not to expose the embarrassment he felt when he bought them.

The group leader, dressed in Khakis, yelled in an Hebrew accent to get on board and the youngsters eagerly separated from their parents and climbed over the tail gates, the first ones reaching down and pulling the others in. No time for kisses and embraces. Waves would have to do.

When the last boy had climbed on board, the squarely built Israeli slapped the side of the truck, and the truck rolled away down the road. “To a new life for Neal,” Sid thought. Smiling fathers and a few worried mothers, feeling somewhat useless or cheated, scattered to their family cabins.

"Damn," muttered Sid shaking his head, "I forgot to tell him how to avoid coming too soon."

Sid felt good. He was passing on knowledge to his son. His son. He felt better, a damn sight better than when Neal challenged him. Why do kids have to put their parents down? Young shits don't know what they're doing.

Sid nodded his head, slowly agreeing with himself. I may be getting old, but I've got things to teach my son. Stuff my Dad was too old-world and embarrassed to talk about.

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