When Is a Man by Aaron Shepard

phone and started texting angrily.
    â€œThere’s no signal,” Paul said.
    â€œDon’t I know it.” He tapped at the phone in disgust. Finally his glance returned to Paul. “Hey. Sorry, dude.”
    â€œThat’s all right.” Paul still sat watching him from his lawn chair, both irritated and slightly amused. He didn’t know much about kayaks, and this one looked strange: short, tapered front and back, very space-agey, like a squashed UFO . Massive , a decal said in sizzling letters.
    â€œYou see some guys earlier? Two trucks kinda like mine, kayaks on the roof?”
    Paul shook his head.
    â€œFuckers.” He threw his arms up in the air.
    â€œMaybe you’re early.”
    â€œNo, bro, I’m fucking late. Like always. And nobody’s been here waiting? Aw, man. They bailed on me. Fuckers.”
    â€œSorry, what’s the story here?” Paul asked, fairly sure he didn’t care.
    â€œWe were supposed to drop half our trucks here and head up to the Flumes with the rest. We launch about ten K up the river, and we finish at the mouth of Basket Creek,” he explained when Paul raised his eyebrows.
    â€œWell, nobody’s driven by this morning. Not even logging trucks.” Paul sifted tea leaves through his teeth and spat. He pictured the rec site packed with beat-up trucks and shirtless teenaged dudes swilling beer. His idea of hell.
    â€œThey’re probably hungover. Slept in. Shit. I was so hyped for this.” His voice went up in pitch, somewhere between a teenager’s whine and an adult’s resigned disgust. Paul, reminded of the impatient and cocky Tran Minh, suppressed a smile.
    â€œIt’s my first day off in, like, two weeks. Supposed to be our last big hurrah on the river for the year. You know?” He glanced over his shoulder to where the trails headed toward the water. “I guess I could just do some park-and-play action,” he said to himself, a little subdued.
    â€œPark and play?” Paul asked.
    â€œYou know, just session one spot close to the car.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œNo. The Flumes. Big set of rapids.”
    â€œDoesn’t sound like the type of thing you do by yourself.”
    The young man shrugged, his grin slightly sour and mocking. His body was always in motion, a twitch of the leg or finger tapping against his shorts. “Hang on a sec,” he muttered. He jogged toward the river, disappearing down a path.
    He was gone a long time. Paul stood and circled the truck. The boat’s weird shape kept drawing his attention. He’d rented sea kayaks a few times in Vancouver. Those kayaks were sleek, built to slip across the surface with the least possible resistance. This craft demanded to be bashed around, it wanted dangerous places and an aggressive paddler. He was, he admitted, curious to see what this thing could do.
    The young man returned, his hair and shirt soaked. He must have dunked his head to cool his temper. “Fuck it,” he said. “I’m doing it. I’ll walk all the way back up for my Jeep afterwards if I have to.”
    â€œI’ll drive you,” said Paul.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’ll drive you. Leave the Jeep here.”
    They took it slow the first few hundred metres up the road, the kayak wrapped in blankets in the back. “Sorry I was freaking out back there,” said the young man. “My name’s Jory.”
    â€œPaul,” he said. “I’d be pissed off too.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he was driving the young man up to the Flumes or wherever. Maybe just to get this guy out of his camp, or maybe this was the push he needed to finally break away from the safety of his trailer and explore.
    â€œSo you a fisherman?”
    â€œNot really. Counting fish, though.”
    â€œI wondered, but I figured that couldn’t be right.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThe guy that’s normally here always