Man Camp Read Online Free PDF Page A

they met in the Kingston’s laundry room five years ago.
    Lucy dubbed the apartment the Bordello, a name Martha protests but secretly loves.
    In a better frame of mind now, Martha, swaying to the beat of the reggae, moseys into the kitchen to greet her brother. “Hey, larva,” she says. “Don’t you think it’s a tad excessive to bolt the top lock?”
    “Don’t you think it’s a tad rude to be half an hour late when I’m here to do you a favor?”
    Jesse has a slender six-foot frame with nice shoulders and an angular face not unlike Martha’s, only his chin ends in a deep cleft and there’s no gray in his curly hair, which he wears neatly parted on the side, glued down with a little too much styling gel. He’s in his casual clothes—creased blue jeans and a perfectly pressed white oxford.
    Martha apologizes. “I’m a little stressed out from my conversation with Lucy.” When Jesse doesn’t ask about it, she says, “We talked about the sorry-ass state of men in New York.”
    Jesse mumbles something sympathetic and goes back to doing what he was doing when she got there: searching through his small toolbox.
    “Need help?” Martha asks. “Or should I stick to pouring wine?”
    “I’m okay. Just having a little trouble finding my screws.” He peers into the orderly, wooden box. “They should be in the
S
-through-
Z
section.”
    He didn’t just say that,
Martha thinks, squeezing past him to get to the refrigerator. “White okay?” she asks. It’s all she has. Then she can’t stop herself: “Your tools are alphabetized?”
    Ignoring her, Jesse begins elaborately washing his hands, soaping from his fingertips to his wrists and back. When he’s done, he holds his hands up surgeon-style and scans the room for something to dry them with. He rules out a germy dish towel, opting instead for a paper napkin. “Where do you want the shelf to go?”
    Martha points to a spot above the sink. “There. Basically, I want to be able to put my cookbooks on it, and maybe a vase or two. What do you think?”
    “Perfect,” he says, nodding with confidence, which for some reason makes Martha nervous.
    “Don’t forget to use wall anchors,” she says, picturing the ugly holes Jesse seems about to inflict on her walls.
    “What?”
    “Wall anchors. You know what they are, don’t you?”
    “M-a-r-t-h-a,” Jesse says, stretching her name into a warning.
    “What? I can’t ask a question?”
    Jesse picks up the little kitchen stool Martha uses to reach the bowls and platters that are stored on top of her cabinets and places it at the far end of the kitchen. “Sit down, drink your wine, and no backseat carpentry.”
    “Fair enough,” she says, and does as she’s told. The wineglass is cool in her hands and she takes a large swallow, resigning her shelf and her wall to their fates. “So, what’s up in the world of editing children’s books?”
    “I’ve discovered two wonderful new writers,” he says, rising onto his toes in excitement.
    Martha makes a mental note to discuss his tiptoeing habit with him at some point.
    Jesse fills her in on his latest book acquisitions,
Chicken Bedtime Is Early
and
Wheezy Weed Gets Whacked.
His face is animated as he describes the stories, their illustrations, and the children the books will appeal to, and Martha is reminded how much her brother loves his work. She only wishes that the rest of his life were as easy. Jesse is wound too tightly. He leaps when trucks drive over manholes and he worries constantly about germ warfare; anxiety attacks keep him up at night and allergies bother him during the day; the skin on his hands is chapped from over-washing and the prolific use of antibacterial wipes. Recently, he bought four identical pairs of shatterproof eyeglasses.
    “What’s up with that woman you told me about? How’s that going?” Martha asks.
    “Andrea?” Jesse says with a shy smile. “We had our third date last night.”
    “And?”
    “I think it’s going