Page 59 of Exchanged

“What the fuck,” he whispers.

“It’s a race,” I continue, craning to count the outhouses. “It’s why the guy on your flight here was talking about his outhouse. It looks like there are seven other teams this year. One more than usual.”

“You’ll do good,” Dad says, punching him on the shoulder, misreading his incredulity as apprehension.

Garrett nods mutely, and we head down the street. It takes us a while to get to the outhouses because we have to navigate through half the town along the way. Garrett’s camera has been hanging on a strap over his shoulder, and he pulls it out and begins snapping photos of the town. Candids of parents talking to one another while managing small children. Close-ups of the warmly lit displays in the shop windows. A portrait of snow falling in the glow of a streetlamp.

We wind our way to the end of the street where the outhouses wait. Each one has been built and decorated by the team that will race with it. Garrett laughs when he sees them up close.

“People take the theme seriously,” I explain.

Verner Kivi stands next to one adorned with massive plywood moose antlers, THE BULLSHITTER emblazoned on the side.

The Russo brothers lounge in folding chairs near a metallic-gray one covered in black-and-yellow biohazard symbols. A sign on the door reads WARNING: NOXIOUS FUMES. A gas mask sits in Pete Russo’s lap.

Some college students from Blue Harbor mill around a red outhouse adorned with wings and a propeller. CROP DUSTER is written in bright yellow letters on each wing.

Evan Hegge’s dad stands next to one covered entirely in empty beer cans. He has the same dull, mean face as his son, though his old football physique has morphed into a prominent beer gut.

Dad joins his friends next to an outhouse decorated with crudely drawn clouds and lightning bolts. The word SHITSTORM is painted across the front.

“Incredible,” Garrett breathes, and his camera comes out again. He moves around, snapping photos of the outhouses from different angles. It doesn’t take long for the racers to notice, and pretty soon each team is taking turns posing for photographs. Garrett moves effortlessly between the groups, getting these people he’s never met to relax and appear natural. He makes jokes I don’t catch, and they chuckle appreciatively.

As I watch him photograph the Irontowners, I wonder how he must see them. The town holds an equal number of hippies and hicks, though it’s nearly impossible to tell the difference by looks alone since they all wear baggy jeans and snowmobile jackets, all hold cigarettes and beer bottles.

Angie Nelson, mayor of Irontown, unleashes a few blasts on an air horn, signaling that the race will begin soon. Teams scramble to get ready, and Garrett and I head over to the Shitstorm in time to see Terry Hanson climb inside and shut the door.

“What’s he doing?” Garrett asks.

“He’s our squatter,” Dad says. “You didn’t think we’d pull an empty outhouse up the street?”

To his credit, Garrett doesn’t ask why anyone would pull an occupied outhouse up the street.

“Hey, Joe!” Evan Hegge’s dad calls from his spot in front of the Beer-Can-Mobile. “You gonna tip your shitter over again this year?”

“We hit a slush pocket, Carl,” Dad growls. “We’d have been clear ahead of you if you hadn’t edged us into the crappy snow.”

Carl shrugs. “All part of the sport, I guess.”

“Tell that to Terry and his concussion.”

Terry’s muffled voice drifts from the outhouse. “It was a hangover, not a concussion!”

Garrett hands me his camera for safekeeping and takes an open spot on the tow rope attached to the Shitstorm.

“You don’t have to win,” I tell him, “but I think the guys would appreciate it if you at least beat Evan’s dad.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, clapping his mittens together, “we’re going to win.”

One of Dad’s friends thumps him on the back. “Attaboy!”

“And now we’re into outhouse racing,” I say, unsurprised at how quickly Garrett’s confusion has transformed into competitiveness.

“Go big or go home, right?” He clasps the tow rope, and his face takes on a level of fierce determination I’ve only seen when he’s playing football or Lords of the Shadowrealm.

I wish him luck and move off into the crowd to find a place to watch, meeting Trevor and a couple of other guys from band halfway up the street.

After a few more blasts from Mayor Nelson’s air horn, the crowd clears the road, jostling to find spectating locations along the sidewalks. The town doesn’t plow Main Street for a week in preparation for the races, and the snow looks good this year, packed-down and slick. Dad’s team should be safe from slush pockets.