“There speaks the photo bug,” Darrell said, his first smile of the night crossing his face, if only for a moment.
“Yeah, we got some. They’re all on our phones, you know. I should probably pull them off of hers so I have them on the computer.”
“No professional pictures at all?” Jon couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. He’d shown Darrell his cameras a number of times, but Darrell had never really understood the point when he had his smartphone available to take a quick shot here and there.
“Nope,” Darrell said. “But here—this is a good one. We were in Ireland and she had to kiss the Blarney Stone, you know.” He held out his phone to Jon. Cece, a laughing ebony-skinned woman with dancing eyes, head wrapped in a scarlet scarf to hide her cancer baldness, lay with her back over a stone wall holding on to two metal poles. A man in a blue shirt and a sour expression braced her. “Kiss the Blarney Stone,” said a sign in the lower left corner.
“You have to lie down and then lean back to reach it. Cece almost knocked heads with the guy who was making sure she didn’t fall.” Darrell smiled in memory as he took his phone back from Jon. “Anyway, that’s all done now.”
“Edwin and I didn’t get to go where he was hoping,” Jon said. “He wanted to go to Machu Picchu, but I couldn’t see a seventy-five-year-old and a fifty-five-year-old hiking those ruins and that mountain. After a while, he stopped asking, and by then he was too weak, anyway.” Jon tried to smile, felt the smile crumble on his face, and wiped it off. “But we did talk about it, even after it was clear he’d never go.”
Darrell nodded. “I don’t know if Cece would have wanted to go. I know I wouldn’t. Too many hills, and too much exercise. I’m retired now. I want to take the rest of my life easy.”
Jon looked at him, the dimmest glint of an idea surfacing in his head. “Are you sure about that?”
“Well, I mean, I’m not in shape,” Darrell said, taking another swig of beer. “Although I did beat your pants off in that last half marathon we ran, as I recall.”
“That was thirty years ago,” Jon protested. “I was still recovering from the flu! Otherwise I’d have had your ass over a barrel.”
“Sure, you would have,” Darrell retorted. “But we’ll never know now, will we? And then there was that time in college track...”
“You’re older than me! I was a freshman! You were a junior! You had an unfair advantage,” Jon retorted.
From there, the game of one-upmanship was on. Darrell needled his friend to prove how in shape he still was, raising example after example of Jon’s unfitness over the years, and Jon, after trying to defend against the examples, riposted with a challenge for Darrell to put his money where his mouth was.
“So you think you’re still in better shape than me?” Jon finally said, as the waitstaff hovered, waiting for them to leave after closing. Beer bottles littered the table and their plates had long since been cleared.
“Yesh, I do,” Darrell slurred. “And what’sh more, you can’t prove otherwishe.”
“Sure I can,” Jon retorted. “I dare you. Climb Machu Picchu with me this summer, and we’ll see who’s in shape and who’s just all talk.”
Darrell glared over the table. “Serioushly?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. But I’ll bet you won’t. You always ducked out when we were kids.”
Darrell flared up. “Oh, no, man. You can’t shay that about me and live to tell ’bout it. You’re on. Mashu Pishu it is!”
Jon lost the fight for the check, and when they stumbled out of the restaurant into the chilly California evening, it only took a moment to call a cab.
The cab took them back to Darrell’s house, because Darrell had beer and wine in the refrigerator, and a cabinet of harder stuff out in the living room. In the cab, Darrell kept trying to repress snickers and snorts of drunken laughter, continuing to rib Jon about his complete failure to be as fit as he had been back in college. Jon simply threw back the challenge he’d issued in the restaurant, and each time, Darrell agreed more and more fiercely that it would be a valid test of who was the fittest. By the time they reached Darrell’s house, a plan to look up costs and flights had solidified in the alcohol- soaked air between them, and they stumbled into the foyer both wrapped in fits of laughter.
Darrell got them another two beers and they sat down together at the computer in his office. When Jon looked back on their activities on the computer later, there was no clear memory beyond laughter, the beer, and a drunken game of Top ’Em driving their searches and their research. At one point, they gazed at a picture montage of the ruins and the trail, including something called the “Sun Gate” where many of the hiking tours witnessed a radically early sunrise. A niche inside one of the ruins’ corridors drew Jon’s attention. “I could leave Edwin’s ashes there. That way he would have gone to Machu Picchu.”
“Sure, we can look for that, after I walk you into the ground,” Darrell retorted.
“Like that’d happen,” Jon retorted back. “Hey, look at that picture...”
The next morning, Jon woke first. He was lying on the couch in Darrell’s living room in his underwear, one sock, and his T-shirt. His sweater, his jeans, his shoes and Edwin’s hat sat on the floor next to him. His other sock, and Darrell, were nowhere to be seen.
I have to remember that I can’t drink like the young man I was any more, he thought, cradling his throbbing head. Orange juice. Orange juice and aspirin. That’ll be a start.
He toed off the one sock, dragged himself into the kitchen, and sure enough, orange juice was waiting in the refrigerator door. He pulled out a water glass, filled it brimful, and drank it down at a draught. He chased it with two glassfuls of water, and then started coffee in Darrell’s coffeemaker.
The clock on the wall said 7:30, so it hadn’t been too bad of a bender. But then again, he and Darrell were men in their early sixties, so their options for benders were limited.
He went to the restroom off the hall, used it, and investigated the medicine cabinet. He found ibuprofen— better than aspirin—and swallowed two of them dry. He left the bottle on the kitchen counter, filled a cup with coffee and dumped sugar into it, and went out on Darrell’s back deck.
The day was beautiful—one of those Southern California days that ought to have had a trademark on it—and except for his throbbing head and aching body, he could almost enjoy it. He sat in one of the redwood deck chairs after a long pull at his coffee, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
He couldn’t remember the previous night after they’d entered Darrell’s house, apart from some very good beer, some very loud laughter, and some pretty pictures on the computer screen. And the challenge, of course. The challenge of climbing Machu Picchu.
Did that really happen?
He didn’t know. He hoped it had, but the night before was dissolving into a hangover-driven sparkle of random images that didn’t really go together.
He sipped his coffee. His head throbbed. His thoughts limped along, sluggish and unfocused.
The deck overlooked the lushness of Laurel Canyon, but it was screened from the neighbors’ prying eyes by an awning shaded by bougainvillea vines that were a riot of magentas and pinks in the spring sunshine. A barbecue sat against the back of the house, and at the far end of the deck was a heavy canvas cover and a metal post with controls on it.
He set his coffee cup down and crossed the deck. I feel like an octogenarian, he thought in wry amusement as he flipped a switch and pulled the canvas top aside. Below it was a large, sunken hot tub. The jets began to pulse and the water began to roil and bubble.
What the heck. Maybe a cold bath will wake me up.
He pulled off his shirt, hesitated, and then drew his underwear down and dropped them both on the deck. Then, without allowing himself to think about it, he slid naked into the lukewarm water.
“Holy fuck!” he shouted as his body rashed out in goose bumps. “Some hot tub this is!”
“What in hell a
re you doing, Jon?” Darrell asked from behind the screen door, dim and blurry in a blue terrycloth robe.
“I’m waking up. Isn’t that obvious?” Jon said, wading to the side of the tub and perching on the seat.
“Obvious to me and the neighbors, too,” Darrell said, opening the screen and coming out onto the deck himself. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, and he set it beside the hot tub.
“Is it just me, or was last night wild?” Jon asked.
“It was. There was a lot of beer, and I think we had some guys wanting us, too. Wasn’t sure. But I found a phone number in my underwear this morning.” Darrell grimaced. “What a shame the ink ran. Might have been nice.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Jon said. He really wished he could remember the previous night better.
“Yes, of course I’m kidding. This is the control for heating up the water, you doofus.” Darrell twisted a knob that Jon had missed on the other side of the little metal tower. “It’s not going to warm up much for a while, though. A tub this size could take two to three hours.”
“Why don’t you join me?” Jon asked. “The water’s fine, once you get used to it not being hot.”
“I haven’t had my first cup of coffee yet, thanks. I’ll get my trunks in a little bit and join you.” Darrell walked over to the deck chairs and set his cup down on the table between them. “Speaking of coffee, is this yours?”
“Yeah, could you bring it over here?” Jon asked. He took the cup gratefully and sipped again as Darrell returned to the deck chairs and sat down. “You don’t need trunks, you know. Do you think I brought mine?”
“What are you wearing, exactly?” Darrell said suspiciously.
For answer, Jon stood up on the bench inside the tub. “What did you think?”
“Jon! Get back in the water. I have neighbors, you know.” Darrell shook his head.
“It’s seven thirty in the morning on a Sunday. Half your neighbors won’t see the light of day until noon, and I’ll bet none of them have visited their back patios in years.” Jon finished the last of his coffee and splashed back down under the water, covering himself to the armpits. “But fine, be a wet blanket. I’ll be a wet friend.”
“How are you doing this morning?” Darrell asked more seriously. “We had a lot to drink last night.”
“You don’t seem to be feeling it,” Jon said. “But I admit that I have a hangover. Not a bad one—I’ve had juice and ibuprofen, and once this thing warms up I’ll feel better—but it’s there.”
“Oh, I’m feeling it,” Darrell said. “But I spent some time in devout prayer at the throne after you passed out last night. So maybe I’m not feeling the effects as badly since it didn’t stay down as long.” He grimaced again, and took another sip of his coffee.
“You know...that really wasn’t my intention when I invited you for bad food and worse drinks,” Jon said after a moment.
“No, I know. But it’s okay. I do feel better even though I feel like ass this morning. So thanks, Jon.”
“No problem. Hey, do you remember looking at those pictures of Machu Picchu on the computer?” Jon asked, as warmer water began to pulse through a jet near his hip. He shifted to place it over the small of his back.
“Sort of?” Darrell said. “It’s all kind of blurry now.” He stood up, walked over to the tub, and dropped his robe to reveal his lack of clothing underneath it. He stepped down into the water with a grin at Jon’s shocked expression. “What? The bougainvillea’s there to keep nosy Mrs. Lassiter’s nose out of our business. Cece had words with her once, but she never stopped trying to see what we were doing back here, and we had some wild parties once upon a time.” Darrell smiled in memory.
Jon wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. Seeing Darrell without his clothes on had triggered a cascade of memories, when both of them had fewer gray hairs and neither of them was a widower.
Man, I wish I’d been at some of those wild parties with you, Dare.
They chatted as the water warmed, their bodies responding to the caffeine and hydration they’d put into them, and after a half hour, Darrell stood up. “I should check my emails and you need to get a cab to get your car back. Are you okay to drive, do you think?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fit as a fiddle,” Jon said. “And I should check my email too. Mind if I do it from here, before I go?”
“Sure, you can use my laptop.” Darrell got out of the tub and wrapped his bathrobe around himself. “Hold on a sec and I’ll get you a towel.”
Jon lifted himself out of the tub and stretched, rolling his neck from side to side and easing the muscles there. His headache had started to recede, and if this followed the course of most of his hangovers, he’d be fine by the afternoon. Darrell returned with a thick purple beach towel. “Thanks, man.” Jon rubbed himself down, wrapped himself in it and bent to pick up his underwear and shirt.
Darrell had not waited to chat, and Jon followed him into the house, putting the towel on the kitchen table and pulling up his boxers. He went into the living room and pulled on pants, his T-shirt, and after retrieving his missing sock from under the coffee table, his socks, shoes, sweater, and hat. About then, Darrell reappeared with a laptop in hand. “Just boot up the browser and you can get to your mail from there, right?”
“Sure thing. Thanks.” Jon logged into his email. As usual, the mailbox was full to overflowing. He picked away at the pile of spam and political messages, until the number of messages reached something more manageable. He clicked on an email from one of the editors he did freelance work for and stared. What was this?
Jon—
I think your Machu Picchu book is a great idea! Give me a call on Monday and we’ll discuss the details. Do you have a writer in mind? Let me know so we can get moving on this project. Your expenses will be paid, of course.
M.
He read it twice, not believing it. What was this? Then he scrolled down to the copy of an email he’d apparently sent to Mitchell last night. The timestamp was 12:35 a.m., and he groaned. Oh, no. I didn’t actually send that, did I?
Apparently, he had.
From the office came a startled yelp. “JON! Get in here!” He pushed the laptop away and hurried into Darrell’s
office. Darrell was sitting at his computer and staring at his own email screen. “What the hell did we do last night besides get drunk? Look at this—confirmations for a hotel in Peru, and for flights there in July, and for a tour guide and tour group to go up Machu Picchu—what the hell?”
“Um.” Jon shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I thought I dreamed that. I guess I didn’t.”
“How is this—look, these aren’t even refundable! The hotel is, but the other stuff isn’t! What the hell, Jon?” Darrell’s voice rose as he opened several emails at once and spread them out on the desktop. “I know I said we would go, but I was drunk. You can’t hold me to that. I’m not able to go to Machu Picchu—it would kill me, I’m so out of shape!”
Jon leaned over Darrell’s shoulder. Sure enough, the flights were nonrefundable tickets, and the tour group deposit wasn’t refundable either. “Whose credit card?” he asked, his heart sinking.
“Mine. But this makes no sense! I wouldn’t ever buy something that wasn’t refundable!” Darrell ran his fingers through his hair wildly. “And there’s no way I can go on this. But...the money’s already spent...and...”
Jon began to grin again. “Why not? If the money’s already spent, I mean. Why not go?”
Darrell looked at him, his face disbelieving. “You’re not serious.”
“Well, you’re already in for it with your credit card. You might as well get the pleasure of it, don’t you think?” Jon said. “Besides, we have three months to get ready. Plenty of time to get used to hiking and get in shape for this.”
“No. It’s not even a question. I can’t go.” Darrell shook his head.
“How about if we got reimbursed for it?” Jon asked. “Would that change things?”
“Wh
at are you talking about?” Darrell demanded.
“Well...you weren’t the only one busy on a computer last night,” Jon admitted sheepishly. “My editor Mitchell likes my book idea and wants to run with it. That almost always means the expenses will be paid.”
“Book idea?” Darrell squinted at him. “What book idea?”
“Apparently, last night while you and your credit card were running around like drunken little brownies, I sent an email off to Mitchell pitching a book about why people hike Machu Picchu. It looks like I said I’d do the photos and you could do the writing. He loves it. I just got his email this morning.” Jon hung his head. “I’m sorry, Dare—Darrell. I didn’t realize we actually went ahead and did all this.”
Darrell sat chewing over this information. “So we’re locked in.”
“Looks that way, yeah,” Jon admitted.
The silence stretched out for a few minutes.
“Well,” Darrell said.
“Well, what?” Jon asked.
“Well, we’d better start that training today, hadn’t we?
Since we’ve already committed to this while drunk off our asses.” Darrell pushed back from the computer with a resigned sigh. “Somewhere, Cece is laughing at me.”
The next few weeks were a whirl. Jon had to get a new passport—his last one had expired back when Edwin was still able to travel and they had visited Barcelona. Both of them visited their doctors for immunizations—and winced at the list and the expense. Both their doctors told them, quite calmly, how rigorous it would be and how ridiculous they were to even consider it at their ages. And each of them privately wondered why they had thought this was a good idea in the first place.
They’d taken to staying with each other. They alternated between Darrell’s home in Laurel Canyon and Jon’s Craftsman in Belmont Shore. The distance, by Los Angeles standards, was enormous: one was on the coast and the other in the hills, with a drive of better than an hour between them. When Cece started haunting Darrell’s thoughts, they’d head to the beach, and when Jon became too overwhelmed by Edwin’s things, they’d go back to the hills for a while.
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