August

by Callan Wink

  “I really can’t.”

  “Think 9/11 times a thousand. I’m preparing. Every time I go to the grocery store I get a dozen or so extra canned goods. I’ve got a big root cellar under my house, and I’ve got shelves of beans, water, blankets, candles, stuff like that.”

  “Can’t hurt to be ready, I guess.”

  “Damn straight. Nice choice on the pole there. An Ugly Stik is real durable. Should last you a good long time. Want my advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “Forget the Musselshell. Go to Martinsdale Reservoir and walk around the edge of the reeds on the south side and throw off to the middle. There’s a nice little ledge out there, and the rainbows will be hanging next to the deeper water. The state stocks ten thousand rainbows annually and usually you get your limit in an hour.” The cashier picked up the Ugly Stik and wiggled it a few times. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Should be able to toss those spinners a mile. I’m jealous. I’ll be stuck in here. Wishin’ I was fishin’. Story of my life. Do me a favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Come back in and let me know how it goes. If you do good I might get up there this weekend. Always nice to have a recent report.”

  “Okay,” August said. “Will do.”

  * * *

  —

  On the way out of town, August hit the Qwikstop. The skinny guy with FUCK LOVE tattooed on his knuckles was behind the counter. Apparently he’d been in school with Tim, and he never asked for ID. August got a six-pack and a bag of ice. He loaded his creel with Pabst, packed the ice around it, and headed out away from Martinsdale toward Two Dot. The hayfields were a ripe green, heavy with a damp heat that he could smell. They’d be cutting this week, and this was probably his last day off for quite some time. He parked off to the side of the road near the bridge in Two Dot. Sun warm on his neck, he strung up the rod, tied on a silver Blue Fox, put the treble hook through the hook keeper, and cranked the reel until the line went taut. He donned his new hat, slung the beer creel over his shoulder, and scrambled down the steep bank.

  The rocks at the river’s edge were covered with a dried layer of silt, and the low branches of the Russian olives and alders were plastered with hardened gray muck and leaves where the water had receded following spring runoff. August walked downstream on the bank, and when the vegetation got too tangled, he was forced to step into the Musselshell’s flow. The rocks were snot-slick underwater, and his old tennis shoes offered little traction. He proceeded slowly, the rounded river stones slipping and rolling underfoot. At a likely-looking pool he flipped the bail on the reel and tossed a cast toward the far bank. It had been a long time since he’d fished, and it showed. His finger came off the line too late and the lure plopped in the water only a few feet away, a silver tangle of backlashed monofilament forming on the spool of his reel. As he teased the coils out of the line before it could tighten into an impossible knot, he felt like his fingers had thickened somehow since he’d last done this. The hand adapts itself to the tool most held. He could wield fencing pliers and a come-along all day, but now the soft new cork of the fishing rod felt foreign, the light six-pound monofilament as difficult to grasp as gossamer.

  After clearing the tangle August made a few passable casts, the lure sweeping through the pool; he could feel its fluttering pulse in the taut line under his finger. Half a dozen uninterrupted casts and swings later, August gave up and reeled in, continuing on downstream. He passed under a low timber-frame bridge, squadrons of cliff swallows darting out of their mud-daubed nests. He could make out the roofline of one of the Hutterites’ outbuildings in the distance and he debated turning around, but kept going. He stopped and fished at several more pools with no luck. The sun was starting to slope in the west, the hottest part of the day, and he was glad for his hat. He kicked through the streamside grass, the grasshoppers jumping and bursting into flight, striated black and yellow wings clacking. At a point a mile or so from the Hutterite bridge, the bank shot way up, a sheer cliff wall of yellow sandstone that forced August to backtrack and drop down into the river. The water was moving quickly here, hip deep and racing. With every step he took, the current threatened to push him off his feet, and eventually he went down. Half swimming, half stumbling, he was pushed around the bend and onto a sloping gravel beach, sheltered by an overhang of rock from the cliff above.

  He pulled himself out, his T-shirt and jeans plastered to his body. He noticed, too late, that his two remaining beers had fallen out of his creel, and he watched them bob off downstream, followed by the four crushed empties, all of them in a line like a little family of aluminum ducklings. August dropped his rod and creel and removed his dripping hat. The cliff wall stretched over twenty feet above him, the face slightly concave with a ledge sticking out. The declivity in the rock extended back a few yards, and at the base of the cliff was a jumble of large chunks of sandstone. The small beach was protected from the wind on three sides; the sun lowering over the hills in the west seemed to focus its energy, the cream cliff walls reflecting its light and heat. August peeled his shirt over his head and shrugged off his jeans. He walked gingerly up the small pebbled beach to lay his clothing over the rocks to dry, and it was behind one of them that he found a blue plastic tarp.

  Underneath the tarp was a cushion, like what might be found on a reclining beach chair, a down pillow, and a white sheet, folded into a neat rectangle. August moved these aside and found a grain sack. In the sack: a pair of imitation Ray-Ban sunglasses; several tubes of Blistex SPF 15 lip ointment; a small bottle of baby oil, greasy and half-empty; two packs of Marlboro Lights, one unopened, the other with only a few cigarettes left; a purple plastic Bic lighter; and a small black plastic portable radio with an extendable antenna, batteries dead.

  August spread the cushion out and lay back with his head on the pillow. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a single long blond hair on the white cotton pillowcase, and he plucked it up and held it to the sky. The sun illuminated the strand; it shone a clear glassine honey. He brought it close to his nose, and of course there was no scent. A single strand of hair was not enough to retain the odor of shampoo, smoke, sweat, perfume. Probably not two strands, either, or three or even four. But, at some point, gather enough strands and you had something discernibly human.

  August blew the hair away and reached for the cigarettes. After several flicks, the lighter caught and he leaned back, puffing a stale-tasting Marlboro Light, already feeling the tingle as the intense sun started to burn his pale bare chest and limbs. He tried, unsuccessfully, to blow smoke rings. He tried to take a nap but couldn’t. He wished he hadn’t lost his beer. While fishing out another Marlboro, he noticed something tucked away behind the remaining cigarettes. It was a Polaroid of a couple, about August’s age by the looks of it. They were sitting on one of the sandstone rocks in this very place, both of them sun-browned and blond, squinting into the camera that the man had obviously held at arm’s length. He had his free arm around the girl’s bare shoulder, both of them shirtless; naked probably—although their lower bodies weren’t in the frame, their faces seemed like those of naked people, somehow. The woman’s hair long and blond and loose, flowing down past her small breasts. Her erect nipples parted the gold current on both sides, pinkish and pointing out slightly. The boy had shaggy hair, disheveled like he’d just taken off his hat or maybe the girl had just run her fingers through it. They wore cheesy smiles, mugging for the camera. They could have been free-loving hippies, a Woodstock photo, or a California surf couple circa 1960.

  August looked at the picture for a long time. Trying to imagine himself inhabiting a moment in such a way, at ease with a woman like that.

  He flicked his butt into the Musselshell and shrugged back into his still-damp clothes. He repacked the grain bag, folded the cushion, and covered the whole thing with the tarp, like he’d found it. Then he tucked the Polaroid into his T-shirt pocket, where it wouldn’t get wet durin
g the many stream crossings to come as he made his way back to the truck.

  “You’re wearing that?”

  August looked down at his shirt. “So what?”

  “It’s like tropical birds, man. You can’t go to a rodeo in a dingy-ass gray shirt. You need plumage. Hold on. I’ll be back.”

  August sat with his truck idling while Tim ran back inside his house. In a few moments he came out, then stopped on the porch, the screen door open behind him. August had the windows down, and he could hear Tim talking to someone in the house. “I said I’ll be back early, and I’ll be back, fuck. Lay off me.” He let the door slam behind him and came off the porch shaking his head, a grin on his face. He swung into the truck and threw a shirt in August’s lap. August held it up. It was a silk pearl-snap, a blue-and-white paisley design. “Are you kidding?” August said. “It’s like a clown shirt.”

  “Trust me. It’s going to fit you like a glove. And you’re going to have to fight off the buckle bunnies with a stick. The arms are too long for me, and you see how jacked I am. If I flexed I’d blow the buttons out. It was Wes’s—better you have it than letting it go to waste in the closet. You can thank me later. Let’s get the hell out of here before my old man starts in on some more of his bullshit.”

  The rodeo was in Gardiner, and August drove south while Tim opened their beers. The two-lane highway was clogged with motor homes and RVs, impatient tourists in rental cars trying to pass on blind curves.

  “I never understood the passing thing,” August said. “You nearly kill yourself to do it and then you pretty much always get stuck behind another RV. Like that BMW asshole right there. I guarantee he doesn’t get to Gardiner more than three minutes faster than us.”

  “It’s not really about getting there faster,” Tim said. “It’s about getting there on your own terms. Fighting against the slow hordes. These motor homes make me crazy. And you drive like a grandpa.”

  “Fifty-five, stay alive,” August said, tipping his beer in Tim’s direction.

  * * *

  —

  They pulled into Gardiner, and there was a solid line of traffic heading to the rodeo grounds. The BMW that had barely avoided a head-on collision was four cars ahead of them in line. A small herd of scraggly elk stood on the high school football field, and people had their car windows down, snapping pictures. August finally found a parking spot and maneuvered his truck in. Tim dropped the tailgate and brought the cooler within easy reach, and they settled back to pregame.

  “You going to put that shirt on or what?” Tim said.

  August shrugged. “I don’t know if it will fit.”

  “You’re pretty much the exact same size as my bro before he went down and gained the freshman fifteen. Just try it on and see.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, because he’s dead? Putting on a dead guy’s shirt freaks you out, is that it?”

  “A little. What if I get it dirty, or rip it or something?”

  “It’s a shirt. Not a relic. Wes had a million of the damn things. He was kind of a dude that way. Liked to get all fancied up. I already tossed out, like, twenty of them. You could get in a knife fight in the damn thing for all I care. Just put the stupid thing on and get loose.”

  August shrugged the shirt on and buttoned it up. He smoothed it over his chest. “I’ve never worn a silk shirt before,” he said.

  “Tuck it in, you heathen.”

  August tucked the shirt in, and Tim handed him a beer. “My bro would be proud. And your girl is probably going to get all swoony just looking at you.”

  “My girl?”

  “Mayra.”

  “Maya?”

  “Yeah, her.”

  “She’s going to be here?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been talking to Christi. She wants round number two, no surprise. Anyway, she says Maya has been asking about you. Apparently you didn’t get her phone number? Amateur move, pal. Or maybe you’re dumb like a fox. A woman who knows you like her will ignore you quicker than shit.”

  “Dumb like a fox,” August said. “Yeah, that’s definitely it.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I’m a results-oriented man myself, doesn’t matter. She’s into you, and she’s smoking hot. Since you kind of ditched her last time you’re going to have to apply a little more pressure tonight. The old hard-to-get routine works for only so long, and then they just give up and take up with the next swinging dick. That’s some advice Wes gave me. There’s always another one of you out there, so don’t go getting it in your head that you’re special. Men are expendable. It’s like evolution. It’s like hunting season. The draft.”

  “Hunting season?”

  “Yeah. Why is it that you can shoot your limit of rooster pheasants or drake mallards or whatever, but there’s always a restriction on the female side of things?”

  “People want trophies?”

  “Well, maybe that makes sense for elk, but for all the other stuff, not so much. You just don’t need as many males around. Genetically speaking. One weenie can service many wombs. Ladies have an innate understanding of this reality, and so they don’t need to put up with a bunch of bullshit from any one dude. Hear me?”

  “Interesting theory.”

  “Keep hanging around me, pal. You’re bound to learn.”

  August tugged at his collar and held an arm out. “I feel ridiculous in this thing.”

  “Shut up. You’re a magnificent peacock; spread your feathers. Here come the ladies.”

  Christi wore a man’s Wrangler shirt tied up at her midriff, jean shorts cut off so high the crease where her buttocks joined her thigh was clearly visible. Maya wore a pale yellow sundress that hugged her hips and flared at the upper thigh, her legs long and bare. Devoid of freckles, he noticed. Tim let out a low whistle and swooped Christi up into a kiss.

  Maya shook her head and rolled her eyes and hopped up to sit on the truck tailgate next to August. She took the sleeve of his shirt between her fingers and rubbed. “Wow,” she said.

  “I know. It’s ridiculous. Tim made me wear it.”

  “No, it’s amazing. That’s silk, isn’t it?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “So soft. It must feel great. You look great. It’s nice to see you, by the way.”

  “You look great, too.”

  Maya laughed and tossed her hair dramatically. “Well, aren’t we just great!” She looked at Tim and Christi, embracing next to the truck, whispering things into each other’s ears and laughing. Tim had a hand firmly clenched on each of Christi’s partially exposed ass cheeks.

  “Not as great as those two, apparently. Are you going to offer a girl a beer, or what?”

  * * *

  —

  The post-rodeo dance was held at the Blue Goose. The crowd of people spilled out of the open doors onto the street, and August and Tim followed the girls as they made their way through the tightly packed throng. At the edge of the stage, Christi produced a silver flask from her tight back pocket, unscrewed the cap, took a long slug, and then passed it. The flask was body-hot and the whiskey burned. August coughed and passed it back to Christi, and then Maya was grabbing his hand and pulling him out on to the dance floor.

  It was so crowded that actual dancing was mostly out of the question. Maya pressed against him and they just revolved. He tried to spin her but there was no room, and she came back to him, laughing, after bouncing off a wall of bodies. She had her thigh fit in between his, and he could feel the firmness of her breasts pushing tight below his sternum.

  When the song ended, Maya said she had to go to the bathroom and headed off through the crowd. August looked around for Tim and Christi, but they were nowhere to be seen. He worked his way toward the bar, and when he was finally able to belly up he found hims
elf wedged between a crew of guys about his age, summer Stetsons and fresh-pressed jeans, boots with a level of shine he’d never attempted to achieve. Their shirts were a riot of colors. August would have thought it impossible, but the blue-and-white paisley number he was sporting looked almost inconspicuous next to theirs. They were talking about the rodeo. Apparently, a bull rider had been thrown and had landed awkwardly. The sound of his leg breaking had been audible in the grandstands.

  “Could you hear it from where you were sitting, man?” a guy in a fuchsia shirt with embroidered stars over the pockets said. August realized he was talking to him and shook his head. “When I go to the rodeo, I don’t actually go to the rodeo,” August said. “I just go to the bar.” The guys all laughed at this and then they were ordering shots and the bartender was setting them up on the bar: Jägermeister, black and evil-looking in the glass. One of the crew pressed a shot into August’s hand, and they all tossed them back. August felt the Jägermeister settle on top of the whiskey in a less than pleasant manner. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get one of the bartenders’ attention to ask for a beer and a glass of water. In the mirror of the backbar, he saw Maya coming through the crowd. He was turning to suggest they step outside for some air, when he saw her reach for a hand and lead the fuchsia shirt out onto the dance floor.

  August watched for a moment. Maya had her leg fit in between fuchsia shirt’s legs. She was right up against him, and they found a pocket of open space and he spun her, rotated and caught her hands behind his back in a move that August didn’t know. He didn’t have to watch long to realize fuchsia shirt was a much better dancer than him. Maya was smiling from ear to ear. Her freckles glowing, hair tossing around her face, her dress rising as she spun, a momentary blurred hint of white panties.

  “Goddamn, Trey has a live one there,” one of the guys said and nodded at Maya.