by Ken Jolly
Chef Geostoph and his family had a beautiful home decorated in a country French style that was so comfortable it took much of the tension I felt unwind like a broken watch spring.
His wife, Eve, answered the door and invited us in and it was obvious where Absinthe got her looks. She charmed us with her smile, her warmth, and sincere welcoming as intoxicating as her daughter. She kissed us all on both cheeks, so European, and my Mother was obviously impressed.
Eve hooked her arm into my Mother’s and with the other waved in the direction of the morning patio through the double glass doors. “He will see you now; he is making Mimosas on the patio.” The two Mothers, apparently separated at birth, headed in the opposite direction.
My Father and I started in the direction of the patio when I froze in my tracks. Descending the limestone staircase, who’s gracefully curves laced with intricate wrought iron, was a vision of angelic proportions!
Absinthe glided down the steps as a work of art in a simple white sundress. Her amber hair was no longer captured in the severe ponytail from work, but aloft, dancing about her shoulders in loose and silken flowing waves. My arousal was electric and my pulse was pounding. I drew in a deep breath as I had monetary apnea, and upon the exhale, I simply said her name.
“Hello, again!” she said brightly. This time her smile made me ache deeply, I could hear the throb of my heart beating like a thousand drums in my head. I felt the pressure of longing urging me to boldness.
Then with cruel suddenness, my Father grabbed my arm and jerked me away from my object of intense desire.
The frank and honest discussion of business and opportunities soon steadied me. The three of us came to an early agreement and we joined the ladies for a charming brunch. It was past three when we finally departed and taking my clue from the European ambience of the house, I kissed Absinthe’s hand.
Something mysterious connected us. I noticed a dramatic change in her expression. It was sweet and gentle and she took my chin and kissed me fondly on my lips. I stopped breathing again when our eyes met. I surely had a queer expression because she giggled and scampered away. I am sure she was amused by the sound of her reeling me in! I was hooked, indeed, I was hooked!
I was to learn in time that in addition to her great beauty, she was studious, ambitious, and driven to become a lawyer. She was focused on her education. She had no time for boys. Her father had promised her a new car when she graduated, however, she did make time for me.
Between, shifts at the restaurant, classes at UT in Austin and her studies, she had little time, but we spent what we could together. That is, I was always available when she beckoned. I was quite “wrapped around her little finger.”
I hated being so helpless in the relationship, but I was addicted and powerless to resist. My addiction took hold of me one Saturday night I stayed late to close the restaurant. It was after one in the morning and pouring rain. I thought the wind from the storm blew the door open, but there she stood, dripping wet, gazing strangely at me with those deep green eyes.
“Absinthe! You are soaking wet!” I cried.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious!” she shouted over a booming thunder strike. “Quick, grab me a towel before I freeze to death in this air conditioning!”
I dashed over to the linen room and grabbed a stack of tablecloths. I swung one over her head and wrapped her in the other. I held her in my arms, she looked up at me, and we kissed. We kissed each other.
The energies that flowed between us were dizzying, passionate, and dynamic. I pulled her to me and she snaked her smooth white arm around my waist and untying my apron.
As soiled and soggy clothes dropped to the floor so did our reservations and inhibitions. She pushed me toward her father’s office and I stumbled backwards refusing to release her from my embrace when I saw her wet clothes on the floor.
I ripped off my chef’s coat and she pushed me to the sofa. I was breathing hard with excitement at my daring, especially in the Chef’s office with his daughter when she opened the tablecloth and revealed the beauty and wonder of her perfect body. All hesitations and warnings became obsolete.
My hand surveyed every inch in ecstatic wonder. I stepped out of my pants when they hung up on my shoes. The shoes went flying and so did we.
We moved in rhythmic pulses as I penetrated the warmth of her body. We were inebriated with the pleasures of flesh on flesh and moaned feverishly in the lavender realm of passions best dance. Our pitch increased and our throbbing desire that tormented our dreams was realized in exhausted elation. We lay together, not wanting to move for fear of breaking the spell that over-whelmed us and brought us to this paradise.
The sobering light of morning did not hinder our youthful desires. These would become moments to remember always.
Life gets in the way and being busy was only a small distraction until I could return to those velvet places.
Absinthe was all I could think about, but her attentions were always more academic. She kept me at arm’s length until it was convenient for her. She beckoned her siren call and I always responded enthusiastically.
I realize that, at present, there is no real future for us. She is wed to the notion that her career plans were paramount. Her priorities were graduation, law school and an expensive new car. The part I played was only a tension release, like a hot bath after a big day.
My frustration became nuclear and soured my ambitions for anything else but the burning depths of her body. I was obsessed.
This is when Uncle Bob came to visit at a time when I saw my life laid out in a simple straight line. The point of that line continued into infinity and varied not. I needed more than this continuity of consistency. I made that decision almost immediate and without consultation from anyone. It was my life and I could only live it for me. Everyone’s reaction to the news was varied and expected. However, Absinthesurprised me.
“Stop that, I’m studying!” I aborted my attempt to kiss her on the back of her neck.
Well it was now or never, however since I had already signed the enlistment papers I might as well get it over with. “Absinthe, I’m going to be gone for a while.”
“How long,” she asked not looking up from her book?”
“About four years. I’ve enlisted in the Army.”
This did get her attention. “You do know there is a war on?”
“Well, I need something to occupy myself. You are going to UT in Austin and law school is three years.”
She focused those green eyes on me, “I thought you wanted to be a chef?”
“I’ve been talking to my Uncle Bob, and thought I would see some of the world.”
“You know, they will just make you some General’s personal chef? Whether you are here or there you will still be cooking”
“That’s why I didn’t tell them my background. Cooks don’t get to see anything outside the kitchen.”
“However they do have thousands of soldiers protecting them on big bases,” she said.
“That’s precisely what I don’t want. It’s time for some travel and adventure.”
“While I’m slaving away in law school?” she implied coyly.
“You know you want to be a lawyer more than anything else. Well I want to see and experience life beyond the borders of Texas.”
When she shrugged and returned to her studies, I knew then where I stood and any more discussion would be non-productive.
This impasse is where we left it. I shipped out to basic training the following week and called her in Austin a few times. We exchanged Birthday and Christmas presents, however most of the following years I was traveling the world, seeing the Far East at government expense. After the scars on my face turned me into a monster, I didn’t try seeing her again. I knew Absinthe enough to know she could not overlook my scars. She was a perfectionist. The directions we chose create unalterable destinies.
When I enlisted and finished two tours of the Sandbox, I had been fearless, won promotions, the respe
ct of others and had been paid large bounties to work for Blackwater and now my nerve is lost.
Running Scared
Taking my savings and back pay, I bummed around for a while. First, I went home to drop off some things and picked up a few other things. I did not stay long as I did not want to attract the assassins to my parents.
I always move in random patterns in my travels, never staying long and never predictable. I stored most of my things in a warehouse including the guns to be shipped once I found a safe place to settle. I always kept my guns close to me. They protected me and I protected them. I had grown up in Texas and my father took me hunting. That was the Genesis of my fascination for firearms. My Mother just thought we were just a bunch of gun nuts!
In Afghanistan, I had the opportunity to purchase some impressive military hardware off the black market. Dodging the ATF and getting it back into this country had been its own adventure. Subterfuge, decoys, payoffs and quite a sum of prestidigitation was involved in my own deep cover black operation. My past experience in this arena of stealth served well.
I never traveled the same direction twice and a year later was in New Mexico working as a cook. It didn't pay much but I didn't need much as I still had a nice nest egg stashed away.
I liked the high mountain desert and unbelievably there was excellent fly-fishing on the San Juan River. The river was cold from melted snow and held trophy trout. Even with waders, you could not stand the cold to fish long. I caught some of the largest cutthroat and rainbow trout I've ever seen.
It felt so otherworldly to be fishing in this high desert of mesas and cactus in the Four Corners region. The turquoise sky was always the same shade of blue, which was a refreshing change from the burnt orange dirt in contrast to the evergreen ground cover of the valleys. Little mountain ranges seemed to jut up indiscriminately. This antediluvian landscape made me think it was just this way many hundreds of years ago. This was equally apparent by the ancient Indian cliff dwellings and pictographs painted on canyon walls.
I was late getting to the diner where I worked. I’ve picked up the habit of walking with my head down hiding the scarred side of my face.
When I started working here, some of the other cooks teased me about my knife slipping but that had stopped when they realized I didn't have a sense of humor about it and I might be dangerous. People have told me when I’m upset my scars make me look like a demon from hell.
The boss pulled me to the side as soon as he saw me. "Jonah, some guys were looking for you."
"Yeah, so what?"
"They kind of stood out, Arabs of some kind. They were wearing those robes and turbans from, like the movie Lawrence of Arabia."
This got my attention. "Did they say what they wanted?"
"Nope, but said they would be back. Did you make some friends in your time in the Mid-East?"
"Karma, some not nice things happened." I frowned as spiders scurried up my back. "Consider this my notice. I need to leave."
"Sorry to hear that. Wait a minute and I'll work up your final pay check."
I turned from my rush to the back door and yelled, "You keep it."
The damn Arabs had picked up my trail.
I spent another couple of months dodging and bumming around until I felt safe again. Finally, I came to ground in a small backwoods cabin, near the Arctic Circle in Alaska living near a village that was literally at the end of the road and that road was only passable in summer. Did I say road? It’s more like a wide trail. Closest city of any size to Laurel is Dawson and that isn’t saying much.
I figured in the small town Arabs would stick out like lipstick on a pig. The only strangers that showed up were hunters and fishermen in season. Besides, I figured Arabs don't like the cold.
The town was a ghost of its previous self. There wasn’t much to the town except old buildings that remained when the local mines closed.
I had disappeared from everyone I knew except Jake. Through dastardly covert channels, I was able to send Jake coded messages to my whereabouts. I took an assumed name to complete my disappearance. Everyone in Laurel knows me as “Matt.” I carefully built an unverifiable history for Matt and minded my own business. I tried not to attract attention and that was easy to do in this small town in Alaska where many people come here to disappear.
Jake’s Letter
In the kitchen, I checked the line’s progress. I was ahead of the kitchen for the moment. "Ramos, can you cover for me. I won't be long."
I pulled off the dirty apron, escaping the heat of the kitchen, and went up to the front of the lodge. The person waiting was the local bush pilot, Gus. "I've got a letter for you, seemed important.” He squinted at me over his glasses and frowned. "I can't remember a time when you ever had a letter."
He kicked a chair out as I approached. "Sit," and handed me the letter. He teased, "You got yourself a lady friend?"
"Not in a long time." My hand went to my face. "These scars are kind of off-putting."
"Nonsense, chicks dig scars. You just need to make up a story about them. You know as if you did something heroic."
“I guess shaving doesn’t count?” I fumbled with the letter. He sat and watched. This was the first mail I had received in almost two years. It felt a little like Christmas but I wasn't going to acknowledge that.
"Well?" He was getting impatient as I scanned the letter, “Anything worth repeating?”
I'm not that good with a poker face so he suspected something. One of the problems with a small town of thirty-six full time residents is secrets are hard to keep. As far as I am concerned, too many people thought they knew way too much about me, especially the town's storekeeper and unofficial mayor, Hazel.
We were too small to have elections but she always advertised herself as the mayor and no one complained, so I guess she has the job by default.
I realized I was not going to shake him without some explanation. "Just an old friend. He was writing to tell me about his new Mustang convertible. It’s yellow.”
The note from Jake was unsettling.
Recent intelligence on Rashid’s brothers indicates they are sending another hit team to the States. He doubted they had any idea of where I was but advised me to keep a low profile. While this was disturbing I was in the middle of nowhere in the backend of Alaska, past the end of the roads where not even bears could find me. Besides, I felt a rush of surprise when I realized, I was settled and tired of running. Let Rashid's family send their goons.
Maybe enough time has done some healing for me. They were going to find me eventually and I was safer here than anywhere else.
I felt no responsibility for their Brother's death, if they blamed me so what? My scars were too high of a debt and I did not intend to pay any other. I still wake from nightmares and it was time this ended.
"Gus, can you take a letter back with you?"
"I reckon, if you have the postage?”
That night I had another dream. In this one Jake came to visit. He was dressed for the desert and in his always-present red baseball cap, I always remember him wearing.
I responded to his warning about the assassins. "Hey, I'm a Chef. No one shoots at Chefs!"
"I'm not worried about you Jonah but you might think about covering your tracks," he gestured," until this blows over."
"You know as well as I do...it's not going to blow over.” They are out for blood."
He grinned, "Yep, their blood. You've still got mad skills."
Upon waking, I realized I was ready for the fight.
Dawson
The next morning dawned bright and sunny. There is something about summer in Alaska. Maybe it’s the fourteen hour days. A man can get a lot done on these long days and I had a lot planned for today. Alaska does its best to atone for the short days it gives us in winter.
I was making a trip into Dawson, which is my major once a year shopping trip and I needed to secure the cabin before the trip. Everything was secured and locked up. There are many things
you cannot buy locally and it has been almost a year since I was in Dawson.
My cabin is a traditional two-story design with steep roofs for shedding snow and a massive gray stone fireplace that swallowed firewood as if it was going out of style. Feeding the fire was constant work.
I know the arguments about iron stoves are more efficient but I like the open flames and the way the light flickers across the main room. Thankfully, I’m ahead of the game this year and already have next winter's firewood cut.
I do have a propane generator for power, however no other utilities. This place had not been cheap but I liked its secure woody homey feel. The log walls did as all great Architecture does and snugged itself into the landscape. Tall trees grew close to the cabin. Here I had learned to no longer watch my own shadow.
On my first trip to Laurel, I knew I was staying. The scenery is indescribably beautiful and even with my fear of heights I could stare eternally at the vistas the snowcapped mountains provide.
When a person lives here, you are effectively cut off from all services, which is one of the things I enjoy about it. Standard electricity is over-rated when you consider those flimsy little wires would never survive winter either above or below the ground. Even water becomes problematic due to its constant tendencies to become a solid. Yet with propane, wood and coal you can cook, melt snow and ice, see to read and keep yourself warm. It is the epitome of simplicity.
After locking the last door, I pulled the Jeep from the barn and fueled it from Jerry cans, and headed to Dawson.
Nine months of the year, we travel by snow machine or ATV. There was only about three months of the year when the mountain pass is open and it requires a four-wheel drive. Even better if you have a winch mounted fore and aft on both bumpers. I brought Bertha (my jeep) when I decided to live here.