The Light Years

by Chris Rush

  The father jumped out and vigorously shook my hand, showing me his perfect white teeth. “No inglés.” He hoisted my stuff onto the roof rack, tying it down with rope. I climbed into the crowded backseat, full of dark-haired kids all giggling at the blond boy in their midst. The girls pulled my ponytail. The mother, in the front seat with a baby, tried to communicate but I understood nothing. She handed me a big paper bag full of peanuts.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  I took a handful and passed the bag to the kids. I was hungry but carefully dismantled the shells, eating each nut with slow pleasure. Following the children’s lead, I threw the shells out the window. For some reason, everyone was laughing, as if throwing peanut shells out a car window was the funniest thing in the world.

  Then we all fell into a lull, watching the scenery, the cactus changing to forest as we climbed the mountain. I could smell pine and moss and water—the cool air. A short way from the top, I signaled the father to pull over.

  As he untied my stuff from the roof, the whole family got out to say goodbye. The mother handed me a tortilla wrapped in wax paper. I put it in my pack for later, and then lifted the nylon monolith onto my back. Watching me stumble away, the children waved and cheered, like I was going on some great adventure.

  * * *

  AUTOMATICALLY, I HIKED to the Wilderness of Rocks, where Owen and I had spent our first night together. The view of the valley—seven thousand feet below—was astonishing. Tucson looked like a game board, shuddering in the afternoon heat. Soon Owen would be down there in the dust, back with his family from Idaho and starting the school year. I’d call him after I got settled, when I had a plan.

  But I needed to be alone now, to think about all that had happened.

  Though I was running out of dope, I wasn’t ready to visit Valentine, to explain myself.

  On the mountain, days were heaven. In the mornings, I went to the cliff and peed on the world. Then I ate an orange or two, a slice of bread and purple jelly. I hiked trails, jacked off in a dozen new places. In the afternoon, I’d sleep, draw in my sketchbook, or make up songs.

  Olden golden, hat of piss

  No one sees me doing this

  On the ledge outside my tent, I built a vulture from broken branches and bits of string. Socks and dirty underwear, plastic and tinfoil—everything became part of its wings. I added scraps each time I came back from a hike, until the bird was a scarecrow, looming over the valley. Something to protect me at night, when the wind would roll down the slopes and stir the forest. There were strange sounds, creaks and cracks, as if the mountain itself were waking.

  In the vastness, I kept my fire small, feeding it carefully, twig by twig. On the hearthstones I placed quartz crystals, sheets of mica, the deer skull I’d found in the crook of a tree. The light of the fire charged each object with ancient meaning. I was falling backward in time as the city lights shuddered below, a separate fire, distant and cold.

  It was only here, on Mt. Lemmon, that I realized how profoundly tired I was. Crawling into my blue tent, my mummy bag, I would feel the cold on my nose, the electricity of alpine air, and instantly I’d be asleep.

  Without drugs, I dreamt vividly—not of clouds or crystals, but of my father. I could not escape him. He had followed me across the country, howling with hate. Waking in terror, I could feel him there—more real than the mountain.

  * * *

  I HITCHED INTO the valley once a week for supplies—always saying a prayer that God would keep me safe. I imagined He heard me, because I got to town and back easily, often in a single day. I kept postponing a visit to Valentine and a call to Owen. Regularly I forgot to call home.

  The morning I woke to frost, I realized I’d been on the mountain for almost two months. Like Robinson Crusoe, I’d become a capable man, able to take care of myself. I built a hearth, dug latrines, set up an altar. I lounged on my Gabriel green pillow, writing poetry and brewing sun tea. Studied Black Elk Speaks and The Essene Gospel. Fasted and chanted (in a language only I knew). I watched the sky for saucers and when they didn’t come wondered: Could a person live alone? Live alone forever?

  Nature was indifferent, but not unkind. Autumn was beautiful. The aspens yellow-topped like me.

  Down to maybe thirty or forty dollars—I was a backpacker slipping into homelessness. Back then I would never have said such a thing. The mountain was my home.

  The Wilderness of Rocks was a labyrinth of towers and caves below the high peaks. My favorite spot was a ledge I called Sky Island. Small animals sometimes appeared there and watched me as I drew in my sketchbook—a coatimundi or a fox. They seemed unreal, like humans taking animal form.

  Bears and panthers, I knew, were also near. I’d seen the stacks of bones, claw marks outside of lairs. Some nights I could smell the cats—not kittens, but cougars—a rancid musk. But I knew that if I let myself become afraid, all would be lost.

  In the night sky, planets made shocking appearances, hanging in the void—rocks moving through massive time. I considered their reality, considered the cities of the universe.

  Lonely, I waited on the moon, longing for her company.

  * * *

  I DIDN’T THINK about school.

  I had other concerns, other studies. I made elaborate lists in my notebooks. All the people I’d ever met. All the places I’d been. So many things passed through my mind and traveled with me on the trails. A white-haired kid from third grade emerged like a hologram from the trees. When I said his name, he disappeared like smoke.

  I wandered a hundred thousand acres of wilderness. The trees shuddered and the hoodoos swayed. I was an animal walking the earth, a feather-headed boy.

  * * *

  FOR MONTHS, there was no water in the canyons, no people. In the empty places I hung my hammock, swinging in silence, basking in the blinding light—no sunglasses, no sunscreen, no hat.

  I did have a mirror, though—a small compact—and some eyeliner that Julie had left behind. I talked to the mirror, wore makeup by the campfire. I was slowly becoming someone else. But who? Not a man or a woman, maybe not even a human being.

  Notebooks full, I sketched on any paper I could find—scraps and wrappers collected on the side of the road. I drew birds and trees with scientific precision. The drawings didn’t survive. I burned everything for warmth. In town, I scavenged for books—read them twice before they went into the fire.

  Not my Bible, though. Not yet.

  * * *

  CERTAIN DAYS I could feel electric currents sweeping across the mountain. The wind was tremendous. The sky was a bell, ringing. I begged God to show himself. But in the vastness, He remained carefully hidden.

  I kept praying. Praying enabled me to make a story out of my predicament. I was lost but called it a quest. I called loneliness a search for God.

  At the Tucson food co-op, I met a girl with a boy’s haircut and overalls, burn marks on both her arms. We both had backpacks waiting by the register. I invited her up the mountain. She camped with me for a single night. She was mostly silent. I couldn’t stop talking, though. She asked me to tell her more about the UFOs. No one else ever had.

  We shared a chocolate bar by Power Line Trail. We slept together in an aspen grove, under fluttering leaves. In the morning she was gone. Said her name was Moonshine, Moon something.

  * * *

  SOMETIMES SADNESS GRABBED hold of me like the flu. I wouldn’t even make a fire, just sleep, lose a week or two.

  I missed Pauly, Owen, my brothers Michael and Steve.

  Jingle had once explained to me that our bodies could meet on the astral plane—bodies of light. Out in space, I imagined Owen—saw him like a flame on a map. Sent my astral body out to find him. In some luminous picture, I kissed him, held him, mixed my ghost inside of him.

  Deep in the night, I stirred the spheres, sent Owen a burning ray.

  The moon roared above my hallucination. A bitter wind swept down the mountain.

  The trees vibrated like
metal wands. Angels hissed.

  I don’t know how I lasted up on the mountain for so long. I froze. Sometimes I hardly ate. I never cooked, never made a warm meal. Maybe I was capable of photosynthesis. There was strange blood in my veins.

  I did not plan to be so alone. I just fell out of the habit of being with other people. But the moon—my spangled goddess—was always near.

  * * *

  DELIRIOUS, I WROTE long, loopy letters—to Julie, to Sean, to my mother. My head was full of saucers, Venusians, past lives, past deaths. Some letters I was brave enough to mail.

  Years later, I tried to hunt down those letters, to understand my state of mind. It turned out my mom had saved everything I sent her. At first, she was reluctant to give them back. Maybe she wanted to protect me from myself—from knowing how undone I really was, how close to madness. Recently, though, she sent me an envelope dated Tucson, 1973. I don’t remember the letter at all—eight pages of meticulous penmanship, addressed to The Rush Family. Mom told me that she shared it with no one.

  The letter begins with an apology for my poor writing skills. Then I dive in.

  There are no words to describe all the wonderful things that have happened to me. They’re all inside me now.

  I explain that I’d met a man named Gabriel Green and describe his contact with extraterrestrials, his beautiful home and library. I claim he is a genius.

  At present, he is in telepathic contact with the Master Souls of the Great White Brotherhood. He has been appointed to unify the Forces of Light.

  He has shown me how to pierce the veil between the conscious and superconscious mind, allowing me to tap the soul records.

  I explain my regressions, every florid detail.

  The Allies had bombed my home and killed my family and then I, myself, was shot in the back. I could feel the bullets going in. Remembering that made me cry.

  There are dark forces all around, but we are entering a New Age.

  I tell my family not to worry.

  In the next few years, the ships will land. Gabriel has promised me it won’t be long. He has become like a father to me.

  On the top of the page I’ve drawn a picture of myself signaling a saucer, beckoning it to land.

  The future is promising. Gabriel is forming the United World Church, a consolidation of all religions. He will soon ordain me as a minister and I will travel America to spread the Truth.

  We are entering a time of great opportunity. When the time is right, I will return and answer all your questions. By the Grace of God, I will take you back to your past lives. You will understand everything.

  31.

  The Valley

  I’M SOBER, FILTHY: my mind’s been blasted clean.

  I’ll go down from the mountain, call Owen. I need to see him. I need to tell him things. Maybe I’ll stay in the valley for a while, get a job at the library, filing books—quiet days in cool, musty rooms. I’ll meet Owen after work and we’ll …

  My stomach growls. I’m squinting in the too-true sun. Since I’ve lost Julie’s compact, I comb my hair blindly with my hands. I really have no idea what I look like—or how I reek of smoke and sweat.

  When I approach the pay phone, I feel confident Owen has received my ray of light—that he’s expecting my call.

  When Lily answers, she’s polite—and, as ordained by On High, she hands the phone to Owen.

  “Chris?”

  His voice unmasks me. I feel like a fool. I apologize for everything that happened last summer, for Julie and Sean. I tell him I’m here in Tucson, that I have to—

  Owen interrupts me. “Let’s not talk on the phone. Why don’t we meet?” He’s whispering—maybe the Lieutenant is listening.

  I ask him if I should come to his house.

  “Are you nuts? No.” He asks if I’m going to watch Kohoutek. “Maybe this weekend, we can camp or something?”

  “Yes,” I say, flushed from the miracle. How could I have forgotten about Comet Kohoutek? Timothy Leary said it was the harbinger of the New Age.

  “So Owen, let’s meet at the gas station at the base of Mt. Lemmon. Okay?”

  And then I asked him if he knew what day it was.

  * * *

  THE MIRACLES did not cease.

  A few days later, I was on Speedway, hitching back from the co-op, when a little black Mazda swerved over. The driver flew from the car, grinning like a crazy person. His embrace nearly knocked me down.

  “Chris!”

  For a few seconds I didn’t recognize the handsome short-haired man in slacks and shiny shirt.

  “Flow Bear?”

  “How are you, man?”

  It was shocking to see the big hairy hippie who’d driven me home from Tucson—transformed into a clean-shaven businessman. From the passenger seat, a slender girl my own age waved up at me.

  “That’s Laney, my new wife.”

  I waved back at the girl, blushing, remembering how pervy Flow Bear had been during our cross-country drive—and later in the Pine Barrens, his finger in my mouth.

  “Dude, you look terrible,” he said. “You’re a fucking bag of bones.”

  “What happened to your car?” I asked. “The big blue—”

  “The Chevy? Oh, she finally died. But nothing wrong with this number, huh?” He stood beside the sleek import, beaming like a movie star. Clearly, love had remade the bear.

  Laney said, “Maybe we should give your friend a ride?”

  She had long blonde hair like me—with silk scarf, safari jacket, diamond ring. A flower child fallen on good times.

  “Of course he’s coming with us! Hop in, buddy.” Shook his head. “I think you need some dinner.”

  * * *

  THEY WERE STAYING at a swank 1930s hotel—pink, with swaying palms and a croquet lawn. They let me take a shower in their room. Laney gave me a clean T-shirt.

  “Out here for a bit of work,” Flow Bear told me.

  “And our honeymoon,” added Laney.

  I asked about my sister.

  “She’s worried about you, dude. She says she hasn’t heard from you in a while.”

  “How is she?” I gushed.

  “Fine. Still living with Our Savior.”

  I knew he meant Vinnie. Flow Bear had never been religious. He sold drugs to make money, not to enlighten.

  When he asked if I was going to Valentine and Jo’s for Thanksgiving, I felt embarrassed. I’d been meaning to get in touch with Valentine but kept putting it off.

  “I wasn’t invited,” I said.

  “Fuck that,” said Flow Bear. “You’ll come with us. Where you staying?”

  “I’m camping right now. Kind of a retreat.”

  Flow Bear rolled his eyes. “You’re like the last holdout. Well, no camping tonight—we’ve got the suite. You can have the couch.”

  * * *

  AFTER A LONG DINNER—Flow Bear and Laney eating steaks and drinking wine, while I had lemonade and lasagna—the three of us went back to the room. I settled on the couch (too short for me) and Flow Bear followed Laney into the bedroom. He shut the door only halfway. For the next hour, I could hear them having sex—and, from my position on the couch, could even see Flow Bear’s hairy ass moving up and down. I tried not to look. I looked.

  In the middle of the night, I woke to the smell of pot. Flow Bear was sitting naked on the armchair beside the couch, smoking a joint. He said I was making noises in my sleep. Each inhale lit up his face like a taillight braking.

  “I just wanted to check on you, kiddo.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT SATURDAY afternoon, I stood in front of the gas station in my denim shirt, stream-washed and wrinkled. I was half an hour early, and Owen was half an hour late. He arrived in a new blue pickup.

  After a hug-less hello, we headed out to the desert, high speed on dirt roads, barely saying a single word to each other. I tried to communicate telepathically.

  Then Owen said, “So are you and Julie still a thing?”

&nbs
p; “Nah,” I said, “she can’t deal with my lifestyle.”

  I sounded like an idiot.

  Owen kept driving, deep into the desert, far from anyone. That was a good sign. Together we put up my blue tent and spread out our sleeping bags side by side.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said.

  “My dad says the comet should be brightest just after sunset,” Owen replied.

  He had plastic containers of food from Lily, which he shared with me. When I tried to take his hand, he pushed it away. “Later.”

  For an hour, we watched the sky. We saw nothing—only pollution and contrails.

  “Fucking joke,” said Owen. He went into the tent and undressed. My heart was racing, my dick so hard it hurt. Owen’s looked the same.

  “This is the last time,” he said.

  I hoped he meant that this was like the last time—the two of us naked together in a tent.

  “Why are you smiling, Chris?—I mean it. This is the last time ever.”

  I knew boys had to say things like this.

  We fell on top of each other—and it didn’t even matter if this was the last time, because it went on forever. All night, we made up for the comet’s failure—coming across each other’s face and back and chest. The final orgasm sending me into a dreamless cavern of sleep.

  In the morning, Owen was beside me, still naked, still hard—but when I tried to touch him, he said, “What did I tell you? No more. Don’t ever touch me again.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I have a girlfriend now.”

  “So why did we come here?”

  His face went red. “I just felt sorry for you.”

  I reached toward his ridiculous erection.