The Light Years

by Chris Rush

  “Get away from me.”

  “Please, Owen.”

  “Stop begging. You’re disgusting.”

  He kicked me away, threw on his clothes, and dragged his sleeping bag outside. A moment later, I heard the truck take off.

  I stayed in the tent all day, like a bug hiding from the sun.

  When I finally went outside, I saw that Owen had left me some food, but an animal had found it first—a trail of Lily Dip across the dirt.

  * * *

  BACK ON MT. LEMMON, I wrote a letter to Gabriel. In great gushy gasps, I begged. Please teach me how to use telepathy and contact the aliens. I crumpled up the page and threw it from the edge of Sky Island, certain it would reach him.

  * * *

  THANKSGIVING DAY.

  Valentine and Jo’s new stash house was a rambling adobe near Cat Mountain, far south of the rock I called home.

  Flow Bear and Laney led me down the hallway. “Look who we brought!”

  “Christopher!” Jo hugged me. “What are you doing out here?”

  It was hard for me to talk around so many people—but hunger, it seemed, was a kind of truth serum. “I don’t know. My parents don’t really want me at home.”

  “Don’t be silly. They adore you.”

  “My dad pointed a gun at me. And a knife.”

  Jo looked confused. Everyone else went quiet.

  I was out of practice being a human.

  In the living room, I could see some older guys smoking reefer with Valentine.

  When I walked in, he stood and handed me the joint.

  “Hawaiian,” he said. “Some of the new sinsemilla.”

  I hadn’t smoked in a while, and as I puffed, Valentine smiled. “Good, right?”

  “Excellent,” I said. “How much?”

  When he whispered the price, I was shocked—a single joint would be as expensive as a bag of groceries.

  Immediately, I was stoned. I stumbled, nearly knocking over a lamp.

  Jo rushed in and said, “Come with me. Let me fix you something.”

  Valentine went back to the men—customers, I suppose.

  In the kitchen, women were chatting and cooking—all of them in peasant dresses from which milk-laden breasts kept flopping out. Babies in all directions.

  “I wish Donna was here.”

  “We all do, Chris. Are you okay? Here, have some salad.”

  * * *

  BEFORE DINNER, the men wanted to play football—a dumb idea in the desert, where every plant was needle-sharp. It was a blustery afternoon, everyone in sunglasses to keep sand from blowing in their eyes. Having no shades, I squinted against the wind.

  Flow Bear kindly picked me for his team.

  I knew nothing about football and could barely understand the men’s gestures and grunts. At one point, Valentine ran over and knocked me to the ground. As I brushed the dirt from my legs, I saw that my jeans were ripped, and that my knee was bleeding.

  Flow Bear helped me up.

  Valentine, who’d just made a touchdown, was grinning.

  I went inside to clean up and stayed in the bathroom until I heard Jo’s voice: “Dinner!”

  I took a seat across from Valentine, but he didn’t look at me. After he gave his ridiculous grace—more bragging than gratitude—he delivered a sermon to the assorted men, who were no doubt there to buy heaps of Hawaiian.

  “God bless the smuggler and his load.”

  Most of the men laughed, but Flow Bear shook his head and winked at me.

  I couldn’t understand why Valentine refused to catch my eye. I wanted him to recognize me, to give me his approval. This was the man who’d given me my first tab of acid. Didn’t he see that I was still on the path—still searching for God?

  All through the meal, I was silent as Valentine performed for the dealers. “Without us, no one gets high. It’s our dharma to offer up this service.”

  Warm and full of food and dope, I began to relax. I remembered my mission. I remembered Gabriel. When I spoke up, my voice sounded thin and high.

  “I saw a flying saucer this summer. They’re all over the place now. I think maybe this is also part of the story, you know—the Space People and how they want us to change. I’m confident they’ll be here soon.”

  Everyone was silent.

  I continued: “I hear that if we all visualize the ships, that’ll encourage them to come even sooner.”

  Valentine looked at me, finally. He was glaring.

  The dealers took their cue from him. One of them, a short-haired guy with a Brillo mustache, said, “That is such bullshit. Why don’t you give it a rest, kid?”

  Valentine reclaimed his power. “Jo, bring out the coffee. Gentlemen, let me show you something in the living room.”

  As he stood and walked away, I felt like I might barf. Maybe I wasn’t used to eating so much.

  And I kept thinking of Judas. Had I somehow betrayed Valentine?

  Sitting alone at the table, I sensed that I’d failed some kind of test. Valentine had allowed me a place at his table, and I’d fucked it up.

  I waited quietly, until all the deals were finished. Then, when the coast was clear, I asked Valentine if I could speak to him alone. I asked him if he could front me some product.

  “I’m not a charity—maybe you should pay me sometime.”

  I was confused. I always paid him—though it was true, sometimes it took me a while.

  “And you never move any weight,” he added.

  I told him I wanted to enlighten people, but that it was just difficult to sell right now in my situation.

  He frowned. “What happened? I had such high hopes for you once.”

  Hadn’t I heard those words before?

  “But you’re family, so…” He led me to his stash and assembled a bag of fine product: Kona, Afghani, blue microdot. Then he shook my hand and reminded me how much I owed him.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT, Flow Bear and Laney drove me up the mountain. I was relieved they didn’t want to see my crazy camp with its altars and shrines. Parked in a dirt pull-off, we sat in the car, talking.

  Flow Bear said, “Chris, let me give you a little advice. You don’t have to say everything that crosses your mind. It’s okay to have secrets.”

  I blushed.

  “Don’t take it to heart, kiddo. It was a business dinner, you gotta play by the rules.”

  Flow Bear had bought some product from Valentine, too.

  “Let’s have a toast before you go.”

  I expected a joint of Hawaiian, but instead he signaled to Laney—who opened her purse and took out a bag of powder.

  “Oh, no thank you,” I said.

  “What? You don’t approve? I know Valentine hates this shit, but everything’s changed, man. It’s a new world.”

  Flow Bear applied a delicate line to the soft spot on the top of Laney’s hand and snorted some up. Laney took what was left.

  They both beamed.

  Flow Bear poured some more and Laney held out her hand toward me.

  Since Valentine wasn’t watching—since maybe no one was watching, not even God—I accepted their generosity.

  “Call me when you get back to New Jersey,” Flow Bear said. “Will you call me?”

  When I nodded, he kissed me on the lips.

  Laney smiled.

  32.

  The Biggest Trees on Earth

  AT MY CAMP, THERE WAS no sleep. After partying with Flow and Laney, my mind was doing some ferocious math, most of it beyond my comprehension. It was a cold night. I built my fire a little larger than usual, but I could barely sit still in front of it.

  Flow Bear had told me that Lu was selling coke now, too—and that Jingle had left him. This was upsetting to me. In my head, I tried to put the two of them back together, make them fall in love again. Wasn’t I capable of such things?

  I was confused, sad, angry, horny.

  Fuck Valentine! became Fuck Flow Bear—Fuck Laney—but they were different
kinds of fucks. My thoughts were deranged. Cocaine was like some mad star I had to race to keep up with.

  And then I crashed, crawling into my tent with a sense of digging myself into the center of the earth, as far from the stars as I’d ever been.

  * * *

  THE BIRDS WOKE me up.

  I put on my shoes and stepped outside into hazy light—rays of smoke like God in a painting. The ground was simmering—and red. Shit! The campfire had spread. The ground, covered with pine needles, had ignited. I tried unsuccessfully to stamp it out with my boots. Then, digging with a flat rock, I attempted to get under the flames, before the whole forest went up. Screaming, I scooped up the burning needles and sticks and consolidated them into a smoking mound, four feet tall. It was a glowing volcano, dangerously alive. I ran back and forth to the spring twenty or thirty times, and after a couple of hours, the fire was finally under control.

  I was a wreck with blistered hands, staring at the destruction. My tent mostly survived but my vulture-sculpture was ruined. Laundry and sketchbooks burned, crystal altars scattered. The deer skull was black and smoking like a demon. I was filthy, out of breath.

  Die. Die.

  The voice of my father.

  But the mountain was silent. I stared at the ground. I did not pray. I did not ask for anything. Just let the emptiness of the mountain overtake me.

  * * *

  IT WAS GETTING much colder. At night my jug of water froze.

  During the day, I kept moving. I climbed the hoodoos—no ropes, no fear. I was becoming strong. This surprised me, having always assumed I was a weakling. I began to push myself, leaping across crevasses hundreds of feet above canyon floors. I tested my limits, plunging into pools of snowmelt.

  I did not die.

  I just got lost sometimes. Without a map, I stumbled upon the famous places before I’d ever heard their names. Devil’s Bathtub, Seven Cataracts, La Milagrosa.

  I walked for miles, sometimes with my pack, so that I could collect specimens—quartz and agate, jasper and fossil—carrying it all back to my camp, moving it with me wherever I went. There were always more rocks in my pack than food.

  Occasionally, on some lonely trail, I would run into a stray hiker, usually a man wearing too much gear—German camera, multiflapped hat—who might offer half a sandwich to the hungry-looking kid. Then I’d fly back up the mountain like a mad goat—long legs, purple sneakers, a blond blur.

  * * *

  WINTER.

  A foot of snow.

  Dressed in three sweaters, I put cayenne in my socks.

  But my food was frozen and, despite the pepper, so was I. I had to leave the mountain—had to go down into the world. The valley was still warm, a world of palm trees and swimming pools. Cautiously, I set up camp on the edge of town, on private land—a rat in the desert.

  My money was pretty much gone, but I refused to worry. I called home a few times—collect—but then hung up after someone accepted the charges. I just wanted them to know I was alive.

  I’d survive, somehow. I still had some of Valentine’s product to sell.

  Besides Owen, there’d been another boy at Red Rock whom I’d become friends with—a stoner named Walter. When I called his house, his mom told me he was now at the University of Arizona. She told me how to find his dorm room.

  It was good to see Walter again. We looked like brothers, both of us long-haired Irish mutts. Walter was happy to help me move product.

  Every week, I’d drop by his dorm to sell drugs to whomever was around. Walter would let me crash in his room and take a shower. Hanging around the dorm, watching students head off to class, tennis, dinner, I began to realize what a true weirdo I’d become.

  All of Walter’s friends had clean clothes, new cars, and cash from home. They were dorks with bad haircuts and bright futures, carrying around books instead of rocks.

  Was there another version of myself headed to Yale?

  If so, I’d lost track of him by then.

  Valentine had always taught me that it was better to deal dope than to be part of the machine. These college students perplexed me. The machine did not seem to be tearing them apart. They looked like they were having a splendid time.

  * * *

  A FEW DAYS before Christmas, I called home from an outdoor pay phone. It was cold, even in the valley. I stood there shivering, listening to the phone ring. My brother Michael answered, accepted the charges. I did not hang up. I quickly asked him how he was before he could ask me.

  He rattled on about wrestling, his girlfriend, his driver’s license. Then he told me I should mail him some LSD.

  I said, “Maybe I’ll visit instead.”

  “Who are you talking to?” I heard someone say to Michael. I knew it was Mom.

  “No one,” he called out, before whispering into the phone, “I won’t tell them you called.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re being pretty cool right now. You’ll just get them mad.”

  * * *

  THERE WERE VOICES in my head, but I knew I wasn’t crazy. Because they were the voices of real people—my father and mother, Owen, Valentine. Sometimes they were so present that I would turn, certain one of them was behind me.

  Alone, I was skittish. Smoking weed with Walter, I felt better.

  Walter was kind. He watched out for me.

  After the holidays, he dropped out of college and moved in with a wealthy divorcée. He was having the time of his life. His lover was a gorgeous bottle blonde, maybe thirty-five, who’d just escaped a bad marriage. She was beginning a new life, in a big new house. On her front porch, she brushed Walter’s long hair like he was a prize pony.

  Her name was Susan—and she loved not only Walter’s long hair; she loved good weed, too. She was happy to pay a premium for better product. Often, she let me sleep in the spare bedroom after a delivery. Walter was already very comfortable in the master suite.

  One night Susan said to me, “I envy you. You won’t have to get married—you should thank God for that.”

  I told her that, actually, I had a girlfriend.

  “Oh honey, you’re gay. And luckily you’re very sweet and very handsome. So, can you bring me more Hawaiian next week?”

  Despite the standing offer of a room, I sometimes chose to sleep in the desert. Susan’s house reminded me too much of childhood—the fresh towels, the folded clothes, the panoply of televisions. In the guest-room bathroom was a skylight, a sunken tub, a huge mirror. My hair was a shipwreck, my clothes dirty—I didn’t belong there.

  * * *

  IF I DISAPPEARED for too long, though, Walter would come by my camp and try to coax me into town. “Come on, you might make a sale.” Sometimes, I went with him.

  One night, Walter dragged me to a kegger—a bonfire ten feet high surrounded by bored teenagers. After a while, he went off to get his girlfriend, who lived nearby. I stood there feeling lost when two drunken cowboys showed up, looking for a fight. I knew them both from Red Rock High. Handsome Bo and a badass named Jimmy Lynn. Both were short—and mean.

  They strutted about, all boots and chew. Their cowboy drag was laughable. They looked like fourth graders dressed for a birthday party.

  Jimmy caught my eye and I looked away, fast as I could.

  Not fast enough. The boy snickered.

  As I walked away, his voice followed me: “So, Chrisss … are you a queeeer?”

  I kept walking toward the desert.

  Bo yelled, “Hey, my friend asked you a question!”

  Jimmy blocked my path—and in a single gesture threw me to the ground, his knees against my shoulders. “We all want to know if you’re a queer.” This time, the question came with a flash of metal—the barrel of Jimmy’s pistol pressed against my forehead.

  Terrified, I said, “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “I think you’re a faggot. Are you a faggot?”

  I was quiet.

  “There
’s one bullet left in this gun.”

  I looked into his crazy, radiant eyes. It was too dangerous for me to be scared.

  “Are you a lucky faggot?”

  “No, Jim. I am not.”

  He spun the cylinder, pulled the trigger.

  Only after the hollow click, the hammer back in its place, did I become aware of all the other people gathered around, watching and laughing.

  Jimmy dismounted me, then lifted the gun to the sky and pulled. Girls screamed as a bullet blasted into the clouds.

  * * *

  THAT SPRING, I hitched north. Went to the Grand Canyon, the San Juans, the Sierras. I had no plan, just a couple of twenties in my pocket. Sometimes I’d waste money on postcards and send them out in every direction: a thank-you to Gabriel Green, a note to Sean and Julie, to my sister. Thinking of you. I’m by myself, standing next to the most amazing waterfall. Wish I had a camera. I told them they could write back to me, if they wanted, at the Tucson Post Office, Main Branch, General Delivery.

  Back in Tucson, I bought product from Valentine, sold what I could, and used the rest myself. By this point, Valentine was no longer much of a mentor. It was just business now. Whenever I picked up product, he still gave his sermonettes. But I didn’t listen.

  * * *

  I CONTINUED TO move around. Sometimes I’d drift into California and back, always hitching, always waiting for someone interesting to pick me up.

  Hitchhiking is a kind of blind date. A car pulls over and you look for clues, hope for hope. It’s true—in the back of my mind the white pickup always waited, the memory of being abducted and left for dead. But who can live in fear forever?

  At one point, I ended up in the Mohave.

  In the hours waiting for a ride, I’d always force myself to relax. On some unnamed patch of sand, I would sip water and watch the sky. Sitting there on my pack, eating single sunflower seeds, I did not think of the future or the comforts of home.