by Kris Ripper
“I kind of want to read this book now,” I said, as we pulled into the visitor center.
“Me too. Like the prince and the serving girl have to end up together, but it can’t be fucking Aladdin, right?”
“Maybe the princess is a lesbian. It could be like they get married but each of them have a very special serving girl.”
“Or maybe you and the princess share me! I could get into that. So much hot, royal sex.”
“Insatiable,” I teased.
“I totally am.”
We picked up our parking permit and map to the campground, which was a mile and a half hike-in. Not bad, right? We could walk a mile and a half, even in the rain. Even with our gear. At least it wasn’t really that cold out.
My resolve lasted for probably the first twenty minutes. If that.
I tugged my hands higher into my sleeves. “I’m freezing. Are you freezing?”
“I know! My hands are numb! And it’s August.”
“It didn’t feel this cold when we were standing at the car.”
She laughed, the sound of it melting into the pounding rain. “This may go down in history as my worst idea ever!”
I shook out my arms, trying to resettle my backpack more comfortably, and she side-stepped out of the way.
“I’m walking here!”
“I don’t think we can be any more wet than we already are!”
Alisha cringed and shook her head. “See, now you’re testing the fates, and they get really annoyed.”
“Is that your way of saying I jinxed us?”
“It’s my way of saying I bet we get more wet than this!”
And we did. A mile and a half is a pretty comfortable hike in sunshine, if it’s not too hot or too cold. In torrential rain every step is a slog, your soaking shoes weigh a ton, and your neck and back start aching because you’re so desperate to hide under your hood that you’re only looking at the trail six inches ahead of your feet.
I found myself mesmerized by the white noise of rain hitting leaves, and thought about Steven Costello again. By all accounts a quiet kid, bullied in high school, a loner in college as far as anyone knew. If he’d been out to his parents, they hadn’t accepted him, judging by the fact that they couldn’t even say “He was gay” to the people investigating his death. If he hadn’t been out to his parents, he’d been living a double life, trying to balance being himself with being who they wanted him to be.
Or maybe I was reading too much into him. Except whenever I saw that picture on my phone, I related to him more. Obviously it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have died if I’d been able to talk to him. But maybe he would have felt like there was a place for him in the world, that even if he still died, he’d have known that for a minute.
At least Cameron had tried. If anyone could offer a moment of solace to a quiet, sad boy, it was Cam. What had Steven Costello been thinking at the end? Had he fought back? Or had he taken a beating as his due?
I hoped he’d fought back.
“Wait. Ed, wait.”
It took me a minute to get back from my thoughts and stop walking. Damn. I didn’t want to be thinking about Costello, or murder, or any of that right now. I wanted to be here, with Alisha, on this plane where everything was an adventure.
“Look around, babe.”
We were in a forested area, all redwoods reaching into the sky. I risked the rain and looked straight up.
The view was unreal. Some of the trees topped out inside the clouds, trunks and branches disappearing into white.
“Oh wow.”
“I know.”
We stood there staring up long enough for the rain to make its way down the front of my shirt, but it was worth it. The storm made for a glorious, wild symphony, wind rustling through the thick trees, drops falling everywhere around us, making slightly different tones when they landed on slightly different surfaces. No thoughts intruded into the moment, and I lost all awareness—even of Alisha, even of myself.
Nothing on earth existed but this: standing still in the center of the storm while branches creaked and water flowed in little rivulets between piles of old needles.
Alisha’s hand found mine and we began to walk again, not speaking.
The worst moment of the first day was finally arriving at our campsite, exhausted, drenched, sore, and realizing we now somehow had to set up a tent during a rainstorm without it filling with water before we could get the rainfly over it.
“We need minions for this, princess,” I said.
“We really do. Ideally ones who set up an hour ago, left a steaming hot meal, and then disappeared until we call for them again.”
“That sounds so perfect.”
For a long moment we both surveyed the slightly inclined sheet of mud that was serving as our campsite.
I toed the ground. “So I guess we’ll probably set up on the grass, right? Kind of bumpy, but less chance of us falling into quicksand overnight.”
She shuddered. “I read a book where that happened once. Sounds like a good idea.”
“We should . . . strategize or something.”
“Yeah.”
Our strategy ended up being me trying to hold the rainfly out over the tarp and tent while she inserted the telescoping pole into the little sleeve and quickly tried to jam posts into the ground. It was so ridiculous—to say nothing of completely hopeless—that both of us were laughing by the time we managed to secure the rainfly.
Then one of the corner posts popped out of the mud and we almost collapsed from some combination of hilarity, hunger, and fatigue triggering a severe case of the stupids.
“Whose dumb idea was this?” Alisha gasped, holding herself up on my shoulder. “Oh my god. The tent’s wet.”
“Because it’s raining, dear.”
We giggled.
A heavy rock over the troublesome post helped, and the rainfly actually stretched a bit over the outsides of the door flaps so we could at least store our packs where they wouldn’t get rained on, or take up space in the tent itself.
She started to mop the puddles on the floor of the tent with a towel. (Bringing a towel would have been a seriously good idea; why hadn’t I thought of that?) “You know what would have been smart?”
“What?”
“If I hadn’t folded the tarp under so much. Then our stuff would be on tarp instead of muddy grass.”
“Live and learn. Next time we go camping in gale-force winds and unrelenting showers, we will totally do that.”
“Okay. It’s as dry as it’s gonna get in here. Let’s see if we can get the bags off our sleeping bags and get them into the tent without, you know—”
“Flooding it again?”
She hit my arm. “Be quiet, prince. Or no nookie for you later.”
“Damn, you play rough.”
“Just wait!”
It took a while to get both sleeping bags in, strip off our most-wet layers, and climb into the tent ourselves. It was a tough choice between trying to maintain the dryness of the tent and trying to maintain at least some of our body heat in damp—if not drenched—clothes. Once we’d carefully unrolled enough dry layers from plastic, neither of us wasted time pulling off the last of the wet clothes and pulling on thermals in the dry safety of our sleeping bags.
“Now we have a lot of wet clothes, a very small area of dry ground, two sleeping bags, and it’s—” I checked my phone. “One p.m. What next, loyal servant?” I automatically began to check my email, until I realized I had no signal. “Wow. There is like no reception here. At all.”
“Good. We don’t need reception. Plus, what’re you going to do if you have it? Google search how to stay dry when camping in the rain?”
I pretended to open a browser. “How . . . to . . . stay . . . dry . . .”
She giggled. “Stop. Meanie.”
I slid the phone back into the plastic baggie I’d zipped it into and tucked it in the little mesh storage bag hanging above our heads. “Okay. No phones. No internet.
No connection to the outside world.”
“I know this is the part where I suggest sex, but seriously, I’m starving. What do we have for food?”
Most of my meals since becoming a vegan were less like “meals” and more like “a collection of snacks.” We pooled our food over our sleeping bags. For a spontaneous overnight camping trip, we hadn’t done too badly. I was a little worried that our gallon of water and two little bottles wasn’t the best prep ever, but then again, we could probably rig a funnel on the rainfly and refill the gallon at any time if we ran out.
“I wish we could light a fire,” she said, checking out my double-bagged black beans. “I know these are safe to eat, but wouldn’t they be delicious heated up?”
My mouth watered. “Seriously. I mean, maybe if we found a grove under some trees back in the more foresty area we might find some dry wood. Maybe.”
We stared at each other, contemplating pulling our wet, heavy clothes back on.
“Nah. This will work. Plus, we’re not supposed to light fires outside the barbecue anyway.”
“Mmm,” I said. “Barbecue.”
“Ha. I though you didn’t eat things with faces!”
“You can barbecue veg. Though seriously, if someone showed up with burgers right now, I’d eat one.”
“Me too. Oh my god. With bacon, and cheese, and—”
I clamped a hand over her mouth. “Stop talking.”
She grinned, lips pressing against my palm, sending little sparks of arousal through my body.
“Sex, though. Later. But definitely sex.”
That time her tongue traced a line on my skin, and I shuddered and took away my hand.
“You naughty little serving girl.”
“Yes, master.” She lowered her eyes demurely.
“Oh damn. Okay. We’ll get back to that. Right now we’re making tacos.”
Black beans and corn and portioned-out salsa to make it a little less dry. I took one bite of mine, then scrapped the tortilla for a cabbage leaf, which was better.
“I’m going to choke to death.” Alisha eyed my cabbage distrustfully and took another determined bite of her tortilla.
I offered the little bag of cabbage leaves I’d rinsed and rolled before leaving the house.
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m just fine.” To prove it she made gagging noises, and we laughed.
“I wish we had avocado,” I said.
“But think of the mess.”
“True. Though it’s not like we don’t have enough water to wash our hands. Just unzip, stick them outside, shake them around a minute, and look, clean.”
She demonstrated, her flopping hands large in such a small space. “True. I had this crazy idea last night that we’d, uh, dance naked in the rain.”
I covered my mouth. “You did not.”
“I know! It seemed so romantic and wild when I was lying in my warm bed, with my warm blankets, and running water, and dry clothes—”
“Please tell me we don’t have to dance naked in the rain for you to feel good about our adventure.”
“No. We really don’t. Like, that’s the whole point: not to make it dependent on some weird idea of what it’d be.” She smiled. “I’m so glad you came with me, Ed. Thank you.”
“I’m so glad you’re completely nuts. I would have never thought to go camping during a storm.”
“And it’s fun, right? Admit it. You’re having a little bit of fun.”
“I’m freezing, and wet, and we’re now basically stuck in the tent.”
“And you’re having fun.”
I kissed her. “And I’m having so much fun, yeah.”
We finished our meals and fooled around, each of us staying half inside our sleeping bags, still trying to get back from numb. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have sex; cuddling and tucking ourselves into each other until we shared all of our heat was perfect.
Plus, we had the rest of the day. And all night. And tomorrow. Really, that was sounding like a damn long time to be alone in a tent, but I pushed the thought aside and kissed the top of her head as she was lying on my chest.
I should have known we’d be pulling on our clothes and taking a hike. Wet, wet clothes.
“Isn’t it beautiful out?” Alisha called from outside the tent.
I gave up on my layers and went with only a T-shirt under my jacket. Less stuff to pull off later, and it wasn’t like it’d keep me warm or dry.
It actually was beautiful out. Misty and windswept and ravaged, like the surface had been scraped off the land and what lay underneath was by turns brighter and more raw.
“How far are we going?” I asked.
“Sunset is like seven thirty. We have a few hours.”
“Right.” Sure. A few hours to get even more wet.
Alisha pulled me in by my coat. “I’ll warm you up later, master.”
“Damn right you will.”
We hiked all the way out to the ocean, which was a choppy field of gray beneath turbulent steel-colored skies.
She held my hand on an outcropping, watching the waves crash below. “I wish we didn’t have to leave tomorrow; though I think it’ll feel good to get back to the car.”
“Can we drive home naked with the heat on full blast? Do you think we’d get arrested?”
“Let’s find out.”
Making out in a storm on a cliff overlooking the sea was diverting enough for me to forget about the wind and rain.
On the way back to camp I checked for my phone and realized I’d left it in the tent. Without even worrying about it.
“I don’t have my phone.”
“Me either. It’s awesome.”
“Is it? I mean, there’s a chance we could have gotten a signal out here.”
“Yeah, but to do what? Check email? Look online at something? But we’re like . . . here. In the world. I think I’d give up my phone if I didn’t feel like I needed it for safety reasons. Well. Maybe. Or maybe I’d just delete Facebook and Twitter and email and all those other things and try not to look at it so much.”
“I like my phone. I like all that stuff. And my Kindle app.”
She put her arm through mine. “I’d rather read on paper, but I think if you’re going to be a globe-trotting traveler—and I am—probably reading on the phone is a way more efficient.”
“More books in a smaller amount of space,” I agreed.
“Do you really like all the apps and everything? I mean, like, it’s not just habit or something?”
I thought about it while we walked. My shoes were squishy bricks, and my jacket was so waterlogged I could feel the cold weight of the rain as it made its way steadily from my shoulders south. Still, I was glad we’d taken the walk. And I didn’t miss my phone. Though I’d be pretty happy to get back to it when we were safely in civilization. And dry. Being dry was going to be such a luxury.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “I do like all that. I like feeling connected, and apps make me feel connected. I think it’s possible to balance that feeling with this feeling.” I squeezed her arm with mine. “To be connected online and in person at the same time.”
“Fair enough. I think I prefer this one, but I can see how both are valuable.” She sighed. “I really want us to go away together. Can I plan something? It doesn’t have to be super long, just a week or two, but it’s important to me.”
“A week or two?” Could I even get a whole week off work? I had no idea how I’d ask Potter. In a year and a half I’d never taken a sick day. I wanted to be known for being attentive, reliable. Not taking a week off to go away with my girlfriend.
“Yeah. A week at least.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’d have to think about it.”
“What is there to think about? I mean, you might as well ask, right?”
“I’ll ask,” I promised, even though I couldn’t really picture myself doing it. Being a reporter—if you were serious, if you wanted real stories—meant being available. “Tell me where you w
ant us to go.”
“Oh, only everywhere. All over the world. I want to visit all the places with you.”
“What, around the world in seven days?”
“It would take years, but I’m willing to put the time in. Are you?”
We kissed some more in a grove of fir trees and this time, when we stripped down back at the site, we did a little more than cuddle.
Going away for the weekend made work more miserable than usual. By Wednesday I was killing time, doing way too many crosswords and half-assing my assignments.
I’d just checked my usual slew of news sites (see, that’s “work”) when Potter shouted for me to come to his office, which annoyed me more than made sense. It was how Potter communicated. He shouted; his staff came to him. But on this particular Wednesday, when I was already feeling put-upon just being there, even that made me want to go off. Who treated people like that? Shouting for them and waiting for them to appear? Damn it, I didn’t want to be treated like a fucking servant!
The second he started in, I knew I was going to lose it.
“Look, Masiello, you have some chops, but this whole private-investigator bullshit you’re pulling has to stop or be on your time.” He tossed a few papers down in front of me. “Your productivity’s in the toilet. Everything you’ve given me this week has been crap masquerading as articles. And I don’t want you reading that piece of fucking trash ‘truth is invisible’ or whatever-the-hell thing on my dime, got that? It ain’t research, it’s a joke, and you can do it somewhere else.”
My hands shook as I reached for the papers.
Tracking. They were tracking everything in neat little columns. Tracking what I did on the computer, hours spent on Togg’s site, on the Times-Record site, in email. Significantly fewer hours spent in the word processing program where I usually wrote my assignments.
“You’re spying on me?”
“We’re spying on everyone, numb nuts! So we can catch promising young jackasses before they roll all the way off the tracks.” He jabbed a finger toward me. “Your ideas aren’t always shit, so I give you some leeway, but, kid, you gotta be doing the assignments I give you before you go haring off on these crazy wild-goose chases of yours.”