by Cooper, Doug
Stein says, “No, you two love birds go ahead.”
I no longer care if they stick around. Seeing Astrid has wiped away my nervousness. I say, “It’s just one drink. Come along.”
Trivial concerns fade when I’m engaged and content. The opposite is how I knew leaving St. Louis was the right move. Once the school district turned on me, every little thing made me petulant. Things that never bothered me before instantly became signs telling me to move on. Now I feel free, and hope is creeping back. Maybe because I’m paying attention to what I have rather than what’s missing. It could also be because I can’t remember the last time that I’ve been sober for more than a day.
One problem with living on an island is that it’s impossible to go anywhere without knowing people. Between the people having dinner and those working at the Crew’s Nest, Astrid and I don’t spend much time alone.
“Next time we should leave the island,” I say during a brief intermission between visitors.
“At least the company is good,” she says. “What do you feel like doing tonight? Not that we have all that many options.”
I stab one of the mushrooms that accompanied my New York strip and wave it at Astrid. “What do you think about breaking into those ‘shrooms Cinch has? We can go listen to the band at the Round House, or maybe just wander around the island. It’ll be nice and mellow. I don’t want to be up too late since I have to leave the island tomorrow.”
“Sick of it here already?”
“Just heading up to Cleveland for the day. Haven’t been there before.”
“I wish I didn’t have to work. I would go with you,” Astrid says. “Unless the Indians are playing, there’s not much more than the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the Art Museum.” She plucks the mushroom off the end of my fork. “The ‘shrooms sound like a fun idea. I haven’t done them since last summer.”
We decline dessert, opting for an after-dinner drink on the porch. The building is the same Victorian style as most of the older structures on the island. A wraparound porch borders the front three sides, providing a magnificent view of the shimmering lake. We find two open chairs. I say, “I hear the island is most beautiful in the fall, but I can’t imagine it being any better than this.”
Astrid leans back in her chair and straightens her legs, drawing attention to her toned thighs. “I love it here in the fall. It’s so peaceful. Most people are so busy all summer that they don’t take much time to enjoy the island, then fall hits and things slow down. People know winter is coming, so they really soak up everything.”
I sink into the chair, using the back edge to massage my neck. “That dinner was fantastic. It’s the first non-bar fare I’ve had since I came here.” An elderly couple in a golf cart passes in the street fifteen feet away. I say, “Could you ever live here year-round?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She pulls her feet under her knees and leans forward. “What would I do for a living? I would need to have a real job. I couldn’t work in a bar all summer and collect unemployment all winter like a lot of people around here. I’d go crazy.”
“I don’t know if I agree with your order. Maybe it’s better to find somewhere you want to be and just figure out a way to make it work. Too many people let their jobs dictate their lives. I want my job to be secondary, to fit me, rather than me having to conform to it. Even if a person spends ten hours a day working, he’s still away from work for fourteen. And there’re weekends, too.”
“But if people aren’t happy during those hours at work, that will spill over into their personal life. Always searching with no satisfaction can be quite frustrating.”
I identify with her words because that’s what pushed me here. Whether fulfillment comes from work or something else is irrelevant. I say, “I just don’t want to wake up one day and have only my career to show for my life. It’s so typical to expect happiness to come from work because doing is being in America. The more you do, the better you are. ‘Early to bed, early to rise …’ What a bunch of bullshit. Is it the same in Norway?”
“Work is definitely secondary. Very family-oriented and much more liberal. People have more of a sense of duty to help one another rather than hoarding everything for themselves. They’re more active, too: skiing, hiking, biking.”
I laugh. “Not fat, lazy asses like here?”
“We’re definitely born with skis on our feet. But it’s changing there, too. You see it in the younger generation. There never used to be overweight kids.”
“Do you think you’ll move back?”
“Probably some day. I really miss the closeness to nature. In minutes you can be out of the city and into the forest. Just away from everything.”
“That’s why I like it here so much. I feel detached but connected at the same time. It’s really strange. I guess I’m not making much sense, huh?”
Astrid stands and slaps my knee. “Not really, but I’m used to it. Shall we go?”
We follow the sidewalk along the front edge of the park. Griffin is sitting alone on the porch of the Round House. I’m surprised he’s not passed out in the barn, considering the condition he was in after the winery. Cinch must’ve provided some powder to level him out. Although only the park separates us, I’m far away from the world he represents.
Astrid reaches for my hand. Her warmth and softness melt me. I recall students walking down the hall holding hands, beaming with pride and excitement. A subtle touch can be so powerful. The first girl whose hand I held—Sandy—comes to mind. We were in seventh grade and had arranged to meet at a movie. I remember sitting in the dark, staring at the movie screen, not even paying attention, simply feeling this tremendous rush of energy and heat.
First I let my leg flop over to the right so it was barely touching hers. Since she didn’t react, I gradually let more and more of the weight of my leg lean against hers. I enjoyed that for a while. Just being next to her gave me a raging hard-on that lasted the rest of the movie and half the ride home.
For my next move I put my hand on my knee so that it was close to her leg but still not touching it. It was all so casual. It had to be, though. One wrong move would have been disastrous. Sandy had the power to go back to school and ruin me.
Without moving my head I kept checking her knee, hoping she would place her hand there. The whole time I repeatedly pressed my palm to my knee to absorb the oozing sweat. Did I mention how hot it was in the theater?
To advance the situation I eased my hand over until I was touching her leg with the side of my pinky. Then I extended it like a bridge until it was resting completely on her leg. There was no turning back. I waited to see if she would push my finger away. No movement. Did that mean she liked it or that she was afraid to do anything? I could feel her leg connected with mine from our feet to our thighs. If she was uncomfortable, all she had to do was swing her leg over to the other side. She must’ve liked it.
I moved the other three fingers and my palm onto her knee, cupping it with my fingers on one side, my thumb on the other, my palm resting on top. She placed her hand on top of mine. I carefully turned my hand over and intertwined my fingers with hers. Relieved, I tried to catch up with the movie, but it was useless. How could I concentrate? There I was, sitting in the dark with a girl, and we were holding hands.
I squeeze Astrid’s hand, remembering the feeling of that first contact. People consider first-time exhilaration a product of the innocence of youth, but it’s just benchmarking. The more unique the experience is, the greater impact the memory will have. That’s why first times are memorable, regardless of whether it’s sex, driving a car, doing drugs, whatever. The first time marks an experience at a previously unattained level.
I know this all too well. The same thing is happening here on the island: I’m perpetually searching for the bigger, better buzz. Yet hopefully things are different now, and I’m moving on to something better rather than attempting to suck more out of the same stale situation.
Astrid weaves her fingers wi
th mine as we approach the monument. Sweat forms in the palms of our hands, but I don’t want to let go. I never want to let go.
I grasp her other hand and face her. “You know, I think a lot about the first night we went swimming at the boat ramp. Sometimes I wish we could go back to that point. Now all of a sudden, I don’t want to go back. I’d rather be here.”
I lean in and press my lips against hers, feeling the warmth from our hands spread through my whole body. Our lips linger. Seconds or maybe minutes pass. I don’t know. I don’t care. I am free.
Astrid moves her lips to my right ear. “It’s about time you kissed me. It’s only taken a month.”
Climbing the steps to the red barn I question whether I really want to go through with our mushroom plan, but once I see Stein and Cinch acting like children on Christmas morning, I know retracting is not an option. It’s easier to go along than explain why I don’t feel like putting on a new buzz.
Cinch asks, “Are we making tea or what?”
Astrid says, “Of course—I always trip on the first date. I might not sleep with you, but I always trip.”
“Tea is the only way to avoid the crappy taste,” Stein says. “Just throw the mushrooms in six cups of boiling water for several minutes, toss a tea bag in a glass, pour the liquid over the tea bag, and it’s tea time.”
Cinch tosses the bag of ‘shrooms to Stein. “Cook up a quarter’s worth. Once we start tripping, we can eat another cap to really get us going.”
Tonight is full of firsts: my first decent meal on the island, my first kiss with Astrid, and the first time we’ve used our stove to cook anything.
Cinch pulls out a plate from under the couch. “We might as well keep ourselves busy while we wait.”
I pat my stomach. “It’s been over forty-five minutes since I ate. I think it’s safe to dive back in.”
“Only a small one for me,” Astrid says. “And I call first rights to the toilet. Just like that morning cup of coffee, it’s one taste and off to the bathroom. Such a glamorous drug.”
The boiling water rattles the lid on the pan. Stein drops in the mushrooms. A caramel hue clouds the water. The mixture returns to a boil. A pungent smell emanates. He presses the pieces against the side of the pan with the spoon. More of the intoxicant oozes into the water. Satisfied with the potency of the potion, he dumps the steaming contents into a pitcher. The mint from the flavored tea covers the odor of the mushrooms. He says, “Ladies and gentlemen, tea is served. No crumpets, but I left the remnants in the pitcher if anyone wants a snack.”
As the liquid cools, the size of gulps increases until the last drink, which I must force down due to the earthy sediment swimming in the bottom.
Cinch slurps down one of the long stems. “Astrid, you want one of these?”
She shudders. “I try to stay away from anything limp.”
Stein throws the empty pitcher in the sink. “Let’s go to the bar before the ‘shrooms kick in.”
I nod, already incapable of speech. The special brew is taking over. I feel warm. My hands are clammy as well, and by the time we walk into the Round House the buzz has swelled within me. Objects at the periphery of my vision distract me. First a mosquito, then a flash of light from a golf cart passing in the street. My sinuses clear. I breathe deeply through my nose, something I haven’t done since I arrived due to my perpetual Colombian flu.
The lights and sounds from the stage wrap around us like we are part of the show. Cinch goes to the bar to retrieve drinks, but he returns empty handed. Astrid reminds him about his intended mission. He just laughs and shakes his head.
Stein intervenes. “I’ll go. Head over to that empty table and try not to stare so much.”
Astrid leans over. “Watch the bass drum. It pulses with each beat.”
I nod without seeing what she’s talking about. “I’m going to walk around.”
A burly biker over by the restroom is leaning with his back against the bar and his arms wrapped around a girl. He squeezes her ass as he shoves his tongue down her throat.
Making his rounds, Griffin walks by and does a double-take when he sees me. I don’t know how he is even still standing after the shape he was in, but I’m in no condition to evaluate anyone.
He says, “When did you get here? I didn’t even see you come in.”
I stare at him, trying to focus on his words, but instead I’m distracted by the size of the pores on his face, each one a separate canyon.
I say, “Man, I’m fucked up. We made some ‘shroom tea.” I point to the table where the others are sitting without taking my eyes off the couple. The man’s hand is up the woman’s shirt, rubbing her tits. “You been watching this?”
“They’ve been going at it since the band started.” He looks into my eyes. “Dude, your pupils are huge. There’s hardly any color around them.”
I go into the restroom and turn on the water. Splashing water on my face, I stare at my reflection, giggling at how fucked up I feel in contrast with how peaceful I look. Three days of stubble poke through, softening the angle of my jaw. Thoughts I’d normally keep to myself, I say aloud as if another person is present. “Need to go. Need to be by myself.” I flex my eyes and smile in the mirror. “Yeah, fucked up.”
Back outside, Griffin walks over from the couple at the bar. “That son of a bitch had her bra off. I told ’em if they wanted to keep at it, they had to go somewhere more private.”
His words pass over me. I’m in my own world. I say, “I’m going for a walk. Tell the others I’ll catch up with them later.”
I head out the front and hop down the steps. Which way? I turn right toward the Crescent Tavern. “Yeah, let’s just walk.” Another right at the Depot. “Time to get the fuck out of Dodge.” I go past the boarding house where Astrid lives. People are on the porch, but I look away. I can’t be around others right now.
Up ahead a snake lies half in the road. I creep forward. No movement. Only a block out of town and dead silent like the inside of a closet. I throw a rock at the snake. No movement. Three steps forward my right foot nudges it. It’s only a stick. I pick up the three-foot piece of wood. It is damp and soft. “Just me and my stick.”
I press on, hesitating when I reach the spot where I first wigged out that night. How could I be afraid out here? There’s nothing that will hurt me. Of all places, I’m safe here.
A gust of wind whistles through the trees. Questions race. I don’t have time to answer. I repeat the same words over and over. “Why, where, what, when, how?” So many questions but no answers. A car approaches. My eyes follow the taillights. Why must I travel this road? I don’t have a destination.
I angle into the woods. The weeds at the edge are thick, seizing my ankles as if waiting for a command to release me. A fallen tree lies ahead. I rub my hand along the bark, still able to feel life in the tree. “We all have our time, don’t we, old friend? Why did it happen for you? In the middle of all these trees, completely safe, how did you fall?” I look around at the other trees. “Why didn’t you protect him?” But as I sit on the fallen trunk, I feel no sadness. “You lived your life, huh, old timer? There’s nothing to be sad about as long as you lived your life.”
I place both feet on the tree and lean back on my hands. The neighboring trees conceal the sky. I recline and allow my hands to dangle. All the trees are so different, yet all so majestic. Each could meet the same fate as this one tomorrow.
A weeping willow stands twenty yards away. I approach. Sorrow penetrates. Faces appear in the leaves, gloomy, tired, old faces. “Why so sad?” I say.
A message comes back to me: Don’t be like us. Don’t get trapped.
I stare into the leaves. Is this really happening? The faces linger. I offer a response. “Who are you? How did you get trapped?”
No answer, just more pain and sadness.
I ask, “What happened?”
Again there’s no answer. I peer deeper into the leaves, attempting to extract an answer with my desperate
pleading. With each step, their warning presses more strongly. I reach for one of the faces, but it disappears.
You can’t help us, but help yourself. Don’t end up like us.
My hands touch the trunk. It is cold and dry. I try to picture the faces again but see only leaves.
A breeze on my back urges me forward. Lights filter through the brush ahead. My trek is ending. I question whether to turn around and go back. A few more steps land me in a parking lot. Still confused, I follow the side of the building in front of me. Around the corner, the back of Kelley’s Restaurant is a familiar sight. I must’ve walked through the center of the island.
The stones compress under my feet, grinding and crunching together. The parking lot is empty. The dinner rush ended hours ago, but the late-night crowd hasn’t arrived yet. A friendly face sits alone at the end of the bar.
Feeling more social now, I go in for a drink. “Hey, Caldwell, mind if I join you?”
“Pull up a stool,” he says. “What’ll you have?”
“Whatever you’re drinking. Bud? That’s fine with me.”
His tone and cadence provide instant comfort. “Out by yourself tonight?”
“Just walking around the island.” The beer is thick and grainy, but the cold liquid soothes my throat. “Caldwell, excuse me if I seem out of it tonight, but I’m kind of in another place. I ate something to enhance my mood.”
“Ah, there’s a little fungus among us. Man, it’s been a lot of years since I’ve done that.”
“I’ve got more. That is, if you want to, or maybe some other time. Uh, you know what I mean.”
“Thanks, but I just stick to alcohol anymore,” he says. “I noticed you guys been partying pretty hard this summer up in the barn.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Let’s just say I know the signs, and I see things and hear people talking. Just be careful.”
I press the cold beer to my forehead. “I know I’m fucked up right now, but the weirdest thing happened to me on the way here. Actually, it’s not the first time something like this has happened. I hear things when I’m around the island, like someone or something is trying to communicate with me. I felt it the first night I was here. Something reached out to me as if to say, ‘Welcome.’ I know it sounds crazy, but it’s like there are voices in the wind, faces in the trees.”