“Stephanie just finished her master’s in business at Boise State University,” says Gearhart. “I’ve been telling her about you.”
“Me?”
“How you live on the American Riviera and that you’re on the verge of huge success in the dot-com world.” He winks at me.
Clearly, she has eaten up every word, looking at me like I’m some kind of pop star.
“I’ve been wanting to visit Santa Barbara forever,” she gushes. “Now I’ll know somebody there.”
We exchange contact details in our phones and she goes off to serve another customer after pouring me a taster of pinot noir.
“How did you spend the evening?” asks Gearhart, as if nothing had happened between us.
I guess I’m truly oversensitive; to him it hardly mattered.
“Uh, I took a long walk, a hike, really, up through the residential neighborhood behind the Capitol building.”
“I walked around the Capitol as the sun was setting,” says Gearhart. “Unbelievably accessible. Not one security officer in sight, no paranoia. Our leaders in Washington could learn a thing or two from this place. I’d trade Boise for DC any day of the week.”
I am surprised to see Gearhart somewhat tipsy. The odd word slurred, eyes a wee bit red and watery.
I open my billfold and pluck a five-ski. “You won.”
“Won?”
“Bart. He knew something I didn’t.”
Gearhart waves it away.
“A bet is my word.” I smack it on the bar next to him, and by the wry smile on his lips I think he appreciates a lesson taught, and learned.
Stephanie reappears. “How’s that wine?”
“Great. I’ll take a whole glass.”
Gearhart picks up Honest Abe, studies it, smirking, as if it’s maybe counterfeit. “This isn’t currency. This is a debit note.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Our country is seventeen trillion dollars in debt, and rising. We’re in hock. No wonder I see pawnshops and consignment shops everywhere we go in Middle America. We no longer produce anything of any substance, no manufacturing, and no industry, all subcontracted to countries with slave labor. The only thing we export anymore is fast food.” He drains his wine. “While I was overseas protecting my country, it got sold out from under me.”
“That’s heavy, dude.”
“No. The heavy part is the burden that will crush the shoulders of newer generations of Americans.”
This is a side I’d not seen of Gearhart till now; must be the sauce talking.
“Who are you really, dude?” I ask.
“Really, truly?” He grins.
“Uh-huh, I’d like to know.”
“I knew your dad.”
“WHAT?”
Gearhart pulls his whimsical shrug. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out by now.”
I cannot believe what I’m hearing. “Figured out what?”
“Your dad and I worked on a tour together overseas. He’s still there, as far as I know. When I last saw him—it was some time ago—he wanted me to check in on you, see how you’re getting along in life. I promised I would.”
I’m standing there dumbfounded, not knowing what to say, and then the twinkle in Gearhart’s eye suddenly freezes and he grimaces in pain, grabs his gut.
“Are you okay?” I ask, still in a daze from his bombshell revelation.
“Yes, fine, probably a gallbladder attack, nothing serious. It’ll subside. I guess I had too much fun tonight.”
A long moment elapses and I feel, given the hour and his booze intake, it’s okay to get personal.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I say. “How long were you married?”
“Thirty-three years.” He looks down at the bar.
“That’s a long time, dude, especially these days.”
“Didn’t feel like it.” He looks up again, a bittersweet smile. “That’s what happens when you stay in motion. We moved a lot. I think it makes life go faster.”
“What was she like?”
Gearhart seems about to say something, stops himself, and starts again. “She had a great sense of humor. That’s what kept us together in difficult times.” His lips tighten, and his eyes, watery from drink, overflow into a tear. “Miss her every day.” He gets up, embarrassed, and attempts to cover up with a quick elbow movement followed by a waist-high wave good night.
I climb off my stool and face him. “Mister Gearhart? Can you tell me more about my dad?”
He waves me off, but I offer a hug, arms outstretched, partly because I’m moved by what he just laid on me, and partly because I feel like a fool for almost running away earlier.
Gearhart accepts, even holds a beat longer than I’d intended. And then without further word he goes off into the night, leaving me in Bodovina to chitchat with the bodo-vacious Stephanie.
17.
Next morning.
I’m up early, down to see Pablo, who’s already wagging his tail whenever he sees me. A quick walk to get his business done before conducting ours: the road.
“Where we headed, boss?”
“You decide.”
“C’mon. You must have somewhere in mind.”
“Not today.”
“Let me see your map.” I assess the options. “The most direct route back to Santa Barbara is through Nevada.”
“I’ve decided I hate Nevada.”
“So we’ll go west through Oregon, drop through northern California.”
“Bend,” says Gearhart.
“Huh?”
“Bend, Oregon. I’ve heard it’s pleasant. From what I’ve seen, I’m guessing there are only about three dozen places in the United States that are worthy of an overnight stay. The rest are like Butte and Cedar City.”
“You couldn’t kill a night in a normal place?”
“Life is too short.”
“Just one night?”
“Not if you live your life as if every day is your last.”
“Is that what you do?”
“The present is the most important gift you’ve got. The magic is in the moment. Look after the moment and the hours, days, and weeks will look after themselves.”
“You seem more relaxed since we started,” I say.
Gearhart nods. “I am.”
The road to Bend from Idaho is all about, well, bends, around oddly shaped hills.
And speaking of odd, Pacific Time doesn’t cut in until you’re an hour into the Beaver State, almost as if a large slice of eastern Oregon is really Idaho, but you know it’s Oregon because you’re not allowed to pump your own gas—state law—and it’s cleaner and greener than anywhere we’ve been.
“How’s your gallbladder today?”
“Better.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Depends how much fun I’m having.”
And then I drop my bomb. “What you said about knowing my father … ?” I trail off.
“Is that what I said?” Gearhart shakes his head. “I had too much to drink last night, didn’t know what I was talking about.” He takes one of his deep breaths, doesn’t even look at me.
“But …”
Gearhart shrugs, says nothing more, a body language that says finality.
We are both hungry, but most of the route is scenery and road, and the few small towns we encounter have little to offer. By noon, we figure we may as well wait until Bend for a bite.
Bite is exactly what’s going on in Bend—their annual food festival. Central streets are closed off to cars and filled with stalls run by local restaurateurs offering small portions of their best dishes for a few bucks.
We come upon the Oxford Hotel. Its look pleases Gearhart, who has been otherwise not very talkative and maybe a little hungover. He saunters in, as usual, to scope it out.
“Most expensive hotel yet,” he says, opening the back door to grab his satchel. “But what the hell, let’s celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?�
�
“Today is Father’s Day.”
“Celebrate?” I shake my head. “That was the worst friggin’ day of the year for me growing up! What about your dad?”
“Long gone.”
“How long?”
“He died when I was nine.”
“How?”
“Some kind of gut cancer.”
The Oxford’s lobby is like a yoga studio, all lightness and space.
And the room … Damn, if I thought the Wort was nice, this replaces it as the best room I’ve ever had in my life. Even the bedding … just give me a sleeping bag and sofa bed and I’m good … but this? Something called Frette, says the brochure. A spoiler.
Next I discover this place has a complimentary Laundromat—and even the detergent is free! Timing couldn’t be better since I’m wearing the last of my J. C.
Penney threads and most of my clothes now smell like Pablo.
And then I discover—glancing at their brochure—that this place is pet friendly.
I call down. “You mean my dog can come in?”
“You usually have to reserve in advance,” he says. “But we can do it. There is a fifty-five dollar charge, but that includes a pet bed and organic treats.”
“I’m in.”
Hell, Gearhart could add it to my tab.
“We can also offer you dog walking, grooming, and pet massage.”
Pet massage?
“I’m in for a grooming and massage. What time can you fit him in?”
“Hold on, I’ll check.” Moments later. “We can do it right now.”
I go down, collect Pablo, deliver him to the groomer, and launch to the food festival to feed: a slice of pizza here, Thai noodles further on, chicken curry beyond that.
I assume Gearhart is around somewhere—he needed to eat, too—but I don’t want to search him out, intrude on his alone time. And, in fact, I neither see nor hear from him the rest of the afternoon as I do my laundry and take a long hot bath, for whatever reason assuming we’d do our own thing come evening, me and Pablo, fresh and clean with a blue ribbon affixed to his collar.
After the festival ends at six o’clock, the streets go quiet and Bend is deserted.
At 6:33 my room phone rings.
“I’m going to a place called the Pine Tavern for a cocktail and dinner,” says Gearhart. “Feel welcome.”
“Are you sure?”
“I dragged you along on this road trip, so I’ve got to make sure you’re fed.”
“No, really. Don’t feel like you have to entertain me.”
But he had already hung up.
18.
“Happy Father’s Day,” says Gearhart, raising his martini glass at the Pine Tavern’s bar.
“I told you,” I say. “It’s not something I celebrate.”
“You’ve got to get over it.”
“Why?
“So you can move on. It seems to be holding you back from getting on with your life. How do you think I felt when I lost my father at nine years old?”
“At least you had one.”
“Granted. And he got stolen from me just when I started to need him most. So I knew what I was missing. It took a long time—a real long time—and you never really get over it, but you get on with it.”
“How?”
“Buy yourself a lockbox, a little safe with a key. Then grab a pen and paper and write down everything you feel about Father’s Day, about amusement parks, about not knowing your dad. Write it all down—everything—no matter how long it takes or how much paper you need. And when you’re done, place it in the box and lock it away. That’s where it shall remain thereafter. Once a year, if you feel like it, maybe on Father’s Day, you can open the box and revisit what you wrote. And then put it back and lock it up again.”
“Why do you think he didn’t want to know me?”
“How do you know he didn’t?”
“People have choices.”
“Life gets complicated. Or so it seems to people until the passage of time offers perspective.”
“But in Boise you said you knew him.”
“Did I say that? On the day of my father’s funeral,” continues Gearhart, “my mother gave me his wristwatch. I’ve worn it every day since. Nothing special, just an old Benrus. But it gave me comfort.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For taking up your time like this without advance notice,” says Gearhart, digging into wild Chinook salmon.
“Nah, it’s been good to get away.” I look down. “I didn’t want to take this job, tried my best to get out of it. But now I’m not sure I want to return.” I look back up again, shake off the sentiment. “These hotels are just too good. Where are you going after this?”
“I don’t know,” Gearhart says quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. I don’t know. That’s the truth. Why are you asking?”
“I don’t know, maybe to stay in touch? I’ve never learned so much in a few days as I have traveling with you, you know.”
“You know.”
“Well?”
“We’ll see. This road trip isn’t over yet.”
19.
Next morning: early to rise after early to bed, and a spectacular view of a rising sun on Mts. Faith, Hope, and Charity—and Mount Bachelor farther to the east. I had checked out the Astro Lounge, recommended by Bronwyn, our server at the Pine Tavern, but after popping my head in, I just didn’t feel like staying out late drinking.
In the lobby I encounter Gearhart scowling at his bill. “Thirty bucks for a dog massage?”
“Pablo was stressed,” I say. “Traveling is tough on him. Deduct it from my tip.”
“What makes you think you deserve one after getting me out of bed at two thirty in the morning to haul you out of the clink?”
“C’mon—look at him.”
Pablo is still sporting his blue ribbon.
Gearhart shakes his head, attempting dismay, veiling a grin.
The trunk roads are lined with pine trees that soon give way to redwoods, among the tallest and oldest in the world: whole long stretches—pure and green with towering sequoias on either side. In just a few days, after I started paying attention, I’ve seen a good amount of Mother Nature.
“Looks like we’ll drive through Grant’s Pass,” says Gearhart, studying his map. “There’s someone I’d like to look up near there, in Jacksonville.”
“Your call, boss.”
I hadn’t seen him use a cell phone before, but crafty old Gearhart pulls one out of his bag—nothing fancy, just a flip phone—and he plays with it a bit, fitting the battery, I think. He gingerly taps out a number and has a mumbled conversation with someone.
“Okay,” he says to me when he’s done. “Instead of going west when we reach I-5, we need to go east, get off at Medford.”
We find the house belonging to Gearhart’s friend at the very top of a dead-end road on a hill.
“Wait here,” says Gearhart.
He gets out and rings the doorbell, and waits. And waits. And waits.
Finally, an old man answers, scraggly gray hair and liver spots all over his face. He must have been ninety years old.
They hug, exchange a few words, and Gearhart walks over to where I’m waiting inside Abe with my window down.
“I thought we’d take my old friend out for lunch, but I can see it’s not easy for him to go anywhere. So I’m just going to sit and visit with him for a few minutes.”
“Go for it.” I alight, open the passenger door, let Pablo out to pay his dues.
It takes Gearhart’s friend a good five minutes, one small step at a time, to get from his front door to a bench on the front patio.
Gearhart sits with him, and they chat.
His friend fumbles with a canvas bag, pulls out an oxygen tank, and attaches it to his nose.
They seem to be reminiscing. I catch onl
y snippets of hushed chatter. Paris, Beirut, Baghdad. This name, that name.
Finally, Gearhart helps him up and back to his front door, sees him in, returns to the car.
“Poor old bastard,” he says. “I didn’t know he has COPD.”
“What’s that?”
“Lung disease. He smoked like a fiend. Getting old is tough. His mind is as sharp as a tack. I think I’d prefer it the other way around: a working body and dementia, a mental fade-out instead of physical breakdown. In fact, I’d rather not be seventy-nine.”
“That’s not old.”
“It is for him.”
“I could tell.”
“I think I’m the only one from the old shop who’s ever been to his house.” He pauses. “Friends are important. Do you have any?”
“Any? You think I have no friends?”
“True friends are rare,” says Gearhart. “I could have asked if you have many friends, but fewer is truer. You only need less than a handful.”
“Need for what?”
“To talk to, share experiences, reference points for more talking.”
“I guess I have one or two like that.”
“Do they go back a long way?”
I shrug. “I’m not good at staying in touch.”
“Are they a positive influence on your life?”
“Why is that important?”
“People partly become who they associate with.”
“Oh, like peer pressure?”
“No, beyond that. Grown-up friends.”
“You’re assuming I’ve grown up.”
Gearhart nods, says something under his breath like, finally, it’s taken long enough.
I let it pass.
“Who’s your best friend?” he asks.
I consider this, deeply. “My mother,” I finally say.
Gearhart smiles.
“You think that makes me a momma’s boy?”
“No. I think it’s charming. Does she know where you are?”
“She knows I’m driving someone on a road trip.”
“Most people make friends where they work,” says Gearhart. “That’s not the best way. You can lose them, based on how things play out in the workplace.”
“Never been a problem for me!”
Gearhart chuckles, gets it.
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