by John Siwicki
Great! Thanks for coming, Sam said.
Where’s your girl, birthday boy?
She’s down by the river. We just got here.
How does hitting the big 3-0 feel?
Just another day, Sam said. Older for sure. Wiser, I’m not sure. Let’s head down to the river.
The driver of the dirty skull covered black Ford was Spratt. He ran a popular watering-hole in Four Corners called The Cutlass. A sinewy and scruffy guy with long locks, and ragged beard. His arms were covered with tattoos of skulls, and he was always chewing on a cigar. He draped and decorated his bar like a pirate ship. There was ornate bogus treasure spread around the bar, an array of swords hanging on the walls, and a Jolly Roger waving out front atop the door. His family moved to Four Corners when he was a kid from parts unknown, and had been friends with Sam ever since. Along with the bar, he owned some land with his girlfriend, Sue. They had an organic farm, and he was one weird wonderful figure selling fresh vegetables at a farmer’s market on weekends.
Hey, birthday boy, wait-up, Spratt yelled, then jumped out of the truck sporting a grin trailed by a cloud of cigar smoke. How does it feel to be an old man? They shook hands, and took turns punching each other’s shoulder like they always did. Let’s have a beer, he said, and fished out a couple of cans from under the cover of the metal trough.
Here, catch!
Hey! Sam yelled, surprised as the can flew toward him, and landed in his open hand.
Good catch.
Good throw.
They held the cans up, clanked them together, then guzzled, and tossed the empties in the truck.
Bring a lot of this stuff? Sam asked.
Don’t worry, we’re not running out, he said, and let out a wild howl. Then everyone nearby delivered wails of agreement to news of an unlimited supply of booze that would flow all night long.
Spratt held out another beer. Here, one more before I fire up the grill. Bottoms up.
A caravan streamed into the park, with more horns blowing, people hollering, engines revving and roaring. A crowd of more than fifty friends, and relatives, showed up for the river barbecue birthday party at The Forty that day. Some of the older folks and relatives stayed a few hours, a few left early, others spent the whole day. The diehards were there all night howling at the moon.
The music blared as a guy put on a show juggling cans of beer, and for a penalty, drank the ones he dropped. Free beer was too good a deal to pass-up, and people who had no idea what was happening showed up, joined in, and partied under the moonlight and stars.
Sam’s windows were rolled down to let in the cool evening breeze, and all around voices lingered in the trees. The river rambled under a full moon, and reflections from it beamed romantic signals to anyone in close proximity through a silent and mysterious language. Tones hovered on a familiar sweet waft of Cheech and Chong as sporadic spirited shrieks of guys and girls broke between roaring engines of cars and Harleys. Sam gulped the rest of his beer, and tossed the can out the window.
Esther took a deep breath after a round of heavy sparring with Sam, then looked him right in the eye, and in a serious tone said, I want to have kids before I’m too old.
Sam looked up, his eyes shouting—Okay, just what I was thinking! He smiled, leaned into Esther, surrounded her with his arms, and whispered, I love you. In her ear he sang, You and me—sitting in a tree—k-i-s-s-i-n-g—first comes love—then comes marriage. This has been one fantastic day.
His mouth danced on her succulent carmine lips, and his delight showed the pleasure he felt.
No—that’s not what I meant. Stop! Esther said. Her vigorous fighting tone carried anger and hope.
Sam stopped, and mumbled, What . . . did I do wrong? She shoved him back. What’s wrong? he said, perplexed. What happened?
Before I’m too old, Esther slowly repeated word for word what she had said a moment before. Sam was stunned, and stopped the mating ritual.
What do you mean?
I mean too old to have a family.
You’re not old.
She snapped back, What do you mean by that?
Hey—I just don’t . . . don’t know what you mean. Boy, did I stick my foot in my mouth, he thought, then caressed Esther’s cheek applying some charm.
You don’t have to think about settling down. That’s all I meant. You’re young, and we’ve got a long future ahead of us. Our life together will be full of surprises.
Women age faster than men, she said. We live longer, but at a certain age it becomes impossible to have children.
She touched his face, and smiled, deploying her own beguiling charm. I’ve reached a time in my life when I wonder about having someone close, and want to start a family. A family with you, Sam. With you, and no one else—just you.
Hey, I’ve thought about it—thought a lot about it, Sam said. Just not sure if it’s the right time, and, if I’m ready to take the big step. I can’t talk about this now because I’ve got to do the shots for the magazine. The guy called me today, and they need it done right away.
What are you waiting for, Sam, the right person to come along? You’re not going to be young forever.
Well, actually I am, he said, grinning holding back his glee. As long as I’m alive, and after I’m gone. My last name is alway going to be Young.
Joke about it. Keep joking . . . but I’m not waking up one morning, and saying to myself, I wish I would have gotten married and had a family. Esther had the look of determination, a look he’d seen many times—and knew well. Then the race to the oak tree where they first met on the playground in second grade flashed in his mind. He knew once her mind was made up, she’d never turn back.
You’re that person, Esther, Sam whispered. They embraced. I want a family, too. We’ll talk about it when I get back from the shoot. Tomorrow is going to be one long—rough—day, Sam thought.
The voices in the park died to a murmur, and the moon in the starry sky melted into darkness as the river flowed to an unknown place.
DRIVER ASLEEP
The driver stayed awake by listening to music playing at ear splitting volume as he navigated the narrow country roads and nameless valleys. I’ve got to make a pit stop pretty soon drummed in his head as he hammered the clutch to the floor and downshifted into 3rd gear. The engine growled up the palisades, then like an airborne lasso the car swung around the rim, latched onto a hair-pin corner. The driver’s eyes snapped open, and followed the steel guardrail stitched along the twisting asphalt vein.
Damn, I’m gonna fly off the road! he thought, and downshifted into 2nd gear as his field of vision moved from the road to the red-lining-tachometer. The car hugged and rounded the corner with no problem, landing at a section with a panoramic vista, and window to a place that seemed to emerge from a land beyond.
Man— it’s like being in the theater at the beginning of a show when the curtain opens, he thought.
The Flame of Apollo, he whispered, and turned the steering wheel like a captain gliding and swaying on waves of morning breakers curling on the bow of a ship. He parked, and watched the blinding golden majesty bubble from the horizon. He let his worries go, turned off the engine, and waited to admire how the solar splendor would sprinkle life over the earth. Moments later a peaceful golden ray rose on the steamy rolling hills and valley, illuminating the horizon, and opening the dark unseen corners of the world.
Look at that, he thought. I’m getting some shots of this.
The driver grabbed his camera from the seat, set it on the dash, and waited for the moment—just the right moment.
It’s . . . amazing, he muttered as he watched the jaw-dropping sky transform from dusk to dawn through the bug smeared windshield. Light’s the key, he whispered. He linked his thumb and fingers, leaned out the window, then held his hand to his eye, and peered through the opening, adjusting the size like the aperture of a camera lens.
Light-is-the-key, he repeated while panning the horizon, generating random pictures, and
rendering the visual ideas like a painter holding a pallet and brush. He raised the camera to his eye, and focused on a rolling dell that walked off into the horizon forever. These shots will look great! This is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
I guess the light show’s over, he thought.
He put the camera back on the seat, and headed down the valley he’d just photographed. With the car in low gear he coasted into a tunnel of trees that funneled and filtered the early sunshine. It became dark all around with only flickering lights beaming from the sun. Crisp shadows danced on leaves, and reflected in the chrome metallic veneer of the car. The driver looked up to an open spot in the branches above and watched a hawk circle around and around. It seemed to be spinning away into vortex of blue, but fought, and held its ground, floating between earth and sky.
It’s hunting for food, the driver whispered.
Being awake all night was catching up with the driver. His heavy eye-lids opened, closed, blinked more and more. The flashes of sunlight trickled through the trees, and created a hazy distorted vision as he drove under the green canopy. In the windshield he watched the shapes reflect, then roll up and over the glass. Shadows covered the sky with loneliness, and a cold feeling surrounded him, so he focused on his destination, driving faster. Up and down the looping roller coaster trails, left and right, riding a perpetual Foucault pendulum—swinging back and forth.
I need more shots of scenery for the magazine article, he thought, concentrating on staying awake, watching the trees, and keeping an eye on the road.
It seemed to be an unending course as the car penetrated the lofty trees. He drove through wooden walls of nature as scenery melted into a montage of foliage, meadows, and the occasional red barn blotch outline of a distant isolated farm.
The only decent pictures I’ve taken so far are the ones of the sunrise.
He meandered on the up-down trail in a quasi-delusional-delirium unaware, with time idle, not perceptible or changing—just stuck in the moment.
I feel like I’m the only person on the planet, he thought, then scanned the terrain. I’m really in the sticks. Just me, my camera, car, and landscape. It sure looks so serene with the sun coming up, though.
As he drove, warm sunshine fell on his face. Thoughts, images, and ideas changed as fast as he blinked. A rainbow of images switched on and off, reminding him of strobe lights in a dance hall, bodies moving in slow motion fashion, mechanical and machine-like.
Who’s in control, a creator? The environment? Me? he whispered. Is everything just a single solitary moment? Is time eventually used up, then gone forever? Where does time come from, and where does it go?
Gripping the wheel he steered into a stereo kinetic parade of images. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Man, are my eyes ever blood-shot, and I look like hell.
He bulked out a yawn as he studied his weary face. I’m drained.
Fighting to stay awake he inhaled the minimal amount of oxygen needed to sustain human existence, then glanced at the speedometer with a head that bobbed like it had no nuchal ligament.
Eighty-five miles an hour . . . I’m moving at a pretty good clip, he said.
He stuck his face outside, let the wind smack him, and inhaled some cool morning air.
That feels good, he thought
Momentarily refreshed he looked in the rear-view again and focused on his mouth. Words of sincerity tumbled off his lips as the imaginary peal of church bells rang in his head.
When I finish this job, I’m calling to pop the question, and buying her a ring, he said.
He watched the reflection of a blissful grin materialize in the rear-view.
The prettiest one in the store, he shouted out the window, then with satisfaction stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The grin turned into a big fat smile, and to celebrate, he jabbed at the horn, it blared. He yelled out the window again. And—I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I give it to you!
The driver sat back in a hypnotic state. He focused on the disappearing center line, and watched it being devoured by the machine he controlled.
He looked up, and whispered, Why is this happening?
The smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings. His vision was binocular—zooming in—following the animal as it jumped from the tall grass on the side of the road.
Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop, and plant itself in the center of the road. Then it stood there gawking back at the driver.
In a glint of time, and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.
The driver calculated the options.
A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view, and said, I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then cranked the wheel, and slammed the brakes down hard.
Tires screeched—the car whirled.
The scene in the windshield warped into a spinning whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag blowing in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again—hard! His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune, musical instruments. Gritting his teeth and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out, and across to the other side.
This is it, I’m a . . . dead man, he said in a voice that faded, and went silent.
Shit, was the last word from his mouth after seeing a fence-line with barbed-wire and split wooden posts.
He waited for impact.
Like baseball bats connected to barbed wire they bombarded the car. One after another the clipped posts flew in the air—twisting—flipping, and crashing into the car. The driver raised his arms to cover his face, and block the flying broken glass, but there wasn’t any—a mysterious force kept the windshield intact. With both hands welded on the wheel, the car changed directions, snapping and cracking like a bullwhip. Finally it waddled sideways, and stopped in the center of the road.
The driver sat staring straight ahead, trance like, breathing hard, his heart beating like a jack-hammer, pumping his face red. Both of his hands were clenched around the wheel in an iron grip. A calm silence passed through the open windows on a gentle breeze. He caught his breath, leaned forward, and rested his head on the steering wheel a moment, then sat back.
What the hell just happened? he mumbled. What was that? A little farther and I’d have gone off the cliff; right into the bottom of that gorge.
The driver blinked and crushed his wild nerves, that generated a shiver through his body. He cleared his dizzy head, then caught a glimpse of the animal as it pranced away, and vanished into the trees.
It looked just like Harley. Couldn’t have been, though. There’s no way. He closed his eyes and caught his breath.
Man that was . . . close! Not a good way to start a trip, he said looking around and confirming he was okay.
Definitely not a good way to start a trip.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and pulled over to the side.
I was lucky, he muttered. It’s a miracle I didn’t go over the cliff.
His fingers were curled around the wheel, and he pried them away like they’d been glued there.
He turned off the music, the engine, and sat in silence—breathing in life.
Totaling this car is the last thing I need. I’ve got to slow down.
As he tried to get out of the car, it seemed his legs weren’t listening to his brain, and he had to tell them to move; had to actually say, Move legs!
In the quiet, he leaned against the car and looked out at the distant swell. He watched a herd of cattle graze in the vivid landscape while they slowly moved over the hill.
Looks like a Thomas Moran painting, he thought, then stared up at
the blue sky, and those clouds up there, a fleet of ships floating on an upside down sea.
Calm, relaxed, and secure, and back into photographer mode, the driver searched for his camera.
There it is. This’ll be a good shot.
After focusing the camera on the scenery that spread through the rolling hills, up and down the valley, and all around, he realized the total silence. Nothing but quiet filled the void where he stood. No chirping birds, no breeze rustling the trees or leaves, no sounds of nature. Only the silent hush that comes before the applause at the end of a performance.
Panic raced in his blood again. What? That’s . . . strange, he said. Flustered like a shit-faced drunk, he looked left–right–behind, and spun 360 degrees as the car had a few minutes ago.
There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear. The world came to life, birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.
That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone.
Some sort of delayed shock—
He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.
Now—that—is . . . weird!
He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.
How can that be?
It looks okay under here, too, he said, crouching on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.