by John Siwicki
The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late.
He read one new message.
Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.
Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her.
You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made. I’m okay.
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.
Call you later :-)
He set the phone down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.
Now, let’s see. Where I am?
He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines, and printed figures.
Here’s the road, Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.
He sat back and ate the sandwich.
For some reason this road and place feels and looks so familiar. I drove it when I was a kid, but that was years ago? Feels like a dream or something.
He started the engine, stepped on the gas.
OLD MAN
Sam was feeling rested as he rambled down the road again. As the car twisted on the corkscrew country road, he was steady, vigilant, and ready to slam the break to the floor. He scanned the tree line for other animals that might hurdle themselves across the center line, then reached to turn on the music. It played in time with the hum of the engine, and the melody interloped with dust particles jarred by the invigorating breeze that blew through the windows. Then for a moment he spied a hill to the right where an oddly familiar broad full sized oak stood, and its shadow floated. As he drove closer his eye caught the movement of a figure walking near and around the tree, then it disappeared again into the shade of the tree.
Where did he go? Who’s that? he whispered.
Hooked by curiosity, and his attention captured, he had to know who it was, and what was going on.
Maybe he needs help, Sam said, and pulled the car over to the side of the road. He turned off the engine and sat quietly for a time watching, then got out and stood on the road next to the car. He waited there looking up the hillside, then saw the shadowy figure again.
It’s an old man, Sam said.
He watched the guy walk around, look up, and gesture to the tree, branches, and leaves. The old man moved without logic. Back and forth, sometimes his arms waved slowly, then quickly. Sam walked to the bottom of the hill to get a closer look, and to find out what the guy was doing up there next to the tree.
Hey, Sam shouted. Do you need help?
There was no reply at first, but when he shouted again the man’s head jerked up. Sam cupped his hands around his mouth like a small megaphone and yelled once more, slowly, one word at a time, Do-you-need-any-help? Are-you-okay? He waved and shouted again, Hey! You okay? The old man stood motionless, arms down at his side, staring at the tree. Sam knew the old man had heard him because he looked his way a few times.
Why isn’t he saying anything, waving, or signaling. Maybe the old guy wandered away from a nursing home, and needs help. He could just be lost?
As Sam maneuvered through the three-strand barbed wire fence along the roadside, his shirt caught tearing a big hole when he pulled away, he grunted angrily. I hope this is worth doing.
He made his way up the hill, slipping, then fell a few times, and a few more times.
What the hell am I doing this for?
A torn shirt, hands and pants covered in dirt, he finally stood at the top.
Made it! Now, where is this old guy?
Breathless, Sam rested a moment, then scanned the area and walked closer to the tree.
There he is, Sam said. Hello, fine day isn’t it?
Now with a clear look at the man, he saw they were about the same height. He looked in good shape, and stood exceptionally straight for an old-timer. His long white hair and beard blew free and graceful in the breeze.
He looks like a wizard from mythology. All he needs is a pointy hat and cloak, Sam thought. Maybe he’s an artist or a painter? He could be painting landscapes. There’s a nice view from up here. Don’t see a canvas or paint, though.
Sam looked toward the bottom of the hill to the road below.
My car looks like a toy from here. Looks like I could pick it up, and hold it in my hand.
The old guy looked at the Sam, grumbled, and said, Fine day for you maybe, but not for me.
What? Why is that? Sam asked, then walked closer. Having some trouble?
Trouble? Do you know what trouble is? What real trouble is?
What’s wrong? Maybe I can help?
You can’t help me.
Why not?
This tree is dying.
Tree is dying! Are you kidding me? What’s this old guy talking about? What’s he on?
The tree looks fine to me. Are you sure it’s dying?
Damn right, I’m sure! Why else would I be here?
I don’t get what you mean?
Of course you don’t understand. It’s hard for me to comprehend, but this tree—you—me, and everyone’s the same. All the same. It’s just that some of us get to choose the time and place of our departure. Trees can’t.
I don’t get it. Departure? But, well, I guess we’re the same as trees in some way, but different in other ways. I don’t think people are trees. Anyway, what are you doing here? This guy looks familiar to me, Sam thought. But why?
No, they’re not, people and trees are exactly alike, and made of the same simple and basic stuff. There are a few exceptions. A few special ones; the big old Sequoia in California, and cedars in Japan on Yaku Shima. Those trees have lived a long time, and for thousands of years, but people aren’t around that long. Only their memories live on if they do something great.
How old are you? Sam asked. I know this old guy, but just can’t place him.
I don’t really know.
You don’t remember? You look like you’re about in your sixties, Sam said to be kind, but thought, This guy’s at least seventy-five, or eighty.
Not as old as this tree, the man said. Not as old as a Sequoia. They live to be thousands of years old, and are filled with glory and history.
Glory and history, this is crazy. Why did I stop? Just make the best of it, I guess. What’s your name, Sam asked.
What’s yours? he roared back.
Sam.
I’m Tom, he said, then grabbed Sam’s hand, and jerked it like a pump handle.
It’s the barber, Sam thought. He ran the shop where my studio is now. I wonder if he remembers me.
You don’t seem happy. What’s wrong?
What’s wrong? he barked, repeating the question, then walked over next to Sam and looked him square in the face. I don’t know why I’m here. That’s what’s wrong, and you don’t either. He turned, and stomped back to the tree.
There’s nothing wrong with getting old, Sam said. Do you remember how you got here?
I’m an insignificant grain of sand, and most everyone’s in the same boat, Tom said. We can count the few great people who have done anything momentous on our two hands. Imagine, out of the billions of people in the world, and only two handfuls that do anything significant. How does that happen? Why is that? Why? Do you know?
Wait a minute, Sam said. I’m sure you’ve done something to make the world a better place. We all have a purpose here. Just have to find out what it is.
Tom looked at Sam. Is that right? What have you done to make it better? Why are you here? What’s your purpose?
Well, Sam said, then paused. I started a business, a studio, I take pictures.
Tom snorted like a racehorse, and asked, How’s that helped anyone?
I’ve traveled a bit, Sam said.
Oh, yeah? Where? Tom asked, pointing his finger at Sam.
Well—? Tell me . . . you don’t know jack-shit!
You ask a lot of questions, Sam said.
You’ve made my point.
What point?
That you’re an insignificant speck of nothing blowing in the wind! People are a bunch of zombies. I didn’t tell you to stop here. Tom walked around the tree. You did that on your own. Go ahead . . . and . . . leave. I’m not stopping you. Get the hell out a here!
No, you didn’t. I stopped because I thought you needed help. Do you need help? Can I do anything for you? Sam said. His voice vibrated in waves of anger, like a bubbling spring, ready to blow, then thought, I hope he says no, so I can leave. I always liked the barber, but now . . . I don’t know. The guy’s an asshole.
He stood there with his back to Sam looking at the tree, then turned sharply like a soldier doing close order drill, and asked, Got a camera?
A camera?
Yeah, a camera, he barked. You said you were a photographer? You have one, right?
Yeah, sure, I have some cameras in my car, and one right here in my phone. Sam aimed the phone at Tom. Want me to take your picture with it?
Camera in your phone, Tom snarled, waving his hand, and shaking his head in disgust like he’d just eaten something bitter. Are you kidding me? That’s no good. I need a real camera, with real film.
I’ve got some of my gear in the car because I’m on my way to a job. All of my cameras take nice pictures. One of them should do the trick.
Are they all new fangled digital machines?
I brought a film camera along, Sam said. I’ve got an old camera I’ve had for a long time. Have color or black and white film. You can choose the flavor you like, then laughed expecting Tom to crack a smile, but he stood stone-faced.
Black and white will do nicely, he said, nodding, then walked over and stood by the tree again. He pointed to himself, and gestured at the tree. Can you take my picture standing here? Do your best Ansel Adams type shot.
Next to the tree? Sam questioned. Why is being next to the tree so important? And, you know Ansel Adams was known for landscape photography more than taking pictures of people.
I want a picture of me standing next to this tree, he said slowly, then fired off in rapid succession, I know he was a landscape photographer, and you said you do portraits. Mix them together, me, the tree, hills, valley, then he pointed at the ground, and then at the tree. Right here, this spot, right next to the tree.
Sure, wait right here. This guy’s goofy. I’m keeping an eye on him. I’ll get the camera, and be right back. Sam started walking down the hill. I should just go. I should leave now.
You got anything to drink in that car of yours? Tom yelled.
Sam stopped, and turned. Drink? he asked. Now I have to take care of this old fart. He wants to be wined and dined.
Yeah, Tom growled. Booze—man—booze. Got any?
I’ve got a bottle of whisky in the car, and a cooler with some beer in the trunk.
That makes you my best friend, Sam. Go, go, go, he ordered, and pointed down the hill.
Get the camera and booze. I’ll wait here.
Okay, I’ll be right back, Sam said, and made his way down the hill, grumbling. He walked to his car, thinking, Who does this clown think he is ordering me around? I should just drive away. Sam took out his camera, grabbed the whisky and cooler. I’m taking some pictures, then leaving tree-man the first chance I get.
Sam worked his way back up the hill, and arrived at the top breathing deep, fast, and hard. Tom was relaxing comfortably, sitting down leaning against the big oak tree. His beard blowing in the breeze, looking like the Lord of the land, arms crossed observing the valley below.
Okay, I’ve got the camera, Sam said still out of breath.
What’s wrong with you? Tom asked.
With me? Nothing. Why?
You’re breathing like a freight train?
I’ve just climbed up this hill twice, that’s why!
Just seems for a young guy you’re breathing pretty hard. Maybe you should exercise more, or have a doctor check you out. Doesn’t seem right, young guy like you.
I’m fine, Sam said. What is wrong with this old goof?
Just asking, Tom said. Don’t want you keeling over on me; got enough problems.
Here, Sam said, and handed Tom the whisky bottle.
Now you’re talking, Tom said. He grinned as he eyed the label. This is the good stuff. I believe I’ll have a swig before you snap my picture. I need to relax. Today’s been a trial.
Okay, whatever you say. You’re the boss, Sam said. He picked up a beer, and sat on the ground. The view’s nice from up here. I took some great shots of the sunrise this morning. He popped the beer open, and gulped down half of it. He loaded the film in the camera as he watched Tom take swig after swig of whiskey; pouring it down like water. Man, he’s got a hollow leg. He can really put away the booze. I wonder what happened to him after he sold the barber shop. Why is he here?
Yeah, baby. That’s the good stuff, he howled, then took another gulp, and closed his eyes, grinning like he’d just seen a treasure chest of gold coins.
It’s the same look I had when I first saw Esther coming down the slippery slide at school, Sam thought. Maybe he’s thinking about a girl.
What’s the occasion? What are you celebrating?
I told you, I’m old, and celebrating being old because time’s running out. This could be my last hoorah. After this day I may be on my way out, and . . . it’s my birthday. You ready to take my picture?
Yeah, just about ready, hold on. I’ll have the camera loaded in a second.
Sam stood. Okay done, then motioned for Tom to go by the tree. He aimed the camera, and said, Hold it right there, one-two-three. The camera shutter clicked away. Got it. One more, good, hold it. One-two-three.
Tom began to wobble; the booze was kicking in. Sam wasn’t sure how much he’d had, so he grabbed the bottle and checked.
Man—you put a lot of this away, he said looking at the half empty bottle. It was full!
Did you get the whole tree in the picture? Tom asked, his voice, low, soft, and friendly.
Tom’s tone surprised Sam. What?
Did you get the tree in the picture? he asked once more.
Oh, yeah, got the whole thing in some shots, but if you want me to keep shooting, I’ll take more.
No, that’s fine, just fine, Tom said as he stood next to the tree just looking at it, then he walked around it, touching it, and stroking it—like a pet.
Sam burned up the rest of the roll shooting close up shots, odd and low angle shots, and talking a lot to make Tom feel more comfortable. Do you live around here?
No, just passing through. What about you?
Me, too, Sam said. Do you need a ride somewhere?
Yeah, I need a ride. See a car anywhere around here? Tom said. Where are you going?
Did I just make a mistake, Sam thought. I shouldn’t have asked if he needed a ride. I’m—heading down the highway on my way to Ellsworth. I can drop you off at the next town if you like.
Sure, nothing going on here. Let’s go, Tom said, and took one last look at the old oak. Bye tree, he whispered, and walked toward the path to the bottom of the hill.
You have a small bag there, Sam said.
Got everything I need in here.
Traveling light is the way to go, I guess, Sam said, and grabbed the cooler. Tom carried the whisky, and took an occasional swig as they made their way down the hill. They looked back at the tree several times watching its branches wave on the horizon like a brush painting the sky canvas.
Tom stopped when he reached the road. That’s a nice car you have.
I like it. Had it for a long time, and feels like it’s part of me, and I’m part of it.
Yes sir, a nice looking machine you’ve got here. Can I drive?
Sam looked at Tom, hesitated, then asked, You got a license?
Sure, he said nodding. Had one for years.
Chees
e? Sam asked to get Tom’s mind off of driving the car.
Cheese?
Sam opened the cooler and grabbed a hunk of cheese. Here, go ahead and try this, Sam said, and handed Tom a piece of cheese.
Tom raised it to his nose, Smells nice, he said, and took a bite, then remarked, This is good stuff, thanks, very nice. Got anymore?
Sure, here, Sam said. It’s left over from my birthday party yesterday, and nothing but the best on my birthday. Not planning to ever let him drive, Sam said, Maybe, I should drive for a while to start, and let you give it a try later. Okay?
You’re the boss, Tom said, and looked into the backseat, and around the car as they headed down the highway. When did you get this car?
Had it since I was eighteen. It was a dream of mine to get it.
Yeah, I’ve had dreams, too, he said. A lot of them have come true, but some never will, then he choked up. Well, no use thinking about that anymore. Got any more beer? Tom asked.
In the cooler, Sam said.
Tom opened the cooler, took out a beer and said, Here’s to dreams that come true! You want a beer?
I can’t drink anymore. I’m driving.
Tom looked around, pointed at the trees, then at Sam. Are you kidding? No one’s here. We’re in the middle of nowhere. This place is like the Garden of Eden. One more won’t hurt. Com’on—like having forbidden fruit, go head.
Tom passed him a beer. So you’re a photographer. When did you start doing that?
Well, I’ve always liked photography. My uncle was a photographer, and I got a camera from someone on my sixteenth birthday.
Oh, yeah, what kind of camera was it?
Nikon FM 2; the same one I used to take your picture. Ever heard of it?
Oh, sure, that was a fantastic camera, Tom said. Solid, and extremely well made, like a tank. Great camera, here’s to Nikon cameras, then tipped the can of beer, and gulped a mouthful.
Do you like taking pictures, Sam asked. Got a camera?
Don’t need one anymore. If I want a picture of something I just buy a postcard. I’ll leave the picture taking to you.