Author’s Note:
I found a lot of amazing stuff when I recovered my early writing off that battered CD last week. I've resurrected the idea of stitching my common themed short stories into a novel. It's not likely that I'll ever finish it, but it I'm enjoying the process right now.
This an extensively modified journal entry from the Summer of 1987. I'm most comfortable writing in the first person, but this piece should be considered fiction. While it is based on a real experience of mine from that year, I've modified it to fit into my short stories of the era. It's not really a story on its own, but an introduction to a couple characters that recur in my short stories.
This scene takes place two years before The Protest
that I posted a couple days ago.
Warning - Gay Themes and Strong Language
I flew down the abandoned right-of-way of the Milwaukee Railroad on the south bank of the river through town. This new mountain bike was a kick-ass joy to ride. I slipped down onto a footpath through the brush closer to the river beyond the crumbling weir and diversion channel, the source of an irrigation canal that snaked through the west side of town. Up one slope and then instantly down the next, a whoop-dee-do, as one of my riding buddies would call it, then immediately up again to rejoin the old tracks under the Madison Street bridge.
Dodging scrap piles of rusty spikes and tie plates under the bridge, I set my sights on the next bridge down the line, Higgins. The tall mission-style brick tower of the old Milwaukee Station loomed over the far side of the bridge. Three minutes to get there and I circled around the backside of the station. I caught the gravel station access road at the crossing over that same irrigation canal. I pedaled up the slope then onto the sidewalk where 3rd Street meets Higgins Avenue and I rolled up to the theater.
I arrived late, hopefully not too late for the 7pm showing. I had heard of this film several years earlier but never had the opportunity to see it. The Crystal Theater, Missoula's art film house, was the only place in town, probably the only place in the whole state, that would ever show Koyaanisqatsi.
The bike rack was full, as was the next one in front of the outdoor equipment store. I quickly locked my bike to one of the wrought iron tree protectors of the city’s third attempt to bring street trees to commercial areas. Breathing hard from my breakneck ride and the early summer evening heat, I stepped through the door to the box office and bought a ticket.
The attendant, a pierced and spiky young punk rocker, said, "Not many seats left. It's starting right now."
I walked into the darkening theater just as the lights turned down. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I pushed down a row and plopped down into the first empty seat I could find. One side of me sat an older couple that I wouldn't have expected to see at this sort of film. The guy in the seat to my right had what I could only call a fierce beard. He didn't look at me as I sat down.
The nice thing about this art-house theater is that they have neither previews for coming attractions nor ads. We went straight into the feature. Some people would say that selling beer was actually the place's greatest asset.
The film proved as intense as I had heard. The driving music, the cinematography, and film effects blew my mind. It developed with neither actors nor dialog: just music and imagery. It's an acid trip without the acid: life out of balance. About forty minutes in, after one of the more frenetic sequences slowed down, I happened to glance at the bearded man next to me. Illuminated by the screen, I saw tears streaming down his face. He stared resolutely forward, eyes locked to the screen, mesmerized. Then I noticed the older couple to my left had abandoned the experience. I didn’t even see them go. I wondered if I should move over a seat to give the bearded guy some space. I didn't move though, the film pulled me in again and I lost the awareness of being a person sitting in a seat.
When the film ended, the audience sat dumbfounded and quiet. Slowly, almost one at a time, people got up to leave, walking out in silence. Just as I was about to rise from my seat, the bearded man turned to me and uttered quietly, “Intense."
"No shit," I responded as we locked eyes for a moment.
We both got up and joined the line of people exiting through the front of the theater. I was surprised to see that it was still light outside. Summer nights in Missoula are bright until almost eleven.
I turned to the bearded guy and said, "I'm going to go smoke a bowl by the river. You need a hit?"
He hesitated and then said, "Yeah, that'd be good, thanks." He dried his face with a red paisley bandana.
I was impressed that the film had moved him so much. I like sensitive men that don’t repress everything they feel. I stepped up to my bike and knelt to unlock it. When I stood up, I turned and remembered to introduce myself, "I'm Karl."
"Nathan," he said, there was no handshake. We started to cross 3rd Street to the ramp down to the old train station and I noticed him eyeing my shiny new bike. "Nice bike - I've never seen a white mountain bike. What is it? Really weird rear fork geometry."
"It's a GT. A buddy owns a bike shop up in Big Fork. He gave me a great deal. I don't think anyone wanted the white one."
Nathan grunted in agreement as we rounded the side of the railroad station. We passed the old railroad signal standing sentinel between the former tracks and the river. It stoically waited to direct trains that could never arrive. Stashing my bike in the brush and descending a vague footpath to the river, we located a couple of well-placed riprap boulders, both securing the riverbank from erosion and providing convenient seating.
Sitting next to one another, I pulled a tiny leather bag from my pocket. My soapstone pipe, carved by a friend from Bozeman, had originally been quite phallic in shape. When I pointed that out, he snatched it back and reshaped it with deeper curves to make it more feminine in appearance. He admonished me, saying I needed more female influence in my life.
I packed the bowl and handed it to Nathan. He flicked the lighter and took a deep draw. He convulsed once, holding in a cough with a loud "snick" sound and handed the pipe back. I scanned the riverbank above us for passersby. When Nathan exhaled, I watched the smoke to see which way it blew. It pays to be careful. Then I took my hit.
"That's tasty bud."
"Thanks, I have no idea where it came from or what it's called," I said, forestalling the next question I expected from him. I paused as he took his second hit, waiting for him to exhale to ask my question, “Where you from?"
"Born here," he answered, "lived here all my life."
"Yeah? What high school?" I asked while nearly choking on my hit.
"Hellgate, '75"
"I was Sentinel, '78. I've just moved back to town. I've been up on the Blackfoot Reservation near Browning for the last five years."
"You a tribe member? Half-blood? You don't look like it."
"No, no, going up there is a long story. I'm back here trying to reset my life."
"Yeah, reset your life — I've just blown mine up."
I paused, waiting to see if he'd continue.
"I quit my job last week. They wouldn't give me time to care for my Dad — said if I took any more time off, they'd fire me. I walked out on my shift." Nathan suddenly snorted and then composed himself, "Dad died this morning."
"Jesus. I'm sorry to hear that. You chose a hell of an intense movie for such a day.
"I didn't know what it was. I just walked in there as something to do. I’ve been wandering all day since they picked up his body. I think I've been living my life all wrong."
"Listen, man, I'm a total stranger. If you need to talk to the proverbial disinterested third party — this is your chance. I'll listen." I couldn’t believe what I just heard myself say.
He turned and looked at me silently for a moment. Suddenly, he handed the pipe back to me, stood up and said, "Let's walk."
I put the stash away and pulled my bike out of the brush. "I need to lock this up somewhere," I said, looking around. I spotted the guard rail between the road and the irrigation canal. We walked over and I lifted the amazingly light bike over the guard rail to hide it. I secured it and then stood up to face Nathan.
He looked at me with eyes ten thousand miles away. We started walking back east under the bridges along the dead railroad path. We walked in silence for fifteen minutes before he said, “Dad had a heart attack in the log yard. He was the yard boss. He was grading and tagging. He fell where no one could see him. This happened about a year ago.”
“He was out there for an hour before somebody found him. They shut down the log yard and the deck chain. After a half hour, they shut down the transfer chain, and the saws stopped. Nobody came to tell me until the ambulance left.”
“I'm a sawyer—um, was a sawyer at the same mill. Dad got me the job at the mill five years ago. He was friends with Ed Polleys, the grandson of the guy that started the mill way back at the turn of the century. They served in WW II together.”
“When Uncle Ed died a few years ago, the family sold the mill to IdaMont. They took control of the mill about a month before Dad’s heart attack. He was really pissed about the takeover.”
“I got to St. Pat's Hospital about twenty minutes after the shutdown. He was still in emergency, but they let me in to see him.”
“It was bad — he needed a triple bypass. He was in the hospital for three weeks.”
“When he finally got to come home, there were letters from IdaMont waiting. A formal reprimand for violating safety protocols in the log yard. In the second letter, they fired him.”
“He gave his life to the mill. He worked there for forty years. He just rolled over and gave up. He never recovered. He wouldn’t do the exercises, he wouldn’t do the diet.”
“I watched him fade away, and I couldn't do anything. I could tell the end was near last week. I tried to get time off, but they said no. I had already used all my leave dealing with him. So I walked out.”
“Your mother?” I asked.
“She passed ten years ago. Breast cancer.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“No, just me.”
“Jesus, man, this is really rough,” I said. I wanted to reach out to hug him, but, shit, he’s a stranger, and I’m a gay man. I can’t risk it. This guy’s got enough trouble.
By this time, we had walked the Milwaukee grade beyond the university and into Hellgate Canyon. We climbed up a rock outcrop on the canyon wall and sat for an hour talking. We had a lot in common when it came to recreation and political beliefs. Sometimes our conversation lulled, and we silently watched freight trains pass on the Burlington Northern tracks on the other side of the river. The sun had set, and the sky faded to the orange color of distant forest fire smoke when we climbed back down to the old railbed.
When we turned back to head into town, Nathan asked me, “Do you have parents still in town?”
“Well, yeah, but we don’t talk. I doubt they even know I’m back.”
“Wha'd you mean?”
“My parents threw me out in '82.”
“Why’d they do that?”
“Man, you got enough going on, you don’t need to borrow my troubles on top of what you've got.”
“Karl, you’ve done me a great favor this evening listening to me. This has been a terrible day. I never got to bed last night. You’ve grounded me when I thought I was going to explode. There’s so much here to get my head around.”
“Yeah, but my sob story is not gonna do either of us any good right now.”
We walked on in silence for a while when he suddenly asked, “Were you in prison?”
I laughed, “No, it was worse than that. I’m not gonna play twenty questions. Here, I’ll just say it, and then we can go our separate ways.” I stopped walking, steeling to defend myself from a violent reaction. “I’m gay.”
He snorted and said, “No way.”
I just looked at him.
“You’re serious?” he said with a furrowed brow.
I nodded.
"You're into — kids?", he hesitantly asked.
"Holy fuck! No!", I shouted a bit louder than I intended. "Jesus fucking Christ, where did that come from? Do you hang on every word of Jesse fucking Helms and that withered orange juice bitch?"
"Sorry, no, I've never met anyone gay," he said. “I didn’t know.”
"The hell you haven't met gay people. You’ve met hundreds. You just didn't know it.”
"Why are you gay? Maybe you've just not met the right woman?"
I rolled my eyes at that trope. "That's a myth—it doesn't work that way—really, man, I don't want to talk about this. You don’t need this right now, and I sure as fuck don’t want it. You got three options: you can walk away, come at me with a baseball bat, or just shut the fuck up about it."
He stood silently for a moment with a confused, shocked look on his face. “Can we keep walking?"
"Yes, my bike is just past the bridge. I'll get out of your face."
"No—will you head downtown with me? I need a drink, but not alone.”
I looked intently at him, trying to read his facial expression in the dying light. His brow had furrowed again, and I got the impression of concern or contrition; sometimes I have trouble reading people. The silence became awkward, and I blurted out, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to explode at you. Your shit is way deeper than my shit right now. I said I will listen to you, and I’ll do that. Sure, let’s go for a drink, but you need to know, after five years with the Blackfeet, alcohol is not what I'd choose.”
We walked under the bridge and over to my bike. I unlocked it, lifted it over the guardrail. When this was an active train station, they had a long metal staircase from the station platform straight up to the Higgins Avenue bridge. I strode over to it with my bike on my shoulder. The structure looks derelict, but it's still open. Nathan followed behind without comment.
The bridge’s sidewalk was not wide enough for two people to walk abreast. I put the bike down and gestured Nathan to pass me. I wheeled the bike along behind him. I wasn't sure if I could trust him, and I didn't want him unseen behind me.
As we approached the north end of the bridge at the Wilma Theater, I called out to him, "Where are we heading?"
He turned and said, "How about The Ox?"
"Sure," I said as the sidewalk widened and we could walk side by side. We crossed Front Street to the front of the old Art Deco Florence Hotel.
"You a brains and eggs man?" I asked Nathan. It was the Ox's signature meal.
"I never had the guts to try that," he said.
As it was a Wednesday night, The Oxford would be a quieter place than Luke's or the Top Hat. I supposed that meant he wanted to keep talking. That's a good sign. I was in no mood for a loud band.
Four blocks later, we got to The Ox and I was surprised to see a real bike rack in front of it. I wheeled the bike up and locked it.
It wasn't crowded. Most of the people were in the backend at the poker tables. We sat up at the bar.
"I'll buy you a shot," I said to him, "what are you drinking?"
"Jack," he said.
I held up my hand and the bartender came over. "A Jack Daniels for my friend and I'll have whatever tequila you got open."
"You want to open a tab?" the bartender asked.
Nathan said, "yes," simultaneously with my "no."
"I'm only having one," I told Nathan.
"I am having more, probably a hell of a lot more."
I shrugged and frowned.
The bartender brought shot glasses over and poured them in front of us.
I pushed a fiver over to him and said, "keep the change".
I lifted my tequila to Nathan and paused for him to lift his. "To your father." I saw Nathan's eyes widen for just a moment as if I had reminded him of something he had momentarily forgotten. "To my dad", he said quietly. We downed our shots.
"Let's move over to a table," I suggested and Nathan instantly agreed.
He called over to the bartender, "keep 'em coming."
I felt obligated to add, "Not for me—just give me a 7-up or something like it."
We settled into a table against the wall with our drinks. This place, with the harsh bare fluorescent tubes on the ceiling, always struck me as unpleasant. The waitress, a woman that looked to be from the Flathead Tribe, brought us our drinks. "You want menus?"
"No," we both said together this time.
After she left, Nathan asked, "What's with that baseball bat thing?"
I looked at him for a moment and said, "that's one of the ways that we die. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person and it ends at the county morgue."
"Jesus,” he uttered and downed his next shot. "You thought I would do that?"
"I don't know you. I don't know what you would or wouldn't do," I explained.
"Jesus," he uttered again.
We sat there talking until midnight. I failed to talk him out of drinking. He kept poking at me, asking why I was gay. "My body responds to men and not at all to women," I said. "I don't know why."
It wasn't long until Nathan was shitfaced drunk, and the bartender cut him off. I worried about how he was going to get to his home. You can't just call a taxi on a weekday after midnight in this town. I wondered why the hell I even cared, but couldn’t deny that I did care. Was I so fucking lonely that I fell for an unreachable straight guy in just four hours flat?
“How are you getting home tonight?” I asked.
"My truck's still by that theater. I’ll drive."
“No, you can't. You shouldn't try." Hell, this was now a rescue and up to me. "I'll go get it. Give me your keys. What does it look like? What street is it on?"
"F150, blue, by the pool hall.”
"You stay here. I'm going to get your truck and take you home," I said slowly and distinctly as if he were hard of hearing.
The waitress stepped up and said, "He's got a tab to settle." I pulled out my wallet and handed her a wad of twenties. It's all yours if you hold him here long enough for me to get the truck. She looked at the money, then up to me, then over to Nathan. She shrugged and said, "OK".
"Give—me—your—keys," I clearly enunciated to the blurry-eyed Nathan. He clumsily complied.
I walked out to my bike, unlocked it, spun it around, and headed back toward the river and across the Higgins Bridge. There were two blue F150s parked on opposite sides of the street near the theater. I was lucky. The key opened the first one I tried. I hoisted my bike into the rear bed, got in the truck, started it, and headed back to the Ox. At this hour on a weeknight, parking right in front was easy.
I went back in, and Nathan was not in sight. The waitress saw me and pointed back to the poker tables. Fortunately, they wouldn't let him play, I assume due to drunkenness. I went back there, found him, and escorted him out the front door. Getting him in the truck wasn't too bad, but the moment I got the door shut, he slumped against it and passed out. I didn't try to put a seatbelt on him.
Goddamn, he hadn't told me where he lived. I reached over to the glove box to find the truck's registration in the hopes of finding the address. Bingo, Upper Miller Creek Road.
I started the truck and headed south to Brooks Street and out of town. The place was not hard to find. I used the house key and went in to figure out where he should go. Getting him back out of the truck and into the house was an awful struggle. I got him half awake and tried to get him to walk with my support, but he outweighed me and fell over several times. Eventually, I got him onto what I hoped was his bed. He was dead to the world.
I went into the kitchen and put the keys in a prominent place on the countertop. Okay, it was time for me to disappear; he won’t even remember that I exist tomorrow. I just needed to slip out the door and forget about this guy. I walked to the door, put my hand on the knob, and my resolve crumbled.
I located a pad of paper and pen, wrote my name and phone number, and put it next to his keys. I went to the phone in the kitchen to see if the number was posted in the little window over the dial. It was. I wrote it down and slipped the paper into my pocket.
I closed the front door behind me and lifted my bike from the back of Nathan’s truck. I mounted it and took off down the dark shoulderless road in the unusually warm night air.
It took about forty minutes to ride home.
I locked the bike in the shed out back. I sat down on the back porch and smoked another bowl while watching the stars and thinking about Nathan. I was such a fool. Why do I always try to rescue them, and nobody ever tries to rescue me?
After some quiet time, I slipped in through the kitchen door. My roommate, Otter, had left his carton of milk out on the counter. I put it away for him.
On getting to my room, I found it swelteringly hot. I had left the window closed. I pushed it open, stripped off my clothes, and sat down naked at my desk. I switched on the computer, and I spent the next hour writing in my journal about this unsettling day.