He comes over the hill and says, “Let me put some shorts on.”
He walks by and waves for me to come into the hut.
The hut is a nice small place.
It has a fireplace, a twin bed, and the outer walls are bookshelves filled with books.
I look at the bookshelves and see books by Nietzsche, Sartre, Richard Wright, and also many books about gardening, survival in tough environments, and how ancient civilizations and tribes from Latin America to Africa lived.
Misail waves for me to follow him outside.
We walk into the forest.
It is quiet except for the sound of bugs and an owl.
Misail doesn’t speak.
I follow behind him a few feet.
We used to talk a lot but now he says nothing.
He doesn’t even ask me how my trip was.
We get to a small creek.
He grabs two fishing poles leaning against a tree.
He hands one to me without speaking, goes over to a box, opens it and puts a worm on a hook. He motions for me to do the same.
We sit together on the ground.
We cast our lines into the water.
Misail’s silence continues.
I do not know what to say. He was always the one who spoke when we knew each other in Youngstown.
Misail sighs and says, “I don’t have anything to say. I haven’t had to deal with the shit of the world for a long time. There isn’t anybody else here to bitch about. No one is here to make fun of, analyze, criticize, or make drama with. When I talk all I hear is silence. Sometimes rabbits eat my crops and I bitch about that in my head. Sometimes spiders get in my hut and I bitch about them in my head. But besides that, there is nothing to say. In our society, we grow up hearing and eventually talking about only a few things. We talk about ourselves and our problems which involve other people, but there are no other people here to give me shit. We talk about our ambitions and accomplishments, but there is nothing to accomplish here. The forest offers no degrees, raises, or awards. We talk shit about other people, but there are no other people here. We talk shit about ourselves, but we hate ourselves because we relate ourselves to others, and still there are no other people here. We talk about religion and government, but the redwoods have no religion and the rabbits don’t hold elections. I’m sorry if I am not good company. But I must tell you this: I don’t have any interest in hearing about why you’re here. What people and their behavior, what political, sociological, philosophical madness has brought you here to me. I’m sure it is all true, that it is very important to you. But I’m sure telling me won’t make a difference. Please sit here and catch a fish with me. If you would like to talk about the redwoods or about what types of fish swim in this creek, you may. I have heard and thought enough on the world of people.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Good.”
We sit for a while and talk about the redwoods. Misail tells me the ages and what berries can be found in the Cascades and while we are walking back to his hut a deer walks by. We look at the deer.
I spend a week with Misail.
I help build a new bathroom.
Fish in the stream for a little bit.
Shoot the bow and arrow at a target.
Help take care of the garden.
Learn how to skin a rabbit.
The days are nice and I become rejuvenated a little.
It is a nice escape.
But it is too lonely.
Misail and I are sitting outside his hut.
The sun is shining and it is a beautiful day in the forest.
I say to Misail, “I have to go now. I’ve got to get back on the road.”
“Where are you going to go?”
“The desert.”
“What’s in the desert?”
“I don’t know, but it seems right to me.”
“It’ll be hot there.”
“I don’t mind. I can handle heat,” I say.
“What are you gonna do for money?”
“Oh, fuck, who cares. Work somewhere I guess.”
“Wait, hold on.”
Misail goes into the hut then returns.
He hands me a wad of money.
I take it and say, “Thank you. You don’t need it?”
“No, I have enough.”
“Thank you, Misail. I’ll be back one day to visit.”
“If you never make it back, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.”
I get my stuff from the hut and Misail and I walk to the car together.
I look at Misail.
He looks okay.
He looks like he made a choice he can live with.
I look at him and say, “What are you going to do?”
“Someday a bear will eat me and perhaps my life will come to some use.”
I laugh, get in my car, and leave.
12
I’m sitting on the hood of my car.
I’m in Nowhere, Utah in the middle of the night.
At a lookout that overlooks a valley where more dinosaur bones were found than any other place on earth.
At least that is what the little plaque says.
It is around a hundred degrees out.
I’m sweating on top of dry sweat.
Shirtless, wearing a bandanna to keep the sweat out of my eyes.
Misail gave me two-thousand dollars.
I don’t know why he gave it to me.
I think I’ll start over.
Maybe
be
someone new.
Who knows?
~ ~ ~
“It sure is hot out here,” I say, laughing in the desert.
TWO OLD LOVERS BRING THEIR GUNS
Around eleven o’clock at night the phone rings. It says on the caller ID Benway and a phone number. The name Benway and the phone number lead to my ex-girlfriend I had three years ago, Jessica Benway. I stare at the phone number and it all flashes in my mind, all seven years of weird hell I had with that girl. All the fights, all the yelling, and even some good times; there were good times. There had to be good times sometimes or I wouldn’t have stayed. I remember the best times were when we weren’t talking. Like watching television in silence or eating in silence or showering together in silence.
Sometimes I look at Benway’s MySpace page. I stare at the photos of her face and think, ‘She still looks kind of pretty. It is nice that pictures are silent.’ Now I am not trying to say women shouldn’t talk. I love to hear Isabella and Sasha talk. But Jessica was not my type. She was one of those classic leftovers from high school. We started dating in 10th grade, then we went out and broke up and went out again and broke up again for too long. Our problem, or at least my problem, was that if I totally broke up with her then I would have to admit high school was over and that I was totally an adult, and that was something I did not want to do and still today I don’t want to admit such an atrocity.
But it’s strange that she would be calling because from what her MySpace page says, she got married, had a baby and moved to northern California. Maybe she is home on vacation, I don’t fucking know. This is terrifying. Picking up the phone is dangerous. Don’t we already have closure? Isn’t closure totally completed after you get married to someone else? Doesn’t like Jesus come down and anoint the married couple in closure oil or something.
I pick up the phone.
“Hello.”
“It’s me, Jessica.”
“Okay.”
“I’m home on vacation and want to see you.”
“Aren’t you married and shit?”
“Yeah, so, I don’t want to fuck you. I just want to sit and talk. My husband is back in California. I just want you to come over and drink coffee with me for an hour. That’s all.”