tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27250038162719047722024-02-19T05:15:56.428-07:00Fiction BlogA blog containing examples of short fiction and novel excerpts.Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-59053307329658617332018-06-16T09:26:00.002-07:002018-06-16T09:26:53.089-07:00From the first chapter of Robert Paxton's new novel - Sudden Cool Dark.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As Dalton
expected, the body was ghostly pale. It had the look of all dead bodies except
for the wooden shaft sticking out of its chest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When he had
encountered his first corpse in the line of work, a real corpse and not a
carefully prepared cadaver in a coffin at a funeral home, Dalton had learned
something about death that he never forgot. Confronted with mortality, he
realized that dead bodies look very different. They do not simply appear like
living people that are not moving. In a dead person, all nerve and muscle
function has ceased. Tissues lose their tension, give way to gravity. The face
changes as the jaw slackens and the mouth hangs open awkwardly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This body
was no different. It was a lump of muscle and other tissues. The man himself
had leaked out with his blood and dissipated forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What’s so
special?” the detective asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Look here.”
Springer brought two fingers to within an inch of the wooden shaft. He moved
them along its length, glancing back and forth from the evidence to Dalton. The
detective saw that there were small black letters and symbols carved into the
wood. There were no words that he recognized. The symbols looked vaguely
familiar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1983092088">Sudden Cool Dark</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-68406123081616992742018-05-27T21:25:00.001-07:002018-05-27T21:25:56.447-07:00Coming SoonThe first excerpt from Rob Paxton's new novel.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Sudden Cool Dark</span><br />
<br />
Available on Amazon in June.Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-64662038655320589082013-03-08T14:01:00.000-07:002013-03-08T14:01:48.275-07:00Cathedral, Part II<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Small and dark-skinned, her
features would have been frail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Were it
not for the pregnancy she would have been slim, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said that her name was Maria Teresa Rivas
Flores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was born in El Tesoro,
Honduras on July 15<sup>th</sup>, 1976.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That made her nineteen years old, but Jake knew that dates and names
changed like the weather among the destitute; whatever suits the occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked younger than nineteen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Her pregnancy was the one
thing certain about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since she was
no more than five feet tall it appeared that she was about to give birth to
some monstrous thing that would split her in two.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Have you ever been here
before?” Jake asked in slow Spanish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">She remained silent for a
moment, looking at the floor, as if in a daze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had actually failed to ever look him in the eye since he opened the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was about to ask her the
question again when she responded.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Si.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“When were you here?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The questions were standard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Checked against house records, the answers
aided in discovering if the person had been thrown out for something like
drinking, which resulted in being thrown out for six months, or fighting or
using drugs, both of which resulted in banishment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Diciembre.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As Jake noted this on his
clipboard, his stomach turned violently with the diarrhea that he couldn’t
shake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he waited out the cramp, a
drop of sweat rolled down the slope of his nose and splattered the word
‘diciembre’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly she was touching
him, her hand on his sweaty, trembling fingers that gripped the pen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Estas enfermo.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You are ill.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">When he looked up, she was
staring at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment Jake stared
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her face was marvelously
unaffected by the pregnancy; thin and brown with a clear complexion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes were large and indian black.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t smile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The moment ended when a fly,
buzzing fiercely, darted into Jake’s ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sandra and his bowels were forgotten as he swatted the fleeing
insect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he looked back at her, she
was finally smiling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“One more question,” he
announced, smiling as well, his stomach settling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why have you come to Casa Maria?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Her smile faded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My patrona fired me because I was too
pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cleaned her house and cared
for her children.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jake made a notation,
nodding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had heard many excuses for
losing the same job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes they were
true, sometimes the girl had stolen or the wife thought her husband had found
their servant too attractive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jake left her in the comedor
and went to fetch her some sheets and a pillow from the laundry room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once in the volunteers building he became
curious and, instead of getting bedclothes for the girl, he trotted down the
hall to the office, where the records were kept in an old shoe box on the
director’s desk.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He rifled through the index
until he found a three-by-five card titled “Rivas Flores, Maria Teresa.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She hadn’t lied about her name,
apparently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The front of the card
carried basic data.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been born on
the first of August 1978, and so had just turned seventeen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took her lie in stride and didn’t stop to
ponder her motives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people who came
through Casa Maria sometimes seemed to lie for no reason or simply for the sake
of lying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jake was beginning to think
that it was a form of protection; concealing your true identity, name or
age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These people had virtually no
possessions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Possibly this moved them to
guard knowledge of themselves, the last thing that could be taken from them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, for all he knew, the name was a lie;
a false name that she had memorized for shelters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, perhaps, she had lied the first time and
was now telling the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or she had
lied both times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jake flipped her card over
to see the entry date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had come to
the house on December 17<sup>th</sup>, 1994.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He read the explanation of her arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a brief note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He read it a few times before putting the
card back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He grimaced as his stomach
churned again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sat down and absently
clutched his abdomen with one hand and wiped sweat from his brow with the
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a minute he remembered the
bedclothes and stood before heading out of the office towards the laundry room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Scenes relentlessly
coalesced in his mind, one after the other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like a man bleeding to death he could not stop the flow of images caused
by the note on her entry card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He saw the
menacing faces of the men in a dark alley at night, hovering over her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no sound in the fantasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the end, men walked out into the
intermittent light of a flickering street lamp, the knees of their pants
smeared with dirt, their crotches stained with blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jake found her just where he
had left her, sitting by the door, as silent and still as something dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked briefly at him, then at the
sheets, then away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He explained to her
how to go up the stairs and into the women’s dormitory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gracias</i>,
took the pillow and bed linen and awkwardly ascended the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking towards his room down below Jake
stopped and turned to watch her reach the top of the stairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She glanced at him before stepping carefully
into the shadows of the dormitory.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jake retired to his own room
and went back to sleep, adding his dreams to the others, good and bad, that
welled up out of the rooms and dormitories like water evaporating.</span><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-54190460861046792982013-03-07T06:52:00.000-07:002013-03-07T06:53:04.654-07:00Cathedral, Part I<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqrYfs5Nl3b_FVqHA_vWDN8grhvhYRmeSDAaBOOHVoHZKKnC_1B1kAYUUoeVZTJGL0UaTXxebqIvZhr8Q1NTl7WXRyItXyNa1-MrlpFprahdmYynjgjOL0dV2JuxSZRo_gqfwcCz973c/s1600/shelter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUqrYfs5Nl3b_FVqHA_vWDN8grhvhYRmeSDAaBOOHVoHZKKnC_1B1kAYUUoeVZTJGL0UaTXxebqIvZhr8Q1NTl7WXRyItXyNa1-MrlpFprahdmYynjgjOL0dV2JuxSZRo_gqfwcCz973c/s320/shelter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Jake looked out from behind
the serving table at the sea of dark faces and felt nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was conscious only of the unrelenting heat
and the sick tide of recycled breath. The lone light bulb that jutted down from
the center of the ceiling flickered once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here and there people crossed themselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: .25in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 1.0in 1.5in 2.0in 2.5in 3.0in 3.5in 4.0in 4.5in 4.75in; text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Trastes?” Jake called,
lifting up his clipboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two
Guatemalans who had come the day before volunteered to wash dishes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got their names and asked for someone to
clean the bathrooms, the floors, the dining room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few minutes all the assignments were
taken. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">“Quien quiere orar?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jake asked them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who
wants to pray?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Rosa Maria Chavez, an old,
pious, crazy woman, led the prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
asked for work and food and faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
room was still, her words fading quickly into oblivion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she was done Jake served the first plate
of rice, beans and tortillas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he
progressed the room came alive with the exuberant voices of those sitting and
eating and the sometimes hushed tones of those still in line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he was done Jake made himself a plate
with two tortillas he had hidden away, just in case they ran out, and the
remnants of the rice and beans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He sat down with a
Salvadoran guest named Antonio Perdomo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He wasn’t using his two weeks to find work in Juarez.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like many Central American guests he only
wanted to rest before throwing himself against the increasingly impermeable
barrier of fences, water, mountains and automobiles that guarded the American
border. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After that, the night shift
wound down as always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guests carried out
their tasks and Jake reviewed them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
took in a family from Veracruz and explained the rules to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At nine he called for mothers to take their
children to their rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ninos a
dormir!” he cried from the center of the courtyard and watched to see that all
those under twelve went up the stairs that led to the women’s dormitory and the
family rooms on the second floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At ten
he sent the rest of the guests to their rooms and locked the black metal
screen<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of the guest entrance that looked
out onto the alley behind Casa Maria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was pitch black out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He closed the
heavy wooden door, locked it and turned out the lights before retiring into
volunteer quarters. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">By ten thirty he finished
the bed list; designating where every guest’s bed or stretch of floor was on a
photocopy of the floor plans and revising the roster that now registered some
eighty names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Instead of leaping into bed
at this point, Jake began to make coffee in the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He poured water into a battered aluminum urn
and waited outside while it boiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was torture to boil water in that small kitchen during summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t know how the cooks stood it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two heats, the kindled stove and the
ebbing swelter of the day, were a stunning combination.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He stood in the central
courtyard and listened to the diminishing sounds of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of the rooms and dormitories were
full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the men’s dorm there were four
men on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People spoke in hurried,
hushed tones, as eager to say what had to be said as they were to get to sleep.
The troubled susurrations of so many dreams were like the sound of distant
ocean waves crashing against the rocks of the world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Water sizzled on the stove
and roused Jake from his reverie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
went back into the kitchen and dumped the coffee grounds straight into the
boiling water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned off the stove,
let it simmer for another minute, and struggled to breathe in the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, with a rag ro hold the metal handle, he
took the coffee pot and a mug into volunteer quarters and sat down in the front
room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He picked out a book from the
rather weighty selection on the decrepit, swaying bookshelves while the grounds
settled to the bottom of the urn and the aroma filled the room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">He had come, prompted by a
priest who had become something of a mentor for Jake his final year in college.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that Jake had undergone a conversion
of any kind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had never been more or
less than an almost fallen away Catholic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He had never considered himself completely fallen away because he didn’t
bear the Church a grudge or feel any anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the University he had gone to Mass every now and then, like some
people went on and off Prozac or Zoloft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was something about the smell of candles, the dim lighting and the
near silence of so many people that recharged some kind of mystic battery
inside him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t that he worried
about an afterlife or his own fate. Rather, Jake wanted to think that things
were not as they seemed, that there were imperceptible currents of mystery
running beneath the frozen exterior of reality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">After Jake drank nearly the
entire pot he put the book back on the shelf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He hadn’t read a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The coffee
buzzed in his head like an irritated wasp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He went back to his room, turned on his fan, and lay on the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of the rooms in the house had good
ventilation and some had none at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lying in his room at night, the heat dissipating slowly, he felt like he
was suffocating and his body became sticky with sweat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Even with kinder weather
Jake couldn’t have slept much, since he was the only volunteer who heard, or
admitted to hearing, the doorbell from the confines of his room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At two or three in the morning, nearly every
morning it seemed, someone rang the doorbell and Jake, shoved out of bed by a
reluctantly Catholic conscience, put on a shirt and shorts and stumbled bleary-eyed
across the patio to the double portal that opened on to the street, beyond the
comedor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Usually, however, the
doorway was empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jake would open the
heavy wooden door and stare out through the black iron screen at the silent
obscurity of the back street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
both frustrating and disturbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
enraged Jake to think that some drunk or a conspiracy of kids might be ruining
his chances of getting a good night’s sleep and he considered not answering the
door anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he never gave up
because every once in a while he opened the door to a single mother with five
children or a refugee from some hellhole in Central America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would unnerve him to think that this time
he had almost not answered, that he might have left them on the doorstep,
waiting for help that would never come, like an unanswered prayer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Lying there, trying to
sleep, he thought enviously of all his friends from college, starting their
careers or going on to graduate school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some volunteers were really invigorated by this job, fulfilled by these
people, brought closer to God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some
stayed for years and you could see how they bloomed in this slow hell of other
people’s suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They clothed
themselves in agony and smiled, as if they had some great secret.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jake had nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surrounded by walls of ineffable suffering,
he was a naked man in a cathedral of meaning and purpose, his wordless prayers
rising with the heat and escaping into space.</span></div>
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Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-86360004137357936592013-03-02T09:00:00.000-07:002013-03-02T09:04:44.395-07:00The Smoking Mountain, Part IV<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Suddenly Mark was
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">There was smoke in
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, if you did it
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Moleskin.” He
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The two of us
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We walked a short
distance along the scoured stripe of soil until we found the Mormon Lake crew.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">When hotshots ‘cut
line’ they attack the earth, in single file, with chainsaws, pulaskis, shovels
and rakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chainsaws go first,
circling the fire, cutting limbs and roots and even felling small trees in
order to clear a path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those carrying
pulaskis follow, chopping and prying at what is left, removing large obstacles
and digging up roots and grass with their picks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shovels come next, scraping all the detritus
of this assault away from the fire, leaving nothing but exposed soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rakes come last, taking care of details,
making sure that the line is wide enough and clear of all flammable
materials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the fire, separated from
more fuel, reaches this line it dies there, leaving nothing but charred earth.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The line we followed
was a foot wide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hotshot we found
was a middle-aged black man down on his knees with a little, yellow, plastic
hand-rake in one hand and a small paintbrush in the other.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Hi there.” He said
without looking up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Name’s Quality
Control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Work’s up ahead for you
boys.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He waved the little hand rake up
the line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought it was cool that
people had code names, like G.I. Joe.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Quality Control was
several yards behind the last shovel bearer, whom we could see in the smoke
ahead of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark and I filled this
gap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put on my goggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smoke and the dust was so thick I took
off my helmet, peeled off the sweaty bandanna that I had worn under it and tied
the wet cloth over my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It stank of
sweat and hair.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
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<div class="WordSection2">
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We went to work,
prodding and scraping the soil and stones below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With twenty people ahead of us there was
little work left, though Quality Control, who had slipped back a few yards
since our arrival, stayed busy, touching and brushing the line delicately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reminded me of a baker finishing an
expensive cake.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">An hour passed like
a dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Smoke rolled above and all
around us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The flames were at times right
up against the line and as high as my knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The heat was fierce on my face and noticeable even through my protective
gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every now and then I was
startled by a sudden sense of certainty that the fire was all around us, that
we were trapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I continued
stepping up the line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere ahead,
lost in the smoke, chainsaws screamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The rushing whir of helicopter rotors briefly burst through the din of
the fire and the clatter of our tools.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Up ahead, people
began to pass a message down the line, from person to person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though few of us were more than six feet
apart, the message had to be shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
watched the hotshot in front of us bellow at Mark, his lips moving extravagantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Mark turned to me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“They say you should
only put dry cloth over your mouth.” He yelled. “To breathe through.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Why?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Because the hot air
will steam your lungs through wet cloth!”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Steamed lungs, I
thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounded like a dish in some
Chinese restaurant. Steamed lungs of dugong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe a Norwegian meal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled
the bandanna down around my neck, found a new one in my pack and put it
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quality Control bumped into me.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Lift ‘em up and put
‘em down, kid.” He said, never taking his eyes off his work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The work’s that way.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gestured in the familiar manner toward the
wall of roiling smoke into which Mark had disappeared.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Following the
furrowed path I soon found Mark, who was diligently scraping dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did the same, grimacing in pain every time
I swallowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assumed it was the smoke
I had inhaled while changing bandannas.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The ground became
hilly and, following the line, Mark and I sidestepped up and down the rises, wordlessly slashing at the terrain with our now less-than-razor-sharp
tools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smoke cleared up some, as the
hotshots began to cut farther away from the flames for strategic reasons I
didn’t hesitate to ponder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glancing up
occasionally, I could see smoke-shrouded figures at the front of the line,
chainsaws shrieking in their trembling hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Behind them, helmeted men and women swung their tools, gouging the earth
and gelding the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark and I made up
the near end of this line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quality
Control followed at some distance, but never out of sight.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Mark tapped me on
the shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was pointing up the line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian, Manny, Chad and Helen were coming our
way, pulaskis in hand.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Sedona crew is gonna
move off the line.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian shouted a
little louder than necessary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
continued in a lower tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The Mormon
Lake crew is about to join their line to the Flagstaff crew’s line and close
this side of the perimeter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re going
to the helicopter landing to unload supplies.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“How’d the Flagstaff
shots get ahead of us?” I creaked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Same way the
Prescott crew got up.” Brian replied without looking at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“By helicopter.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Mountain’s getting
kind of crowded.” Mark said, smiling like well-educated, middle class men like
him smile when forced to spend time with inbred folk like Brian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We moved out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was a little
disappointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As tiring as cutting line
was and as much as my joints ached, I wanted to keep going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead I was being demoted to loading
lackey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I had the strange feeling
somehow that it was my fault.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We walked up the
line, behind the hotshots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon we could
see the Flagstaff crew, their blue helmets bobbing up and down in rhythm with
their tools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were only ten yards
from connecting their line to Mormon Lake’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We walked along behind them for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were cutting a fair distance from the fire and lighting backfires
inside the perimeter, igniting the pine needles and undergrowth with spitting
flares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a few moments we were
enveloped in smoke as the backfire exhaled all over us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, I could see the black earth of the
fire line to my right and the occasional pair of legs, clad in Nomex, and I
followed them.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">When we emerged from
the smoke the Sedona crew was still together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Led by Brian we departed from the line and set out into the ‘green’, the
unburned area outside of the fire’s perimeter (the burned sections were called
the ‘black’).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire line, clean
enough to eat off, arced away beneath the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ground burned beyond that thin
stripe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a long while we could still
distinguish the whine of chainsaws from the general roar of the raging
mountaintop.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
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<div class="WordSection3">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Just how big is this
fire?” I asked.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Without turning
back, Helen said, “Brian talked to Doug over the radio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He estimated about forty acres, but there
are-“</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">She stopped speaking
when Brian came to an abrupt halt and raised one hand in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He appeared to be listening to
something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few seconds later I heard
it as well — a growing buzz that threatened to become a roar.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s coming from
there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Helen said, pointing above the
trees forward and to the left of us.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Let’s take cover.”
Brian said.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Manny, Chad and
Helen needed no further instructions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They sat down against the trunks of nearby trees, facing away from the
noise and towards the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark and I
looked at each other and at Brian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Grumbling, he led us to two other trees and told us to sit down, facing
in the same direction as the others, with our arms over our heads holding down
our helmets and our knees drawn up.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The noise increased
as he spoke, drowning out his words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wondered hysterically about what the hell was happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have time to figure it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a loud whoosh overhead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disobeying Brian’s orders I looked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A C-130, which I recognized from my eldest
brother’s photos of his days in the Army Rangers, flew low overhead, toward the
inferno.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The treetops swayed.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We got moving again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Helen explained to Mark and I that planes
dropped flame retardant on the fire, but occasionally they missed their mark
and dropped thousands of gallons of pink foam on firefighters.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“The new stuff they
use won’t kill you, but if you get hit it could knock you down and cause an
injury.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">There was a new
spring in my step.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was worth leaving
the fire line to nearly get bombed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
my mind’s eye I saw myself; one man on a blazing rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With others, I struggled to master an
unleashed force of nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overhead,
helicopters and planes buzzed and hovered, attacking and reforming to attack
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was proud to be a human being,
a member of such a brave, sturdy race that we dared to defy the very forces of
nature that had created us.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Brian decided that
we should stop and eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of us had
eaten during the entire ordeal and it was past noon. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Everyone began to
ask questions and discuss what they heard as they pulled fruit, sandwiches,
MREs, and water out of their packs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doug
had apparently been put in charge of the fire by the District Fire Chief, which
was why we hadn’t seen much of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were sixty fire fighters on the mountain with several helicopters
and a C-130 attached to the operation.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">As everyone else
chatted I was having a hard time swallowing my food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My throat ached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The crumbs I managed to swallow felt like
shards of glass caught in my esophagus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I said as much and asked if it was due to smoke inhalation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Helen shook her
head, chewing on a government issue frankfurter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You probably steamed your esophagus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you have a wet bandanna over your mouth?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But I took it off after a while.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“You got lucky
then.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Manny interjected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Much longer and you would have steamed your
lungs as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then you’d be in bad
shape.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Mark looked at me as
if he had just heard that I had cancer.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“What’s going to
happen to me?” I asked hollowly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The professional
fire fighters laughed out loud at that, choking on their food.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Nah, man.” Brian
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you’ve made it this far, it’s
probably no big deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ve got a
sun-burn in your throat is all.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was so relieved
that I forgot to be dazzled by Brian’s eruption of vocabulary.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’ll go away.”
Helen said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But it’ll be hard to eat
for a day or two.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">We continued
chatting for a few minutes, eating and staring out at the terrain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire was a few hundred yards behind us
but we could still hear it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hundred
yards ahead of us, according to Brian, the trees ended and a clearing dominated
the South end of the plateau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There the
supply helicopters would soon begin to descend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Eventually we moved
on and set up camp near a decent landing spot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Manny, Brian and Chad unloaded the helicopters as they came down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Helen, Mark and I organized the supplies and
base camp.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">By sunset the fire
was contained, caught inside a boundary of fire line, bare rocks and flame
retardant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not far from the camp, pink
flame retardant had been dumped on open ground between the fire and the edge of
the plateau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Squads of hotshots took
turns walking over this Martian landscape that glowed at dusk like the embers
of the fire they had extinguished.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">That night, in one
of many paper sleeping bags flown in by the USFS, I bedded down beneath a pine
tree just two hundred yards from the dying fire’s futile glow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I awoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pine branches shuddered above me in the early
morning light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wind blew gently,
cautiously returning to the scene of the crime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Brian whispered my name.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And wake up Mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After breakfast gets here you two are going
on patrol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get your boots on.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I laced up my boots
with a smile on my face, noticing that it took Mark just a little bit longer to
rouse himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The resilience of
youth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had that, at least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt wonderful, though I was filthy,
covered in dust, smoke, ashes and sweat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nascent cramps whimpered in my legs and back and shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my head was clear, as if something heavy
and dark had been purged from my mind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The distant sounds
of helicopter rotors beating the air brought a smile to my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breakfast was served.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before heading to camp I walked across the
Martian surface and looked down upon Sedona as the Sun burst into the sky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">For a moment I felt
a connection with the vortex hunters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
you were unbalanced enough to believe all that garbage, this was good place to
be crazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God knows, it was a great
place to be a fire fighter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, after
all, it wasn’t such a bad place to be a janitor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">That reminded me of
the toilets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be a lot of
dirty bathrooms down there by then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wondered how long it would take them to get me off the mountain. </span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-i.html"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Smoking Mountain, Part I</span></a><br />
<a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-ii.html"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Smoking Mountain, Part II</span></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-iii.html"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Smoking Mountain, Part I</span>II</a> </span> </span></div>
Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-22666885994529393292013-02-28T09:38:00.000-07:002013-03-02T09:02:26.206-07:00The Smoking Mountain, Part III<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="WordSection1">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Doug gave us the
basic strategy on the way there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
listened, simultaneously maintaining a fantasy about Ana; bedding down under a
tree after a long struggle against the fire, taking her in my exhausted arms.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“The fire is on the
upper plateau of Wilson Mountain at seven thousand feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between there and Midgley Bridge is Wilson
Bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a lower plateau at six
thousand feet or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we reach that
there’s some level ground as the path crosses the bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that should be refreshing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doug smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I sensed that he was worried about my and Ana’s stamina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then there’s the final ascent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hopefully when we get there the fire will
still just be on the upper plateau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
we’ll attack it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“What’s the horse
for?” Mark inquired.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m gonna saddle
‘im up when we get to Midgley and ride on ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll take her up to the bench, dismount and
go up on foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll start doing some
planning and radio what I see back to the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe call in some air strikes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Really!” Ana said,
obviously as thrilled as I was by the possibility.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“How exciting.” Mark
said in a less-than-interested tone.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="WordSection2">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I said nothing, for
the first time brought out of my sexual reverie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Air strike?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By God, I was on a real life adventure and it looked like nothing could
stop me from experiencing it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mind
veered away from Ana’s body to my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Could it make it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could my legs
carry me up that mountain, the one that loomed larger and larger in the
wind-shield?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was ashamed before the
fact, certain that my legs would give out, that I would have to stop and let
the others go on up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only twenty years
old, I was prematurely haunted by a vision of Ana looking back as she forged on
with the real men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A part of me that
called itself older and wiser ridiculed the vision and reminded me of the
insignificance of this coming tromp in the woods compared to the Fall semester
and finally taking courses in my major.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But my stomach churned nonetheless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Midgley Bridge leaps
over a deep, magnificent gorge into which despairing individuals occasionally
throw themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother the deputy
has to coordinate teams to retrieve their discarded bodies from the innocent
stream below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says it is bizarre,
hiking down through such beautiful country to recover a corpse. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">At the North end of
the bridge there is a paved pull-off for tourists and a few stone picnic tables
beneath stone roofs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A service road
leads out of the picnic area and quickly becomes a footpath, winding upwards
toward Wilson mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After we
arrived, Doug saddled Bailey as he rattled off a series of technical
instructions to his firefighters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally he mounted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“The big redneck’s
in charge.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, pointing at Brian,
who smiled and fingered his Confederate belt buckle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“March as fast as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get there before the hotshots do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t embarrass us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for the new guys</span><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Shruti; mso-bidi-font-family: Shruti; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Shruti; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¼</span></span><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">”
he glanced at Mark, Ana and I, all three of standing self-consciously in a
separate group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If it gets too tough,
you can always turn back and help at the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This isn’t the Army and no one can make you
fight fire.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Then he was
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Let’s go.” Brian
grunted, taking the lead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was not a hiker
and after fifteen minutes I began to lag behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed that my pack had gained weight and
my shovel was made of lead.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I recalled how much
I had wanted to carry a pulaski, the double-headed tool that did the primary
work in this kind of fire-fighting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
side of the tool was an axe-blade. Opposite, in place of a second axe-head, was
a pick-like projection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pulaski bearers
go before shovel bearers on the fire line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My job would simply be cleaning up after the rest of the team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every one but Mark, Ana and I had
pulaskis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now though, exhausted only a
few minutes into our journey, I was glad that I was not deemed capable of
wielding the pulaski.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shovel had to
be lighter, burdensome as it seemed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Presently I began to
utilize the shovel as a staff, vaulting myself over boulders, logs and other
obstacles.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Isn’t there
supposed to be someone who cleans trails?” I said with a dangerous expense of
breath and clambered over a fallen tree that blocked the path.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Budget cuts!”
Shouted Helen far ahead of me, wiping the barest trace of sweat from her downy
upper lip with a beefy wrist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now all
we have is wilderness volunteers like Mark.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The entire crew, except for me, laughed in gasps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have enough air left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“And all he’s good for is locating vortexes
and selling crystals!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I made an agnostic’s
vague, wordless prayer, hoping that they wouldn’t start talking about my job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Some of the crew,
especially Brian, began to comment on my slowness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was definitely holding them back, and speed
was crucial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere, high above us,
flames were eating their way toward the slopes that led down into the
Canyon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once there, burning debris could
roll down into the thin, thirty-mile long chasm where the disaster would be
unbelievable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark, who was in his
forties, was handling the exertion better than I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, his job gave him opportunity for
practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ana, though she lagged, did
not make the desperate wheezing noises that I made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every now and then she would turn and smile,
saying, “keep it up, kiddo” in a motherly tone that I found very depressing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">A rest was called
before we reached the bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suspected
it was for my sake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By that time I was
panting audibly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We sipped water (“not too
much” Helen admonished, wagging a thick forefinger at me) and inhaled the pine
scented air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had climbed out of the
desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We exchanged few words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian refused to even look at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ana remarked that she had a blister on her
heel and I recognized, silently, that I definitely had the mother-of-all blisters
on my right foot, just below the Achilles’ tendon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My boots were still fairly new, bought for
one hundred dollars a few weeks earlier for just such an occasion, and hadn’t
seen any more action than that involved in walking from the cab of the toilet truck
to the nearest restroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to
say nothing, since complaining at that point wasn’t exactly going to win me any
brownie points and because I was afraid it would be used as a pretext to send
me back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I marveled at how
much better I felt with just a few minutes rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The air I breathed no longer felt like fire
in my lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My entire body felt like a
well-oiled machine, warmed up and ready to go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“You feelin’ okay?”
Helen inquired. “You ready to fight fire?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah.” I replied
coolly, putting my helmet back on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Let’s go.”</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Ten minutes later I
had again fallen behind everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark
began to shout “The bench is just ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re almost there!” every few minutes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Finally, in agony, I
lifted myself up onto a ledge that went on for some way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had reached the bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Level ground, covered in grass, stretched
away into the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a few
copses and lone trees dotting the surface.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nearby, beneath the branches of a juniper pine, the Sedona crew stood
around Bailey, who was tied to the trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Far beyond them, the ground reached the foot of the upper plateau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trail was visible, zig-zagging up the
face of the steep slope toward the wooded top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I fixed briefly on the smoke creeping through the crowns of those
distant trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire was not visible
or audible; there was only that flow of smoke into the sky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">As I approached the
others explained to me that Doug had probably gone ahead on foot and was
already at the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark took me aside
after a moment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Are you gonna make
it?” he whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Because it’s okay if
you can’t.” Glancing over I noticed that Brian was glaring at me, buckteeth
resting on his almost non-existent lower lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone had thought it was a good idea for Mark to do the talking. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Ana’s gonna go back.”
Mark continued. “The blister’s bothering her and she’s afraid it’ll get
infected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, someone’s gotta take
the horse back down to the bridge.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It was a
dilemma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt awful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Mark had offered not only an end to my
suffering but a retreat accompanied by the object of my lust.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I stared at the
mountain-top over Mark’s shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
column of smoke ascended slowly into the endless sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to get rational about it, weigh my
choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I went, I went with
Ana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also went back to toilets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And being realistic, I thought I had little or
no chance with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth be told,
she had never given me an unnecessary glance or comment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I would be going back to cleaning
toilets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You couldn’t get away from
that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">On the other hand
there was the mountain and all its fiery glory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Coming up the trail my mind had turned more and more toward that
goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The part of me that had always
wanted to be a soldier, to throw myself into danger, yearned to smell the
smoke, hear the crackling of underbrush afire, watch the yellow flames creep
destructively over everything in their path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I wondered if I actually could make it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if I did, would I be in any condition to
fight fire?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And shouldn’t I just be
happy with what I had done already?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was more than what most janitors did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Mark, I can do it.”
Said a voice that sounded a lot like my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I’ll keep up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not turning
back now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost choked on the last word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My blister was burning like a fuse and I
finally understood what people meant when they said that their feet felt like
hamburger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Brian swore and ran
to the ledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s the Mormon Lake
crew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s go!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though it was quite a feat of verbal exercise
for the normally monosyllabic Brian, I seemed to be the only stunned by his
long-winded, magnum opus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The others
gathered their gear in a frenzy and followed him as he bounded along the trail
with ridiculously renewed vitality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
didn’t understand the need to beat a larger and more-well equipped crew to the
fire, but I was in no position to criticize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Certainly I was too far behind for them to hear me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Bye, Tim.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ana said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I turned and saw her lead the horse down over the ledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let myself watch for a few moments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At length, I turned and followed my crew.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I managed to keep up,
more or less, as we crossed the bench.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By the time we began the last ascent the hotshots were only a few
minutes behind.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Going up, breathing
became much more difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of it
was due to exertion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other part was
due to elevation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were quickly
approaching seven thousand feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Occasionally I caught sight of the Sedona crew, which had gotten away
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Turning a corner, I
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</span>Brian glared at me furiously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You gonna make it or not?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I sat down and
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</span>Then the trampings of the hotshots could be heard below us, perhaps just
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I plodded on, head
hanging, but the hotshots quickly overtook me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I stood to one side as they filed by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“How ya doin’, old timer?” someone said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Looks like a Klingon.” I heard some one mutter in reference to my
ridged helmet, which contrasted with their smooth, red, swept-back, dirty hard
hats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least they didn’t know that I
was the district janitor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noticed that
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">When I rounded the
next bend I found my crew, waiting for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">A lifetime seemed to
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fire was close and the ground was leveling out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could hear the burning and smell the smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly the ground leveled out completely
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was amazed to see
all the hotshots sitting on the ground, drinking water. One of them, presumably
their leader, stood near the small one-foot high flames talking with Doug.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I collapsed at the
side of one of the hotshots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-i.html"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Smoking Mountain, Part I</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-ii.html">The Smoking Mountain, Part II</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-smoking-mountain-part-iv.html">The Smoking Mountain, Part IV</a> </span></div>
Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-14780699729898733262013-02-25T06:58:00.000-07:002013-03-02T09:01:40.576-07:00The Smoking Mountain, Part II<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">By the time I
returned to the doorway, Doug had drafted another employee into the crusade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Mark was a
wilderness volunteer, which meant that he earned room, board and ten dollars a
week doing whatever Doug told him to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This usually involved hiking, giving information to tourists on the
trails and pretty much trying to look official in olive drab while not earning
any money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That entire summer I was
perplexed as to why anyone would accept such a job with the federal government
when they paid such ridiculous amounts to a hopeless individual like me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">One evening in June,
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lawyer in New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to explain
why he was in Sedona working for ten bucks a week.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’ve earned plenty
of money in my life, Tim.” He said, one hand patting down the graying hair that
he swept over his enormous bald spot every morning before spraying it
stiff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Now I’m looking for something
more.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, if you’re
after the harmonic convergence,” I said, “you missed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was years ago.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Mark chuckled
politely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had already exchanged
stories of the middle-aged, white-collar types who pestered us while we worked
with questions about the locations of vortexes and healing wheels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They looked a little bit like Mark, but
usually had a kind of lost look in their empty eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t see as many of these characters as
he did, since they devoted much more of their time to trails than to toilets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I joined him and
Doug in the workroom wordlessly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark
was listening to Doug’s spiel about the fire, nodding solemnly in total
contrast to my open-mouthed enthusiasm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“So</span><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Shruti; mso-bidi-font-family: Shruti; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Shruti; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¼</span></span><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">get
you’re fire gear on.” Doug said, unconsciously imitating Mark’s nod.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark turned and gave me a nod, which I
returned, noting that for a moment we were all nodding simultaneously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he sauntered nodlessly out of the room,
going down the one passageway that led to the front room and then the
lockers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was about to ask
Doug (who was still nodding vaguely) where the rest of the fire crew was when I
heard the roar of a service truck and an exaggerated slew of gravel being
thrown against the side of the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I startled and moved suddenly away from the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doug simply cursed and strutted out the door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Goddamn it, Manny!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I composed myself
and followed him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The rest of the crew
had arrived pulling a horse trailer with one horse inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They boiled out of the truck’s cab into the
swirling dust, big, stupid smiles on their child-like faces.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: auto;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="WordSection2">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Helen!” Doug
barked. “I told you not to let the Mexican drive!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Fuck you.” Manny
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m not Mexican.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m an American.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t even speak Spanish.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Doug grumbled as he
stomped over to the trailer to inspect the cargo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rest of the crew ignored him and, seeing
me in my fire gear for the first time, began to congratulate me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The powerful hammer blows of their slab-like
appendages on my back made my rib cage shudder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was relieved when Mark stepped out and was targeted for their brutal
displays of approval.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wanting to make
good my escape I staggered over to where Doug was gloomily inspecting the
horse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Once Mark cleared
the gauntlet, one hand securing his hair flap tightly against his head, I
assumed that the great adventure was about to begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was, however, to be put off a little
longer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Doug directed Manny
and Helen to remove the horse and tie him to a tree in the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian and Chad, the other two firefighters,
were sent to the workroom for extra tools.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“You two.” Doug said
to Mark and I, gesturing toward the horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Stow your gear in the back of the truck and hide behind the animal so
your bosses don’t try and take you off my crew.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I did so gratefully,
fearing that my big fat boss, whom everyone referred to affectionately as
Smacky, might spy me out among people infinitely more useful than him and send
me scurrying back to “the shit holes”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Mark and I took up
our positions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began nervously eyeing
all the entrances and exits of the various buildings scattered over the
station, hoping that we finished before Smacky realized that the toilet truck
was still sitting in the yard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">People who have
spent most of their life in the city are either terrified of large domesticated
animals or think that they are all immediately taken in by tender gestures and
sing-song voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mark was one of the
latter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“He’s beautiful.”
Mark said, eyes wide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I wonder what his
name is?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Before I could say
“who gives a fuck, shut up, they might hear you” he tried to pet the horse’s
face while making kissy noises and saying “what’s you name, horsey? Huh? What’s
you namey?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The horse lunged and snapped
at his fingers, missing by a fraction of an inch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Jesus Christ!” Mark
screamed, clutching his fingers to his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An electric thrill passed through my body and I leapt with fright for
the second time in only a matter of minutes. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Don’t touch that
animal!” Doug shouted, walking over to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The station secretary, a thirtyish woman named Ana Dominguez,
accompanied him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was also in fire
gear. They stepped around the horse’s rear at a respectful distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Here’s the story,
fellas.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, glaring at each of us
in turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ana just got a telephone
call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We might get taken up in a
helicopter to the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So just stay
here for a few minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll find out if
it’s true.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned and walked back to
his office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ana stayed with us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I gave her the once
over twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had lusted for Ana all
summer, had the typical adolescent fantasies about her visiting me in the
barracks one night, traipsing over the dirty clothes and empty cans of Keystone
in diaphanous lingerie and throwing herself into my brawny grasp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a divorcee and looked great in nomex
pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I was kind of starved
in that environment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only other
potential target for my depraved mind was Helen, a tough, butch woman who, in a
just world, would not be allowed to interrupt my fantasies, wading through the
refuse on my floor in a black teddy and lunging roughly into my bunk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“So.” I said. “They
recruited you, too?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yes!” She
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mistook the enthusiasm in her
voice as being directed at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What a
beautiful horse!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">She began to stroke
the horse’s mane before I could ward her off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mark retreated, knocking the back of his head on the tree trunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was no reaction from the
horse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood still, tail twitching.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
I remembered the old saying that all women love horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was the reverse true?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’ve uh</span><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-font-family: Shruti; mso-bidi-font-family: Shruti; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Shruti; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">¼</span></span><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">soothed
the savage beast.” I said, hoping to jumpstart the conversation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“What?” She said
without looking back at me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Are you familiar
with horses?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“My parents own a
ranch down near Nogales.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grew up with
all sorts of animals.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I didn’t know where
to go with that one so I took a new tack.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Helicopter, huh?
That’ll be pretty cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve never
ridden in a helicopter.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Well, that mountain
looks pretty tall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly don’t
want to climb it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure I’m up to
it.”</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;"><br clear="all" style="mso-break-type: section-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was thinking the
same thing but didn’t say so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before I
could continue seducing her Doug returned with the bad news.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“No helicopter.
We’ll have to hike it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I was stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My pack weighed thirty pounds. The
temperature would be ninety-five degrees by noon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doug saw the look on my face and tried to be
reassuring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“We’ll start out at
Midgley bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s only another three
thousand feet from there to the top of Wilson Mountain.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Oh. Okay.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Now it was time to
put the horse back in the trailer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
we had the horse I didn’t know and felt it better not to ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The task should have taken less than a minute
but it soon became clear that the horse, whose name Helen revealed as Bailey,
didn’t want to get back inside the trailer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“C’mon, Bailey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon.” Doug chanted soothingly, walking the
horse in circles around the truck and trailer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every few orbits he jerked the reins toward the lowered gate of the
trailer, but the horse always resisted successfully. Doug tried using a whip on
its flanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, with no warning or
pause, Doug dropped the whip and began to slap the stubborn gelding on the
snout while he shouted “C’mon, Bailey!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>C’mon!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again and again he
thrashed the snorting, lurching beast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, Doug could not drag him even an inch nearer the trailer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It was time for
teamwork.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brian and Chad helped Doug
move Bailey into a position just before the gate, which lay like a ramp on the
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bailey dug his hooves into the
ground and though Doug pulled and Brian and Chad pushed and Manny assaulted the
poor animal with frenzied whippings he did not move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I flinched every time the braided leather
struck and the horse flesh rippled away from the blow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glancing over at Ana I noticed that she
watched indifferently.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Finally, she
suggested a new strategy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While the
others pushed, and Manny restrained himself, she tried to coax the animal by
leaning into the front of the trailer through an opening and holding out half
an apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“C’mon, Bailey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She took a small bite out of the apple every time she called to him and
murmured the pleasure it gave her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mmmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mmm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon, Bailey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>C’mon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mmmm.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Bailey slowly
clambered into the trailer while the rest of us listened, spellbound to Ana’s
throaty hum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Doug who eventually
raised the gate and closed it behind Bailey, who accepted his incarceration
with placid ruminations while Ana stroked the entire length of his nose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Let’s go!” Doug
shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want <i>Helen</i> to pull
the trailer with Manny, Brian and Chad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mark, Tim and Ana will come with me in my truck.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I made sure that I
sat next to Ana in the cramped truck cab before we drove away, toward the
smoking mountain.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-i.html"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Smoking Mountain, Part I</span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-iii.html">The Smoking Mountain, Part III</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-smoking-mountain-part-iv.html">The Smoking Mountain, Part IV </a> </span></div>
Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-56372709476131924922013-02-22T14:23:00.001-07:002013-03-02T09:01:05.458-07:00The Smoking Mountain, Part I<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It was August and I
was cleaning campground bathrooms for the United States Forest Service between
semesters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess when you clean
toilets for a living you get used to looking down because I didn’t notice the
white smoke billowing off the upper plateau of Wilson Mountain as I drove to
work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">This was in 1993,
when the USFS still handled recreation in Oak Creek canyon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next year the area was contracted out to
a private company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately, by then
I had other prospects and didn’t have to go back to clean toilets in Sedona
because that private company paid a lot less.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, in that
heyday of overpaid government jobs, the Forest Service paid me seven dollars an
hour, forty hours a week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also got to
stay in the barracks for free and, to be honest, it only took about five hours
to clean every one of the fifty-two bathrooms in the Canyon area, so I had a
lot of time to goof off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The major draw
back, and what made up for all the free time the job allowed me, was that all I
did was clean bathrooms and scrape feces off plastic toilet seats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I made a lot more money than I could have
working on campus or in some fast food joint while trying to pay rent,
electricity and water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">But the money was
just an excuse I used in letters I wrote to my friends when I felt embarrassed
by my job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The truth was that I hadn’t
known what I was getting into at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My brother, the local County Sheriff’s deputy, told me about the job and
convinced me to come all the way from Austin to take it for the summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, he told me about <i>a job</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The job description was ‘Forestry Aid’, but
it was the seven dollars an hour and free rooming that caught my
attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no further
information given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time, minimum
wage was $4.25 and I’d never made more in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I finished Spring semester, packed my
stuff into my Volkswagen and headed for Arizona.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Not until I had
moved into the barracks did they tell me just what the job entailed; by then it
was too late to look for anything else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So I decided to hate my brother, hunker down and hope that the summer
would pass quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Anyway, I got to the
ranger station on this particular morning, driving up from the barracks in the
desert to downtown Sedona without noticing that one of the many nearby
mountains was on fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was too busy
thinking about school and about going back there in only two weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After parking I made my way toward the back
entrance of the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though it was
only five minutes before seven the temperature had already begun to climb and
inside my work shirt, jeans and boots I was beginning to sweat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Doug Jones, the fire
boss for the Sedona district, emerged from the backdoor before I reached
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a large, bearded black man
who listened to blues classics in his tiny, needlessly cluttered office. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Morning, Doug.” I
said, nodding once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He held the door
open for me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Morning, Tim.” He
said in his gravelly voice. “Get your fire gear on.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">At that point I was
already inside, headed toward the front room to get the keys to the toilet
truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped amid the tool-laden
tables of the workroom and turned to look at Doug.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Doug headed a
five-man fire-management crew that worked out of the station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were responsible for preventing and
fighting fires in the Sedona district.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But since fires could get quite large they trained all local USFS
employees, even janitors, how to fight fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the end of the two-day class which I had taken in June they explained
to us that we would probably be conscripted into helping them should there be a
large fire near Sedona that year.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I think most of my
classmates, fellow employees, saw such a possibility as an unwelcome
interruption in their work and life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I,
on the other hand, saw a forest fire as my ticket out of Hell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the only thing that would take me far
away from campground bathrooms and, with hazardous duty pay, I would earn even
more money.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It was too good to
be true, though.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Right.” I drawled,
smiling and turning away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“I’m serious.” Doug
said, still standing in the open doorway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Get your fire gear on.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I stopped
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thoughts, though, traveled on
to the front room and the corkboard on the wall where the truck keys hung on a
blue tack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the right of that room
were the lockers and inside one of them, labeled McGregor, was my fire
pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had packed it on the second and
last day of fire-class, praying that someday I would have reason to use
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Inside the pack were various tools
of survival: canteen, nomex fireproof pants and shirt, an MRE, matches and so
forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting atop the pack was my
helmet, a yellow, plastic thing with a tall, seemingly needless ridge that ran
down the center.</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“You’re
serious?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I whispered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Yeah, I’m
serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we don’t have all the time
in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Haven’t you seen?” Doug
pointed outside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">I returned to the
doorway and looked out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Sedona skyline
can distract a man on any day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
around mountains of red rock jut into a stark, blue sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But amid the barren cliff-faces and buttes
was the mountain at which Doug was pointing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From the uppermost plateau tufts of white smoke ascended into the sky.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“That’s Wilson
Mountain in case you didn’t know.” Doug said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t know the name, though I recognized the mountain; Thursdays
through Mondays I cleaned toilets at the foot of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It caught fire last night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was probably hit by lightning a few nights
ago and has been smoldering since, just waiting for a good, strong breeze, like
the one we had last night, to feed it and make it grow.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Looking at the high
plateau, I wondered just how high it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I hadn’t imagined heights when I fantasized about fighting fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had imagined a frenzied gathering of gear,
leaping into the fire engine and riding into destiny, toward somewhere flat,
level and burning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“It’s right over the
canyon.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Doug continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Down below are a few thousand campers and
tourists, some of whom may already be nervous and packing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, as you can imagine, there’s some hurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All it takes is for some burning debris to
tumble off the plateau down into the canyon and we’ve got a disaster on our
hands.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">There hadn’t been
much of a monsoon rain season this year so I understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything was dry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The canyon would burn too fast to allow time
for an evacuation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">“Hotshots are gonna
be flyin’ in from all over northern Arizona by late morning, but we need to get
up there as fast as possible.” Doug grabbed my shoulder with one meaty
hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So get your fire gear on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re gonna earn some hazard pay, son.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">As daunting as the
mountain seemed, I was filled with glee at the prospect of escape from my mops
and my cruddy wire brushes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fearing that
Doug might realize that there was no one else to clean the bathrooms, I ran for
my fire pack, shouting ‘thanks’ over my shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-ii.html"><span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The Smoking Mountain, Part II </span></span></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-smoking-mountain-part-iii.html">The Smoking Mountain, Part III</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Shruti","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="http://fictionblog.blogspot.com/2013/03/the-smoking-mountain-part-iv.html">The Smoking Mountain, Part IV</a> </span></span></div>
Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-6127691272122424192010-03-12T12:20:00.001-07:002010-03-12T12:20:46.234-07:00Night Life<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/P8eZVZ35TEE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/P8eZVZ35TEE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-48875681840792261212010-03-12T12:19:00.001-07:002010-03-12T12:19:00.865-07:00<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UzMSYThy6nY&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UzMSYThy6nY&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-89131514571167795352010-03-12T12:18:00.001-07:002010-03-12T12:18:21.734-07:00<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yPD0XF2Ge4g&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yPD0XF2Ge4g&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-79297953096246682292010-01-25T20:49:00.000-07:002010-01-25T20:59:16.028-07:00From My You Tube Page<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MjmAuc1FmWg&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MjmAuc1FmWg&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-73840257484558065282009-08-02T13:58:00.000-07:002009-08-02T13:59:45.267-07:00From My Youtube Page<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lZ7I_ZXOMHQ&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lZ7I_ZXOMHQ&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-87030263860522888842009-07-11T20:49:00.000-07:002009-07-11T20:50:16.634-07:00From My Youtube Page<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/z3QInow6a5A&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/z3QInow6a5A&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-46128107526027509132009-01-23T10:55:00.000-07:002009-01-23T10:58:10.053-07:00MotherI held my son in both arms and climbed the steps carefully.<br /><br />A monsoon storm had showered the exterior stairwell beneath my wife’s apartment. The Sun had come out again, furious and brilliant in the Phoenix sky, but the hot concrete risers were slick and dripping still.<br /><br />The steaming aroma of rain enveloped us as I freed one hand and knocked.<br /><br />“Hi,” she said after opening the door, staring at us blankly. For a moment I think she really didn’t know who we were. Her dull blue eyes lay placidly at the bottom of black mascara pits that contrasted starkly with the pale skin of her face. She was still trying to look like Avril Lavigne but wasn’t afraid of admitting it anymore. As she neared twenty-five, my wife had stopped worrying about selling-out and become much more strategic when it came to her music. She was desperate for someone to notice her.<br /><br />“Come in,” she finally added, giving us a close-lipped smile as she backed away, opening the door.<br /> <br />I carried our son into her apartment. It was still a mess. There was a kaleidoscopic odor of weed, pizza and beer. Rings of congealed fluids overlapped one another on her coffee table. Amps, a guitar and a number of audio devices I couldn’t name populated the floor. The kitchenette was a wasteland of boxes, paper and plastic bags and extra large drink cups. <br /> <br />I sat down on her couch amid cast-off clothes and food wrappers and tried to keep the boy on my lap but he wriggled his way to the floor. I reluctantly loosened my grip on him. She sat at the other end of the couch and watched as he staggered about on the legs he had discovered since his mother had moved out to focus on her music.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I hate divorce. I hate it like a man dying of thirst hates the desert. I won’t look the word up in the dictionary. I won’t seek it’s etymology. I am at war with divorce and all it’s allies: loneliness, despair, depression, anxiety, fear. </span><br /><br />“So what’s up?” She asked. As if we had never slept together. As if I didn’t know that, besides eyelashes, eyebrows and her multi-colored tresses she was otherwise hairless, plucking, nairing, shaving and waxing it all away, leaving only the strange, darkening caesarean scar to mar her ivory flesh.<br /><br />“You said you would take him to the park today.”<br /><br />She covered her face with her hands, then removed them.<br /> <br />“I forgot.”<br /> <br />I was already nodding with comprehension, even sympathy. I watched the boy discover an empty outlet behind an amp. Knowing what would happen, I rose and pre-emptively removed him. He protested with a half-hearted cry before I set him down near his mother.<br /> <br />They stared at one another. She reached out to take him and he sagged into her arms. She put him on one knee, whispered things I couldn’t hear well enough to understand. The boy stared out at the room, finger in his bubbling mouth. She put him down and he used the coffee table for balance as he walked back to me.<br /><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> At night, I sleep with the boy between myself and the wall, for fear he might rise silently in the night and hurt himself.</span><br /><br />“Can I use your bathroom?”<br /> <br />“Sure!” She blurted.<br /> <br />As I entered the bathroom I shot a glance through the open doorway to her bedroom. The image of another man’s underwear, draped across the corner of the bed, stayed with me as I closed the door behind me. It floated before my eyes as I stood unloading into her noisome toilet, like a ghost-Sun burned onto the retinas of a man who has tried to see the nearest star.<br /> <br />Through the door I could hear her talking to him. The monologue sounded like the female half of a first-date conversation. Once I heard her rush to prevent an accident, and his subsequent wails of disappointment.<br /> <br />There was no soap so I rubbed my hands vigorously under warm water.<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I prepare all his bottles and must keep my hands clean.</span><br /><br /> <br />I came out of the bathroom and asked her about the underwear.<br /> <br />Her hands went to her face again, then back to her lap. She stared at the ground and twisted one of those spiked leather bracelets around her wrist, like she was winding herself up.<br /> <br />I heard the door shut before I even reached the stairs. My son clung to me. I descended carefully, the steps were still wet. When we reached the bottom I realized that I was clinging to him as well.Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-34800137092012095272008-10-08T10:12:00.000-07:002008-10-08T10:36:03.655-07:00An Excerpt from The New World<em>-The following is chapter two of my novel, The New World.</em><br /><br />The bus to San Pedro was like many that he had ridden while traveling through Mexico; an old, yellow, American school bus, the rules of student conduct still printed in unintelligible English above the driver’s head. The only noticeable differences about the trip were the exceptionally good roads and the lack of livestock. He thought Honduras might turn out to be a nice place after all. It perplexed him though. He had worked with refugees in the States, and many of them had been Honduran. Yet it was nothing like the disaster area he had envisioned. The countryside was fabulously green and made words like lush and fertile spring into his thoughts. Trees crowded beside the road and in the distance. He knew none of their names but loved most the elegant, small-leafed ones that reached higher than the rest and swayed in the wind. If he ignored the bus and all thought of the past, it seemed as if this were paradise.<br /><br />It occurred to him that people might just be fleeing the overpowering humidity. It made him groggy and when the bus pulled into San Pedro he felt drugged, and a creeping sense of desperation.<br /><br />He hailed a taxi and told the driver the address, adding, as Shane had instructed him to, that it was a colonia out towards the airport. The enormously fat, brown-skinned man behind the steering wheel raised one eyebrow and grunted. "The airport? One hundred lempiras."<br /><br />The American did the calculations in his head. That was nearly eight dollars. He knew he was supposed to haggle, but he hated the very idea of arguing over money. One summer, at the Dominican mission in Mexicali, the brothers had enjoyed taking visiting relatives out to the markets to dicker and bargain with the vendors, but he had never done so. He always paid the asked price. It was worth getting taken to avoid haggling. He couldn’t explain his repulsion. He never said so but he believed it offended his sense of honesty. He thought that everything should just have its price and if the price was too high, people shouldn’t buy it. But he had never been popular with the brothers and if he had mentioned an "offense against his honesty" they would have never let him live it down.<br /><br />Still, he could not afford eight dollars for a taxi ride. Reluctantly he entered the arena.<br /><br />"Fifty lempiras."<br /><br />This time it was the driver’s turn to be offended. His hulking frame shuddered as he rocked himself toward the open window and looked up at the gringo with wide, surprised eyes.<br /><br />"Fifty lempiras! Can’t be done, friend. I have to live, you know." He settled back in his seat, looking out through the windshield shaking his head. They were quiet for a while. The American was still trying to figure out how to respond to this violent display when the taxi driver, apparently thinking that the silence was part of the gringo’s stratagem, spoke again. "Eighty lempiras."<br /><br />The American heard an ultimatum. Six dollars. It was still too much, but he already felt dirty from the struggle and ready to give in.<br /><br />"Fine. Let’s go."<br /><br />Sam’s address was the sixth apartment in a two-story building that contained a total of eight apartments in all. It was dark by the time they arrived but there were streetlights on the dirt road that passed in front of the building’s courtyard and he could see the open fields surrounding the lonely edifice. A half-mile to the East more lights betrayed the presence of residential homes. He was in a Central American suburb. A flickering Pepsi sign loomed over those distant, shadowed houses. A towering water tank stood outlined darkly against the moonrise.<br /><br />He paid the driver, who drove away suddenly and without a word. The American was left standing before a black, padlocked gate that opened onto the courtyard in front of the apartments, whose windows were illuminated with the glow of televisions.<br /><br />His stomach churned as it always did before he began something, as it had when he stood in front of the wrought-iron gate outside St. Albert’s Priory in San Francisco to begin his religious training. Since his flight from Tucson everything had been a pause, an interim experience. Even at this moment, still alone, the only witness of his struggle and fears, he could turn around and plunge back into that pause, that journey from one place to another, and let it take him onward or even back home. He calculated that there was just enough money to return if he took the cheap buses through Guatemala and Mexico and fasted much of the way. Perhaps that would be sufficient repentance. Perhaps he could return and honestly try to become the man he had set out to be years ago.<br /><br />A moment of decision was upon him. A new life or the old one?<br /><br />He jerked the gate back and forth a few times and shouted "Buenas noches!"<br /><br />A few people looked out of their lighted windows. Their brown faces were foreign and fathomless in the dusk. He couldn’t tell if they were angry, suspicious or curious. Eventually a young woman emerged from an apartment on the second floor and descended the stairs, keys jangling in her hand.<br /><br />She entered the circle of light beneath the street lamp by the gate wearing tight-fitting jeans. It amazed him that people could wear pants in this heat. Even at night, stripped to his underwear, he had been uncomfortable. But this was not what dominated his thoughts as she approached, rifling through her keys. He was mostly thinking of how well the jeans fit her and studying the curve of her equally well fitting blouse and the way her shoulder length, black hair was swept over one shoulder.<br /><br />Reaching the gate she looked up at him through the thin iron bars and smiled. He felt the lightning frustration he had always felt in the seminary when he met an attractive woman and recognized interest in her eyes. This was followed by the realization that he was no longer a Dominican priest-in-training and that it would be a pleasure to reside near a woman like this.<br /><br />"Hi." She said. "Are you Paul Herlihy?" Her English was startling, clear and American. Her smile was large and inviting. Ample, well-formed lips showcased long, white teeth. They were the best teeth he had seen in Latin America.<br /><br />"Yuh…yes." He stuttered, placing one open palm between the bars. "Who are you?"<br /><br />She laughed, taking his hand and shaking it. "I’m Sam, Shane told you about me."<br /><br />Stunned, Paul thought only about her smooth grip and the lovely the cinnamon skin of her face. Her laugh left something to be desired but, as other men, Paul found certain flaws easy to overlook in favor of others. She opened the gate and locked it quickly behind him.<br /><br />"It’s not the best neighborhood." She explained. Paul noticed again the faces staring at him, and now at her as well, through their windows. Certainly this was a curious scene. The girl they had thought of as one of theirs chattered away in foreign gibberish to the gawking gringo in the courtyard.<br /><br />"I thought you were a man." Paul tried to explain. "I mean, I only knew your name, Sam. Shane didn’t tell me you were a woman."<br /><br />She gaped at him in real shock, then laughed raucously. "That sounds like something Shane would do. Does it bother you?" A concerned look came over her face. "I mean, will you be uncomfortable staying here tonight?"<br /><br />"Oh, no. I was just………surprised."<br /><br />"Because I was figuring you’d just stay and take over the lease when I leave in a couple weeks. If you want we can look for a place for you tomorrow, after I show you the school."<br /><br />"No, it’s fine, it’s fine. I was just surprised, that’s all."<br /><br />They were silent for a moment. Then Sam looked about, as if at the night. "Well, let’s get inside before the neighbors start complaining. They don’t have any right to, considering all the parties I’ve had to put up with, but hypocrisy is a tradition here."<br /><br />They ascended the stairs and went into the second apartment, which had a black number six nailed to the door.<br /><br />"I think the sofa is big enough for you." Sam pointed to a leather couch against the outer wall, beneath the only window in the small front room. There was a kitchenette and two open doorways, one leading to a full bathroom, the other to the bedroom. The living room itself was perhaps ten feet square.<br /><br />"If it isn’t, you could remove the cushions and sleep on the floor." She stood in the kitchenette, washing cups. "I was in the middle of cleaning up when I heard your rattle. Are you hungry?"<br />"Uh… no. I’m fine. This is a nice place you’ve got here."<br /><br />She snorted laughter. "If you like cold tile floors and cockroaches."<br /><br />Paul glanced at the floor.<br /><br />"Oh, there not out now. But in the morning, the early morning, when you go in the bathroom, it’s wild with ’em." She put the dishes in a small plastic rack to dry. "Did you want a drink? I’ve got beer and coke. Have a seat."<br /><br />Paul sat on the couch. He sank in deep, relaxing for the first time in a long time and enjoying the opportunity to speak English again.<br /><br />The couch was a luxurious item for the apartment. He imagined that it cost more than the small refrigerator that sat on the counter. "I’ll have a beer if you don’t mind."<br /><br />He tried to repress the thoughts that ran through his head. He wasn’t ashamed of them. He just wanted to think clearly. When he imagined Sam coming over with a beer and sitting beside him on the couch and eventually writhing in his grasp, it made his stomach churn nervously. He was grateful that he hadn’t eaten all day because he was certain that he would have thrown up on the floor.<br /><br />She came over with two bottles of something called salva vida, handed him one, then sat on a wooden chair that she dragged over from a small, matching table on the other side of the living room. She sat hunched over, like a man, though she was not even remotely masculine.<br /><br />"I can’t tell you how good it is to hear an American accent." She said smiling. "At the school I speak English all day, but almost everyone there has an accent. Their vocabulary is pretty good but you can’t have a very good conversation when you’re stopping to explain words and phrases every other sentence."<br /><br />"So the kids aren’t completely bilingual?" Paul had been hired to take over Sam’s job in the fall. She was the English and Literature teacher at Liberty Academy, a private bilingual school, but she was leaving at the end of June.<br /><br />"Oh, I’d say that by ninth grade most of them are fairly conversational. But you’ll be teaching down to grade seven, and at that level their vocabulary is still pretty restricted."<br /><br />"How did you end up here?" Paul already knew why she was here from Shane’s letter but he liked to hear a story from its source. Also he wanted to keep her talking. Asking questions would keep him from having to answer them and tonight he did not want to talk about himself.<br /><br />"I was in the Peace Corps for two years, mostly in the capital." She looked at the floor as she spoke and Paul recognized a habit she had of pushing her silky black hair back behind one ear before tugging at an earring, a small silver hoop. "I heard about this job when my time was running out. I wasn’t ready to leave Honduras yet, so I took it." Her voice had acquired a strange tone.<br /><br />"How much longer will you be around?"<br /><br />"Two weeks. Until July first. Graduation is tomorrow, then there will be a week of inventory and a lot of sitting around. A week later, I’ll go."<br /><br />They finished their beers and talked about their mutual friend, Shane Runkle. Shane was crazy. Paul told Sam about what it was like going to college with Shane. Sam explained how she had met him in Tegucigalpa when he came through a year earlier. Six months ago he had arrived in Brazil. Both of them had received letters from him describing his debauched life there, though Sam’s recollections led Paul to believe that he had received the edited versions of Shane’s adventures. Shane planned on coming back North to visit Paul in December. Paul purposely avoided discussion of his own past, not wanting to lie or tell the truth. Not at the moment. He just wanted to watch Sam push the hair back over her ear and make her earring sway and glint in the lamplight.<br /><br />Finally, she said good night, rather abruptly, and said that she would wake him at six, after her shower. She shut the door to her room behind her.<br /><br />Paul didn’t fall asleep for a while. He had been far from home for weeks but now, in the strange city that was supposed to be his new home, two thousand miles from his country, his culture, he felt out of place for the first time. He was not on vacation. And he was not going to be a priest. He was in flight, having exiled himself. And the dull freedom of travel was now punctuated by the memories that had finally caught up to him. He tried to bury himself in ridiculous fantasies about Sam, but always Alba jarred his thoughts. He remembered the odors of that decrepit building that had served as her home, and the stench of their sex.Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-33777230772617437462008-09-10T10:09:00.000-07:002020-06-28T20:10:44.275-07:00Anybody Home?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6UEarQ1Fz4mDPIqZmof_jFE0LRV0Z5xIjbe5wxMnwKdmcCDJuW7GnsB64EwS7GUhoJXebfmrUm3mIRiDIv7ns_tfDRZBDpkxmDsY3ECRcVOmHpgjYHfWgt8bHOhFYi1wm2blUO6hUjf8/s1600-h/luna.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244446185069230210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6UEarQ1Fz4mDPIqZmof_jFE0LRV0Z5xIjbe5wxMnwKdmcCDJuW7GnsB64EwS7GUhoJXebfmrUm3mIRiDIv7ns_tfDRZBDpkxmDsY3ECRcVOmHpgjYHfWgt8bHOhFYi1wm2blUO6hUjf8/s320/luna.jpg" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" /></a><div></div>
<div><strong>1
</strong>
Embedded deep inside the spacecraft, David Chavez could not see the surface of the Moon with his own eyes as he inserted the Percival Lowell into lunar orbit. He sensed it, rather, or even felt it’s gravitic pull, it’s mass, via the stream of data that poured into the node on the back of his neck, which then distributed information to various microscopic bits of metal and silicon which surgeons had implanted years ago during astronaut training and later. They used his body’s own electrical current to power their functions. He had seen the Moon’s surface, though, many times in his life, and couldn’t help smiling as he imagined the pocked plains and stark crags of the lunar mountains passing underneath.
He turned on an outward directed camera with a twitch of his left eye. He was supposed to focus entirely on lunar insertion but he couldn’t resist taking a look at Earth. The crew of the Lowell had pulled the ship off the Solar net two months ago and no one had been able to see Earth, though they knew how it must appear. </div><div>
With a series of sub-vocal commands Chavez oriented the camera correctly and got his first view of Earth in months. He fought the tightening of his throat which would have initiated a number of unintended ship operations. The entire planet was clouded over. Not as bad as Venus, but horrible nonetheless.
He had known what to expect. But he had hoped, however foolish the hope was, that he would look and see an Earth only partially damaged by the war. Then, with great relief, he would have told Commander White that it had been a mistake to cut themselves off from the net, that the war had not been as cataclysmic as the first reports had indicated. He had imagined an exultant return to Earth, a rowdy swell of reporters and news cameras as he stepped down from the shuttle. Later, he would fly to Madrid, where his father waited with his hands in his pockets and the wizened smile that reminded the younger Chavez of his father years ago and himself as a boy, riding a bike under the gloriously hot sun of Extremadura.
But that dream died without a whimper and Chavez knew that Madrid was gone, as was Badajoz, and whoever lived still among the ruins, if anyone lived at all, had not seen the sun for weeks and would likely never see it again.
Nor could they see or detect the return of the Lowell, though on it’s departure the hours- long fusion burn was visible in the night sky. His father had watched it proudly and told him so the next day, as the craft exited Earthspace and Chavez prepared for submersion in the Tank, where he and most of the crew would float dormant and unconscious for six weeks. They had made a slower, smaller burn for the last few days, and successfully achieved a parking orbit around the Moon. Such a return was one of the less-likely scenarios and one for which they had trained the least. That had turned out for the best. It forced those who were awake to concentrate on the mission specs, and not on the world they had lost.
Chavez considered the silent earth and compared it to the strained silence aboard the Lowell. Most of the crew were still in the tank, in a dreamless sleep. The waking crew, just eight of them now in the empty spaces of the Lowell, walked as if on eggshells, and spoke in hushed tones, like the crew of some submarine in a movie, fearful that dropped cutlery or a careless word might reveal their location to the enemy. But there was no chance that someone might hear Norma Palafox crying in her sleep cell, or that anyone would hear Joseph Mfume’s great wracking sobs as he hid in an empty corner of Storage B, arms wrapped around himself. The sounds created by grief do not carry through empty space so no one could detect the sounds of the Lowell crew as it emotionally disintegrated.
But detection was on everyone’s mind. That was why they had agreed with Commander White two months ago, tethered to Phobos in Mars orbit, as the news of the quickly escalating war reached them, to cut themselves off from the Solar net. Thus they would ensure that, if anyone else still existed, they would not find the Lowell until the crew wanted to be found. So the Lowell’s computers, accustomed to constant updates and patches received through data streams that came in via Artemis base and hundreds of satellites, probes and expeditions throughout the system, had gone offline.
Almost everyone agreed, Chavez reminded himself. Of the twenty-six crew aboard, only three had protested White’s idea. They were left behind at Ares base on the surface of Phobos. It was unlikely that they lived still as the base had not been ready for permanent occupation.
The Lowell’s second orbit would bring it over Artemis base. Offline, there had been no way to know ahead of time if the base still existed. Any advance probes they might have sent ahead had been expended at Mars and they were reduced to simply waiting for line of sight to prove anything. Rumors had developed among the small crew, owing to the dearth of other news, of newer missiles that were able to leave Earth orbit, strike the Moon, elsewhere.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Mare Frigoris came into view. Even without telescopic assistance, he could see the undamaged sprawl of Artemis base on the lunar plain. There was now some chance that they were not completely alone.
<strong>2</strong>
When Mission Commander Charles White saw the lunar landscape via video fed into his right eye, he was reminded of a family trip he had taken as a child.
White had been born in Detroit, but his father had gotten a job in computer technology in Phoenix soon after the birth and moved his wife and baby out there. When Charles was just twelve his grandfather died. All had all flown back to Michigan to attend the funeral. </div><div>
Detroit shocked the young White. So many other black people! He had felt strangely out of place, though for the first time in his life he blended in. Young as he was, he perceived that, growing up in the Southwest, he was unaware of the culture his parents had known. Detroit was not just a place. It was a way of life. </div><div>
Still, he had been relieved when returning home. He had looked down and seen the arid lands of Arizona thirty-thousand feet below the airplane. After many hours of Midwestern farmland he was finally seeing something he knew. </div><div>
He felt the same way seeing the pocked surface of the Moon. It was not home, but it was on the way.</div><div>
When Chavez relayed a clear view of Artemis base, the commander experienced a second, and stronger, wave of relief. Here was a place he had lived and worked. </div><div>
For two months, hurtling through the void and cut off from Earth, knowing only that nuclear war had devastated much of the planet, he had feared that he would never see anything he knew ever again. Several times he had imagined orbiting over the base and seeing not the various dome modules that indicated where a tunnel began nor the landing fields, but rather only a new crater and the exposed, blackened warren of Artemis. </div><div>
Coupled with that relief, though, was a new horror. Chavez sent more video. The Earth appeared in opposition to the Moon. Dirty, white clouds obscured any view of humanity’s birthplace. The planet oppressed with its silence, with its hiddenness. His eyes rested on tise view of Earth and hoped for a break in the clouds to reveal some kind of hint about the state of affairs up there, as if it was just one great stormy day on the planet and the cloud cover was bound to break at any time, letting in the Sun. </div><div>
But White knew there would be no such respite. It was going to be a cloudy day for a long time.
<strong>3 </strong>
All attempts to hail Artemis base over the radio had failed. There was neither reply nor recognition of receiving the attempt at communication. The base was apparently shut down. White had refused to log on to the net just yet and attempt to contact the base through other means. Having been offline for two months, the ship’s computers might be stunned by a sudden surge of updates and patches. He said he wanted to be able to react fast if something unusual happened. Chavez had pointed out that, if the world really had been destroyed, there might not be too many updates waiting on the net. In fact, it was possible the entire system had broken down, and there was no web out there to which they could log on. But White insisted and would take no chances. </div><div>
The Bird was designed to function as a shuttle on Mars. Descending, it was meant to use it’s broad wings to slow itself against the thin Martian atmosphere and then glide upon that rare medium of carbon dioxide and assorted trace gases to a landing. Once on the surface, it’s cargo was replaced with fuel and a hollow roar would announce its return to orbit as it cut through the dusty air. </div><div>
But there was software on board the Lowell for every contingency. One such program involved landing the Martian exploration vehicle on the Moon. The pilots of the Lowell crew had practiced it outside of computer simulation just once previous to the mission. Since the Lowell had turned back for Earth, Chavez had been practicing this scenario with every spare minute. </div><div>
Chavez had only two passengers on this trip. Dr. Guy Beckham, physician, and Jeremy Singh, one of the Lowell’s three computer engineers (all of whom were called hackers by the rest of the crew). They sat behind Chavez. The nose of the Bird only had space for a single pilot. Since the computer did almost everything, and the pilot merely verified that it was functioning correctly, a co-pilot was something the designers had deemed unnecessary. Anyway, with the entire crew cross-trained in a second skill, there were almost always other pilots available no matter what happened. </div><div>
“Cleared Plato.” Chavez whispered as the lander skimmed over that northern crater, descending to Artemis base at the edge of Mare Frigoris. The words he spoke were part of the flight plan, one of many verbal exchanges meant to be made between pilot and a hacker at Artemis Control while their respective computers did all the work. </div><div>
“You’re offline, right?” Beckham asked, voice trembling slightly. <em>Good ears</em>, thought Chavez.</div><div>
“Don’t worry, doc. Nobody heard me. The mike’s off. I just said it out of habit.” </div><div>
“Nobody down there to hear you anyway,” Singh chipped in. “Nobody to hear you anywhere,” he added, with less force. The war had apparently begun as a skirmish between his own country, India, and Pakistan. Little news had escaped Earth before they cut themselves off, but one thing was certain: India had been obliterated once China entered the conflict. </div><div>
Beneath, the dead, white, cratered landscape rolled past at a slower and slower pace, the Bird reversing thrust almost imperceptibly. Mean to use its wings against Martian air, the craft’s lunar landing plan called for a much longer approach, allowing sufficient time to decelerate using it’s weak forward thrusters. </div><div>
“Is that it?” Singh said, leaning forward. </div><div>
“Yes.” </div><div>
“Aren’t we coming in too fast?” Beckham inquired. </div><div>
“Thrusters go to full in a second.”</div><div>
They did. There was the sound of their barely audible grunts as they strained against their safety belts more than they had on Mars landings. Artemis base, its surface nodes messily peppering the northern fringe of Mare Frigoris, spread out before them . They were coming in very low. The Bird bled off speed and came to a full stop just inches above the landing zone, painted a whorish red against the pristine, dead soil of the Moon. The craft settled almost silently. </div><div>
Proper lunar landers had air locks compatible with Artemis base. Lacking such, the three men had to seal their suits, exit out onto the open surface and hop in the familiar lunar gait toward a door prepared for just such an occasion and never actually used. Chavez led the way, but stopped short of the door to let Singh handle the entrance code. Any idiot can enter a code, but if you’ve got a hacker along you might as well let him do it. </div><div>
Chavez felt a tickle deep in his spine as Singh communicated via one of the implants in his neck to waken the door and open it. All three entered the air lock with no trouble, but each could sense the other’s anticipation. Beckham’s barely restrained fear tasted like a copper penny on the back of Chavez’s tongue. He felt bad for the physician. He was fresh out of the Tank. That would be a good way for him to excuse his flagrant and obvious fear, anyway. A man is lucky he can hide his thoughts. We can’t hide our feelings anymore. </div><div>
What would they find? This unknowing had set their nerves on edge. Would they be attacked? Would they find the base unoccupied? Would there be signs of a terrible battle among the crew, less one-sided and more divisive than what had happened at Ares? </div><div>
Chavez couldn’t decide if he hoped the base would be occupied or not. Mixing with other human beings, besides the other twenty-two aboard the Lowell, would be a pleasure. Chavez, like many ‘nauts back from long missions, felt that primitive desire for reunion with known faces, with other members of the tribe. He wanted to talk about meaningless things, eat meals with them. But he was also afraid that these others would bring conflict, would reinforce the strange change that had overtaken their world with stranger behavior. </div><div>
Soon, standing in the air lock with the exterior door closed, Chavez heard air hissing against the surface of his helmet. When he heard a low tone in his left ear, he emitted the guttural swallowing noise that made his helmet recede into his suit. As always, he was initially overwhelmed by the gunpowder smell of the lunar dust. He immediately heard Singh taking a deep breath to his right. The interior door slowly slid open. </div><div>
“Well, doc?” Chavez looked at the doctor, who had taken a more cautious breath. Beckham’s eyes had that faraway look that overcame most people when they reviewed data not found on a display screen but rather somewhere in their lower brain, where the content of the air was being analyzed by non-organic entities that beneficially confused their identity with that of Beckham. </div><div>
“The air is good. We knew that.” the doctor added. “But it hasn’t been breathed by many people for a long time.” </div><div>
“So the place is empty?” Singh asked.</div><div>
Beckham went far away again. Then, “No. Someone has been here. Maybe more than one. At least recently, if not now.” </div><div>
“Well,” Chavez announced, “time to see if anybody is home.” He flexed his right shoulder and sent a hailing signal that had to be answered by anyone else in the astronaut corps who hadn’t somehow tampered with their implants. </div><div>
Singh and Beckham’s systems responded immediately, of course. They each sent back streams of data which Chavez discarded with a flick of his tongue while he tensed and waited for something else. But nothing came. </div><div>
“Artemis is pretty large,” Beckham said. “And its tunnels are convoluted. There could still be somebody here.” </div><div>
“Right,” Chavez said, nodding. “Well, let’s get to Control and see if we meet anybody on the way.”
<strong>4
</strong>
Three screens on the Lowell bridge displayed the ‘nauts individual perspectives through their left eyes. White watched them start into the dark tunnel which sloped down into the subterranean lair where most of Artemis base was located, taking advantage of the protection that several cubic meters provided against a surface vacuum that alternated between freezing and boiling temperatures. Suit lights illuminated their descent. </div><div>
The base had apparently been placed on standby. There were no lights on and remote attempts to turn them on had failed, meaning that they had not only been turned off at Control but that someone had actually cut the connection, either by pulling plug, removing a fuse, or some more drastic action. Yet the ventilation was working. Chavez had reported a faint breeze, and the low rumble of the fans could be heard. </div><div>
Located near the geographical center of the base, perhaps thirty feet underground, Control was simply a large room filled with computer consoles and much open wall space for displays when necessary. Presently, Chavez stood outside the closed door, Singh and Beckham behind him. Reception became poor. The images began to stick. Chavez’s perspective began to cut out erratically. Singh sent the code that opened the door and it slid open with no resistance. Chavez’s suit pierced the darkness with a narrow cone of light which darted back and forth a few times, causing deformed shadows to dance along the opposite wall. White thought of ancient dancers in fire-lit caves and noted the spike in each man’s biometrics. The pilot lessened the intensity of the light, steadied it. </div><div>
“Where first, Singh?” White heard Chavez ask, his voice crackling. Singh responded but White could not understand. He saw the men start forward. Chavez’s perspective cut out, but White could still see him through Singh’s eyes. Beckham’s biometrics pierced the danger levels as the man sent hailing signals so fast that he could not have processed any replies even if they had been sent. Singh’s view cut out as he moved deeper into the room, but White saw him turn to Beckham, who lingered near the door, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. Singh beckoned with one hand, said something indecipherable. Beyond him Chavez was weaving slowly between computer consoles toward the main station. Beckham took another step. His display went black. It came back to life for a second, showed Singh moving toward Chavez, who stood in the center of the room, shining like a beacon in the darkness. Then a final darkness came and White saw them no more.
<strong>5</strong> </div>
<div>
The lights came on. </div><div>
Beckham made a startled gurgling noise. Chavez extinguished his suit lights as Singh rose from where he had been genuflecting before the main console. </div><div>
“Everything is fine,” the Indian hacker said as he took a seat and plugged himself into the computer. “The lights were turned off here purposefully, just as the recycling fans were programmed to stay on. The base was not on standby or damaged. Someone changed the settings from right here.” </div><div>
They were all silent for a moment as their systems struggled to handle all the data flowing at them. White had apparently logged on to the solar net when the base came back to life. Ship, base and men were suddenly awash in data, systems freezing or sticking with the unusual amount of input. Chavez felt like he had been hit in the head, but there was no pain, only the same stunning effect - his eyes unfocused briefly, his thoughts disintegrated, reformed around the new information pouring into his brain and the memory chips buried in various parts of his nervous system. </div><div>
A moment later Chavez came back to his senses, though the flood of updates had not stopped nor likely would anytime soon. His system was distancing itself from his thought processes and his motor functions. He saw that Beckham was leaning against the wall, just barely managing to support himself. Singh, wired directly into the computer, was still under the current of the data river. His eyes had glazed over. His hands trembled. </div><div>
Righting himself, Beckham resumed sending out hailing signals, like a man with a chronic hiccup. Chavez considered telling him to stop, then decided that it was probably keeping the doctor from wigging out completely. </div><div>
“All right,” the pilot said, to no one in particular as he nodded his head. He thought briefly of all the people in the Tank, floating unconscious in a cold, viscous slime. Like him, they had probably gone to sleep before submersion, thinking that they might never wake up. Soon, they would be down here, feeling the old familiar lunar gravity, glad to be back in Earthspace at least. But, like him, they would all be haunted by that dead planet in the sky. </div><div>
Singh cleared his throat. He had fought his way up from below the tide. His voice trembled a bit as he spoke. “I am trying to get a definitive read on the whole place for life forms.” He paused again for a few seconds. His fingers began dancing in staccato bursts atop the keyboard, since his system was too overloaded to speak directly to the computer in from of him. He brought up video displays. The screen divided into sections. Singh enlarged the sections one at a time, chose infrared, scrolled through them. Stopped. </div><div>
“There’s somebody,” he said. “Or something.” </div><div>
The window he had chosen was marked Garden. Chavez knew it as the section of Artemis base dedicated to experimental botany. A red mass lay still on an otherwise blue-shaded screen.</div><div>
“Cut the IR,” he told Singh.</div><div>
It was a person, a human, naked, curled up next to a tree. </div><div>
“Close-up.” Chavez whispered, as if he didn’t wish to wake one who slept.
Face and body were obscured by the fetal position. Only the back was visible. </div><div>
“Must be cold,” Beckham said, coming up behind Chavez. He had quit hailing. </div><div>
“Nah,” Singh added, pointing to the relevant data in the screen. “That room has been kept above room temperature.” </div><div>
They stared for a little while. The image was poor, and the sleeper neither wakened nor moved.</div><div>
“Whoever it is,” Singh said, “they’re alive or they wouldn’t show up on the IR.” </div><div>
“Yes,” Chavez agreed, “but how come we get no response from our hailings?” </div><div>
“Well,” Singh replied, “it is on the other side of the base. That’s a lot of regolith between us.” </div><div>
“Hail with the base system, then.” </div><div>
Singh did. Nothing. They all looked at one another. Chavez broke the silence. </div><div>
“Singh, stay here and coordinate with White and Lowell and get the base back online. Beckham, you’re a doctor. Come with me.” And he started out the door.
<strong>6
</strong></div><div>The Lowell was going through it’s own throes and fits as it patched back into the solar net. Just as Chavez and Beckham were leaving, White achieved a link with Singh, who explained what was happening. </div><div>
White acquired video from the hallways of Artemis and watched Chavez and Beckham walk through the base to the arboretum. Singh turned lights on as they advanced, bringing the base back to life. </div><div>
Their biometrics were good. Beckham continued to hail others, receiving no replies. The pair passed labs and work-stations of various sorts: White recognized a post from which base crew had managed the robots that had once sifted helium-three from the soil and now sat idle, perhaps ruined by their long wait in the lunar cycle of hot and cold. He saw them pass a post from which the water mines were monitored, as well as a lab for numerous experiments on lunar soil and water. They passed a door marked factory and White remembered that somewhere beyond that portal crew-members managed the devices which made bricks from regolith. They passed the infirmary, the rec room. Singh confirmed that the body in the garden was the only person present, but couldn’t explain why the ‘naut’s biosystem wouldn’t answer. </div><div>
“Maybe it’s not a ‘naut?” Singh suggested, interrupting the coded strings of language he had been using to communicate with White. </div><div>
White said nothing in reply. At first, he had intended to scorn the suggestion. No one got into space without implants anymore. And one couldn’t just hitch a ride to the moon or hide in the cargo bay of a passenger shuttle. No, either the body was that of a ‘naut, or...what? </div><div>
Chavez and Beckham had reached the door to the garden. White watched them stand silently for a moment.
<strong>7 </strong>
Chavez spoke to Singh. </div><div>
“Don’t turn anything on that isn’t already functioning.” </div><div>
“Not a problem,” Singh replied. “Air pressure is equalized with the corridor. Temperature is perfect, and you won’t need lights since the Sun doesn’t go down for a few days.” </div><div>
Through the door, made mostly of clear duraplastic, Chavez could see the truth of this. The garden was roofed with imitation glass that permitted varying types of the Sun’s light to penetrate. At the moment, rays of sun light fell down across the various plants which the botanical crew experimented with. Dominating the entire chamber was the dwarf pine, which had been so successful that the designers had quickly found it necessary to alter the height of the ceiling. In the shade of it’s evergreen boughs, at the base of the tree, a person lay curled up, back to the door. </div><div>
When Chavez was ready, Singh signaled for the door to open. It was noticeably thick as it receded into the jamb and Chavez recalled that this was the most dangerous room on the base, since it was so close to the surface. It had been holed once, some years ago, by a tiny particle but, besides scaring the whole base with alarms, there had been little real damage. The ceiling had sealed itself quickly, leaving two botanists trapped behind the heavy door, which would not open until the ceiling healed a few minutes later. </div><div>
Warm, fragrant air enveloped the two men. Each heard the other inhale the suddenly delicious atmosphere. In all of the artificial environments inhabited by man in space or under the sea, it was possible to emulate many odors, both pleasant and unpleasant. Rarely were they treated to the unmistakably authentic aroma of a garden in summer as they were now. Memories of Earth stunned the two men briefly, just as the sudden influx of data had recently stunned their biosystems. </div><div>
It was Chavez who moved first, even eagerly, into the spacious chamber, into the perfectly filtered sunlight. </div><div>
And as he did, the figure beneath the tree stirred and stood. Chavez stopped, as did Beckham, who had managed only a few steps. </div><div>
She was completely naked, a woman in late-middle age. Wild, unkempt gray hair framed a haggard face. She looked older than a ‘naut should. There were plenty of older ‘nauts in space, many retired, but implants delayed many signs of age and it was rumored that age alone could not kill any of them, as their biosystems constantly screened blood and nervous system for abnormalities that might signify cancer or oncoming heart problems. Wear and tear of exercise was ameliorated by constant treatment. </div><div>
Unlike most female ‘nauts that Chavez knew, she didn’t have breast implants. Her dugs hung low, stretched even by lunar gravity, each like a lone onion in a sack, dangling. They were streaked with blood. </div><div>
She stretched her bloody hands towards them and mumbled something. </div><div>
Beckham whispered, “Holy shit,” and hailed the woman once, getting no reply.
<strong>8</strong>
Just then, Singh barked into White’s ear. </div><div>
“We’re not alone! We’re not alone! I just finished checking on the existing servers! They’re all over!”</div><div>
White kept one eye on the drama unfolding at the Garden, where the blood-streaked woman had fallen to her knees, and then onto her face, while he asked Singh to be more specific.
Singh related the names of various servers. Most of them were orbital, but some were Earthbound. </div><div>
“Singh.” White interrupted the excited hacker. “Don’t contact any of them.” </div><div>
After a long pause, Singh replied, “What?” </div><div>
White could see Beckham and Chavez carrying the woman away. Singh was too busy with White to route video from another camera to White, so they effectively disappeared for the moment. </div><div>
“Don’t contact anyone. And now that we’re online they can see us. But I don’t want you to respond to anyone that tries to contact us, neither via the base or the Lowell.” </div><div>
A few seconds of silence was enough to convince White that Singh was reluctant. </div><div>
“Look,” White continued, “we don’t know anything about what’s going on down there. We don’t know who is in charge of anything. We don’t know if someone might want to blow us to hell.”</div><div>
“Why would they want to do that?” </div><div>
“Singh, I repeat, we don’t know anything. We don’t know where the hell everyone at this base is. We just found a bloody woman with no biosystem. Just give me twenty-four hours before we respond.” </div><div>
More silence. White pulled out the burning question that had haunted him as he piloted the Lowell across millions of miles through the vacuum of space. </div><div>
“What is someone down there can hit Artemis? What if the crew deserted under threat?”</div><div>
Silence. </div><div>
“Give me, give us, twenty-four hours. Then we can announce ourselves. Until then, it’s enough that they know someone is here.” </div><div>
Singh was still silent and White was about to make a further plea when he finally responded, “Okay. We talk to them tomorrow.” </div><div>
“Good,” White replied. “Now give me video of Chavez and Beckham.”
<strong>9
</strong>
They carried her into the infirmary, using their suit lights until Singh finally turned the lights on.</div><div>
“Her name’s Rachel Thompson. She’s a Canadian botanist.” Beckham said as they laid her down on the first available bed. Chavez remembered how Beckham had been the first to go to the woman, how he had taken one of her bloodstained hands in his own. Chavez had, in the excitement, thought this a sudden expression of Beckham’s bedside manner he had not seen before. Now he remembered the dots implanted beneath the physician’s epidermis which could analyze blood, saliva and sweat on contact. </div><div>
“What’s wrong with her?” </div><div>
“She’s suffered some blood loss.” The doctor replied as he withdrew a handcuff from his side of the bed and latched it onto Thompson’s wrist before moving around to Chavez’s side to do the same. “Other than that I can’t say yet.” </div><div>
“Is that really necessary?” Chavez asked, standing back as Beckham finished chaining her up. </div><div>
“She’s wasn’t coherent. I’m not taking the chance of losing her.” Beckham said as he walked away, toward a small office and supply room attached to the infirmary. </div><div>
Chavez shrugged, acknowledging the logic. “She did try to hurt herself.”</div><div>
“No, she didn’t.” Beckham said, coming back with a black bag. “There was blood from two others on her. I suspect they did this to her. I don’t see how a person could actually do this to themself.”
Chavez shook his head, gave a nervous look at the door, half-expecting to see two bloody specters standing there. “Wait. Two others? Did what?” </div><div>
Beckham, removing the tools of his trade from the bag, gestured toward her neck with his head. “That. Someone removed her implants. Virtually her entire biosystem.” </div><div>
Chavez reeled. That was why they couldn’t hail her. </div><div>
“But...why?”</div><div>
Beckham ignored him, concentrating on his patient. </div><div>
A moment later, White chirped in his ear. “Chavez. Looks like everything is secure with you. Leave the good doctor with his patient and Singh firing up the computers. Get the Bird ready and come back to Lowell. I’m coming down.”
<strong>10</strong> </div><div>
When White came down several hours later, he sent Chavez to get some rest and then went to see the only surviving member of the Artemis crew with his own eyes. </div><div>
Beckham met White outside the infirmary. </div><div>
“She’s unconscious.” He said, barely noticing White and apparently distracted by some interior data flow specific to managing the infirmary. </div><div>
“Can I see her?” </div><div>
“Of course.” Beckham made way for White. </div><div>
She lay quiescent, hair combed and parted, hands at her sides, detained by cuffs that appeared little more than bracelets. A blanket was pulled up over her breasts. Doctor and Commander stood on opposite sides of the dormant woman. </div><div>
Since being brought into the infirmary, Thompson had spoken only three times. White has replayed each instance numerous times while waiting for Chavez to return for him.
The first utterance had been unintelligible, as she suddenly woke and pulled at her restraints, screaming weakly. In the video, Beckham could be seen startling and bolting from the room as her torso shot to fully erect in the bed. Then she had collapsed. Beckham had returned to give her a mild sedative, probably frightened to shock her fragile system. Already by then the doctor had begun an IV with her own stored blood from the infirmary refrigerator. </div><div>
Later, as Chavez ascended from the Moon and White waited, the commander had watched as she stirred in her bed, coming in and out of a semi-conscious state. Singh had turned the microphones up to their maximum level and Beckham’s footsteps in the infirmary sounded like thunder claps. Suddenly, unprovoked, Thompson said very clearly, “Lunar soil is essentially like that of Earth but devoid of moisture and air.” The she had lapsed back into unconsciousness. </div><div>
Finally, as White and two others strapped into their seats behind Chavez, she had come fully conscious for a few minutes and White, watching via the video Singh fed him constantly, had goaded Beckham into quizzing her before she drifted away again. She had said enough to give White a general idea of what had happened. </div><div>
She had said nothing since. </div><div>
“Is this a coma?” White asked. </div><div>
“No,” Beckham replied quickly. “She was simply exhausted and suffering from blood loss. I’m not sure what caused the...odd reaction to our presence, other than the trauma.” </div><div>
The trauma. White thought. Perhaps that would be a good name for everything that had happened. Instead of World War III, or the Holocaust, they could all call it The Trauma. </div><div>
“Well, I brought Madar down.” White said, meaning the priest who had also acted as psychiatrist and back-up physician on the mission. “Maybe he will be able to bring her out of it He came out of the Tank after you, though, so he’ll need some more time to recover.” </div><div>
He noticed the woman’s hands, how clean they were. He gestured toward her neck. </div><div>
“Can I see...?” </div><div>
“Of course, but please, allow me.” Beckham reached down and pulled the hair away from the left side of her neck, revealing a heavy bandage, which he began to remove. </div><div>
An ugly gouge in her neck oozed blood. It looked like something had chewed her neck. She had become undetectable but damn near died doing it. </div><div>
“The tools were in here.” The doctor gestured toward the cabinets, then began to replace the bandage. “She couldn’t have done it all herself. She must have been assisted by one of the others.”
<strong>11
</strong>
Chavez didn’t use one of the many available crew quarters for his rest period. Instead, he returned to the Garden. </div><div>
After opening the door he was once again awash in the aroma of Earth, such a stark contrast to the gunpowder reek to which he had not yet become accustomed in the rest of the base. Chavez knew almost nothing about botany, didn’t know the names of any flowers besides roses and lilies, and had no vocabulary to describe the layered redolence of the air he inhaled. But he knew that it was good. </div><div>
He stepped forward and let the door shut behind him. It was not a large chamber by Earthly standards, but for a lifelong space veteran like Chavez it was huge. </div><div>
The Garden produced little food for the base. That was done at Hydroponics, a chamber of similar size not far away. But it was not pleasant like the Garden. It had been a very business-like set-up - rack upon rack of food crops embedded in rock wool under grow lights - before the war. Now, it was untended, in disarray and not at all welcoming. </div><div>
The Garden was also unkempt. Many plots had been set aside for various projects and they all grew, or didn’t, adjacent to one another. But there was no failed attempt at functionality, here, to depress anyone. It had been a place of hope and still was. The tree, springing from the once dead soil toward the hopeless, dark vacuum, inspired and assured everyone who saw it. </div><div>
Moving forward, Chavez found a small clear plot of land near the central tree. Two shallow mounds lay side by side. According to Beckham’s analyses, they were Nigel Gibson, an English hydrologist, and Serafina Odiaka, a Nigerian pilot. Their blood had been on Thompson’s hands. Presumably they had died trying to remove their biosystems, but there would be autopsies to make sure when the doctor had time. </div><div>
It was possible that there had been others besides these two, but Singh had run extensive checks and found no other living thing in the base. The hacker had also determined that all but one of the shuttles located at the base had been taken in the hours immediately following the war’s onset. They still didn’t know why these three, at least, had stayed. They also didn’t know if anyone had tried to trek overland to one of the normally-unoccupied satellite bases. Chavez expected that White would have some interesting exploratory work for him to do after he rested. </div>
<div>With that thought, the pilot sat down before reclining beneath the evergreen boughs. A series of facial tics and a sub-vocal command began a biosystem shut down. A great sense of enervation suddenly rushed into his sensory interface, having been kept at bay by special software that aided his adrenalin glands. He closed his eyes and dreamed. </div>Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2725003816271904772.post-22955320105755164672008-07-30T14:38:00.000-07:002008-07-30T15:06:07.025-07:00All That is Seen and UnseenIn August, Peter took me out to Anapra in the brown Toyota, a battered pickup that looked like something buried in the desert a thousand years ago and only recently excavated. I braced myself in the passenger seat while he drove over the broken, cratered road. It had been a dry summer and dust clouded the view. Occasional rains packed it down but it always rose back into the air, choking and blinding. We had rolled up the windows in preparation and were sweating profusely because the AC didn’t work.<br /><br />I first saw Anapra the day I arrived in El Paso. The previous summer I had come from Arizona in a Greyhound bus that roared along Interstate 10 until it reached the city limits and slowed, allowing me to take in the desolate view. To the right, West of El Paso, the town of Santa Teresa sat lonely and quiet on the desert floor. Directly ahead, Juarez, mother of my strange destiny, awaited me. Ahead and to the left, El Paso del Norte was not sure if it was America, Mexico or Texas. All around were low, brown barren hills that couldn’t have cared less about which country they resided in.<br /><br />The I-10 closely parallels the border as it approaches downtown El Paso and turns eastward. Anapra lays between this multi-million dollar testament to America’s technological advancement and the naked cliff faces opposite in Mexico. Cristo Rey, the giant white crucifix that sits atop a hill in El Paso, can be seen from a distance of many miles, and from this promontory a crucified Jesus looks out over creation.<br /><br />The full name of the area is Puerta Anapra. It is not a town unto itself but rather a colonia of Juarez. Ciudad Juarez is divided into colonias the way an American city might be divided into zip codes. Except Anapra had not been planned by the city fathers; people just built there, raising homes on the desert floor or carving them out of the sides of low hills. The land occupying this space before the recent settlement must have been as barren and lifeless as the Moon. In the corner of God’s eye, it had become a squatter colony.<br /><br />I saw the result of this sudden sprawl from my moving vantage point on the bus. The view lasted only seconds and I was grateful when I was carried out of Anapra’s sight and into the slow-beating heart of El Paso.<br /><br />A week later Peter took me and a few other volunteers on our first trip to Anapra. He drove and talked endlessly about the border and the plight of immigrants throughout history, starting with Abraham and Israel. The other new guys and I, for a variety of motives, had decided to come live in shelters on both sides of the border, working for free. Most had been like me, kids fresh out of college and wanting to do anything besides go back to school or get a job. Some were religious, some were leftists. We sat in the back of Peter’s van joking about Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace to take our minds off the poverty and misery we were seeing. The immense shantytown, built on desert sand and into the sides of barren hills, was a stark, undeniable reminder of our own mortality. When you grow up surrounded by food, computers, designer clothing, excellent housing and movie screen television, you never know the eternal enemies of the race: hunger, weather, violence, madness. To see others afflicted by these things suggests a common destiny. Yes, they will die out here, but you will die someplace else.<br /><br />We tried to listen to Peter’s lecture while our minds browsed memories of home and middle-class security, wondering if we would stay. One of the others left the next day without saying a word to anyone. I was the only one left by the following summer. For reasons mysterious even to myself, I remained.<br /><br />I had subsequently been out to Anapra a number of times but not since early July, when I went to the fiesta patronal of the small church that served the area. Nothing had changed. It was just as hot, just as disturbingly impoverished, and I still had the diarrhea I’d gotten from eating tacos made with spoiled meat. A year had gone by but I still got weak and feverish once a month for several days at a time.<br /><br />Peter had called me an hour before and told me why I had to go with him. I’d been sitting, sweating, in the office at Casa Maria, one of Peter’s Juarez shelters, going over the schedule for the last week of August, when he called. He reminded me that the previous summer I had attended a free course about documenting human rights abuses committed by the border patrol. I remembered, sitting there and feeling as empty as a discarded beer bottle, how fervent I’d been at the time I was trained, only beginning to think that I, too, might someday burn out like so many other volunteers I knew. I had been positively anxious for the border patrol to kick someone’s ass so that I could write it up. But I never got a chance. Either the border patrol wasn’t abusing anyone or the people being abused weren’t talking.<br /><br />"I need your assistance." Peter had said, speaking to me from the dingy office of his decrepit house in downtown El Paso where he lived alone. He spoke in a cold, formal voice, as if he didn’t know me very well. Maybe after seventeen years of being the border saint it was easier not to know any of the transients you met, be they volunteer or refugee.<br /><br />"That’s what I’m here for." I was drawing up the work schedule as we talked, but focusing neither on that nor on the conversation.<br /><br />"I just got a call from Rita Melendez." Rita was a woman with four children who inexplicably made a living in Anapra. The organization had been in touch with her for a few years in order to have a contact in Anapra.<br /><br />"How’d Rita call you?" I asked, somewhat more attentive now. I knew that neither Rita nor any of her neighbors had phones.<br /><br />"She had to take a bus into town."<br /><br />That morning a neighbor had told Rita that a man who tried to cross over into the States the night before had been brutally beaten not far from Anapra. He had been taken in by someone just a few blocks away.<br /><br />"But Rita hasn’t seen the man?"<br /><br />"No, and I’m aware that this could be a wild goose chase, but I want to act on it. I’d like for you and I to go out there and try to document the event."<br /><br />I had forgotten almost everything involved in creating such documentation. But I couldn’t bear admitting that to Peter so I agreed to go. A part of me was hoping the poor bastard would die of his injuries before we got there and save me the embarrassment.<br /><br />As Peter and I entered Anapra proper I recalled the disgust I had felt at my first view. This was the grimmest, lowest level of poverty I had ever seen. Houses were made out of anything their owners could get their hands on: wooden pallets, styrofoam, cement blocks, plastic bags, plywood. Most homes were a combination of this garbage. The floors were usually dirt, packed down by the treading feet of the occupants. There was no running water.<br /><br />Some residents used car batteries as a temporary energy source. If not, electricity was pirated from nearby electrical poles. Every now and then some poor bastard got electrocuted trying to hook up his house so that his family could listen to the radio, watch TV or run some other rare appliance they might be lucky enough to have. The dirt roads were girded by the tangled cables that ran from these poles to people’s shacks.<br /><br />As the Toyota struggled through sand, rocks, and clouds of dust to the top of a hill, I looked out over that human disaster and felt pity and empathy rising up out of the junkyard of my soul. I felt compassion for the man I was supposed to interview and hated feeling it. Not for the first time I wondered if I had been wise to volunteer for another year in this slow hell of other people’s suffering.<br /><br />We stopped at Rita’s ramshackle home. If I had wanted to find out how Rita eked by I could’ve done so, but I never got around to asking. She was one of those unbelievable examples of human fortitude and mercy. The year before I arrived in El Paso, with my college smile and my duffel bag, Rita took in an old man, abandoned by his own children, to live in her home. As if supporting her children on virtually nothing hadn’t been difficult enough, Rita had taken in an old gimp that did nothing but consume and whine. Volunteers tended to speak of her as the soul of charity, but I thought she was nuts.<br /><br />Her house was made mostly of cement block, which was nice for the area. The dwelling had a low ceiling and a back room made from wooden pallets and semi-transparent plastic sheets. There was a faint smell of wood smoke in the dusty air. By the time we had stepped out, two of Rita’s three boys had come running out of the shack and were babbling something faster than I could understand. Peter contorted his face and listened intently.<br /><br />Rita, short and brown with a pretty face for her thirty-some tough years, came out as the boys rattled on, probably having long past disbursed any important information and now simply repeating or rephrasing it. Peter was too polite to interrupt. I looked inquisitively at their mother. She smiled, showing a rare mouth with only one missing tooth, and explained quickly.<br />"Don Luis esta mal. Necesitamos llevarlo al doctor."<br /><br />Don Luis, the old boy Rita had taken in, was sick and needed to see a doctor. Secretly, I felt good for Rita. If Don Luis died she’d have one less mouth to feed and a slightly better shot at survival. It sounds heartless, but you haven’t seen how she and her kids lived. You haven’t watched those barefoot boys play with sticks and rocks while, a few miles away, American children whined if their parents didn’t buy them new shoes or more video games once a month.<br /><br />We crowded into her home and stood against the walls. The living room, to the right of the entrance, was small, perhaps ten feet by eight. There was a small, fold-up card table standing uncertainly in the middle of this space, surrounded by a green, plastic patio chair, an actual wooden chair and two milk crates stacked one atop the other. Don Luis occupied the patio chair, arms dangling at his sides, head bowed as if in prayer. On another milk crate sat a battered TV. It showed little more than static.<br /><br />Rita chattered and Peter nodded, repeating a few times that he would help her.<br /><br />"What’s wrong with him?" I asked Rita.<br /><br />"We found him on the floor when we came back from the store." There was a market just a block from her house. "He was shaking and moaning."<br /><br />I had seen things like this before in the shelters; old men and women, trembling uncontrollably, having fits, shouting incoherently. They might go on like that for weeks, months, or years before dying. In the States such a case would have been diagnosed and treated, someone would have done something for them. In Mexico, they just suffered on the margins of society. Then they died. Until now Don Luis had been a burden, but he had been lucid and ambulatory. I was slowly realizing that things really could get worse for Rita and her children, after thinking for so long that it couldn’t be any worse than it was.<br /><br />Peter, Rita and I lifted him simultaneously. "Aah…aah…aah." He moaned, exhaling noxious breath. I held Don Luis’s shoulders. His head lolled against my chest. With his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open, the old man resembled an infant. As close as I was, I could smell that he had shit himself a little, just like a baby would do. But another look at that weather-beaten, wrinkled, slack flesh around his eyes and I saw the death in him. Don Luis forever became the personification of Death for me, even though he did not die that day. When my mother was dying of cancer two years later, I sat at her bedside in the hospital and remembered Don Luis. I imagined the old man coming for her, reeking of shit and moaning "aah…aah…aah" as he stumbled down the hallways, shutting the eyes of the dying with a trembling hand.<br /><br />We staggered outside like a confused, six-legged juggernaut. With a quick flash of his hand Peter cracked open the passenger side door and pushed it wide open with his body. We put Don Luis in the middle of the seat and Rita hopped in to support him. I got out of there quick, just in case whatever the old man had was catching. I had known volunteers who got tuberculosis during their stay. In a year I had managed to avoid that and certainly wasn’t going to risk getting anything worse.<br /><br />As Peter and Rita tried to decide whether to take him to the clinic or the General Hospital, I couldn’t help but look northward to America. A few hundred yards from Rita’s house, the only thing separating Mexico and her northern neighbor was a low dirt berm. One could easily step over it. I thought of running for it just to see what would happen. It looked so easy. Of course, one could easily pick out the border patrol trucks stationed at regular intervals. They were the real border; magnificent, gasoline-powered, steel machines that vigorously pursued anything that tried to penetrate our defenses. The dirt berm was only a symbol.<br /><br />But with the trucks so still it was easy to imagine that they were asleep, that one could bolt across the border and into the promised land and hide before the guardians awoke. I tried to imagine having that temptation all the time. From his perch above all the misery, Christ also seemed to contemplate this temptation.<br /><br />Eventually Peter decided to take Don Luis to the General Hospital. This was a tough decision, since the General Hospital was known for taking off a leg when you needed a kidney removed and vice versa.<br /><br />"I’ll go with Don Luis." Rita announced. "Veronica will be here in a few minutes. She can show you the way." She spoke the last words to me. Veronica was Rita’s sixteen-year-old daughter. She visited the house occasionally and I had seen her on most of his trips to Anapra.<br /><br />Rita left her two boys with me. The three of us watched the truck kick up dust as it pulled away, then we went inside to escape the Sun.<br /><br />Inside was little better. The enclosed darkness of Rita’s dwelling offered no more than an almost imperceptibly cooler environment and brought her family’s stark poverty far too close.<br /><br />The kitchen was a small space to the left of the front door. Over one corner a mesh bag hung from a nail in the ceiling. The idea was to keep the mice and the bugs out. An onion weighed the bag down. I thought of a man with one testicle. A hot plate sat on the ground below, next to a small tank of propane gas. A wooden stand, holding a few dishes and cups, and a water basin were in the other corner. Rita’s family took baths by filling up the basin with cool water and then pouring in a pot of the boiling kind. That much water was hard to come by so they bathed infrequently and all in the same water, one after the other.<br /><br />The boys babbled, excited to have one of the gringos in their home. Soon I understood that they wanted to play soccer, futbol, with me. I agreed on the condition that I had to leave as soon as Veronica arrived to show me the injured man that I was supposed to interview.<br /><br />"Hokay!" They shouted before running out the door. They ran right into their eldest sister, Veronica, who immediately began to scold them in vicious Spanish.<br /><br />When I walked out she stopped right in the middle of a particularly foul phrase and smiled.<br />"Ay, que verguenza." She batted her eyes. "Perdoname." She was thin and dark-skinned with jet-black hair and blacker eyes.<br /><br />"Esta bien. No hay problema." I responded. I told her about what had happened and why they had left me behind, waiting for her.<br /><br />"Si!" She began, nodding her head vigorously. "Yo se donde esta!" She reached out to take my wrist and pulled me along. I made sure our hands parted as we began our trek.<br />"Vayanse!" She hissed, turning back to the boys who had started to follow. They scampered back inside the house and let us depart.<br /><br />"Como esta todo en la casa?" She asked demurely when we came to the end of the street. How is everything in the house? She referred to Casa Maria.<br /><br />"Bien. Bien."<br /><br />She turned left and I followed. The conversation carried on, touching on benign subject matter like the house and the weather, until it lamely died a minute later when we reached the house we were looking for.<br /><br />It was not much different from Rita’s house, perhaps in slightly worse condition but the same size. It had no front door. Instead, there was a heavy blanket hanging across the single doorway. Windows were also curtained with blankets. There was no noise from inside.<br /><br />"Oye!" Veronica called from a few yards away. "Oye!"<br /><br />I stood beside her, listening to the distant sound of cars roaring over the interstate, listening to the more intimate sounds of our feet on the sand, the susurration of our breath. The other myriad noises of Anapra were filtered out as we stood there, waiting for a dead man to respond.<br /><br />After a minute, Veronica spoke to me.<br /><br />"Aqui es donde me dijeron." Here is where they told me.<br /><br />I shrugged and asked her if it would be okay to go in, or could we get hurt trying that? Veronica assured me that if she went in front, calling out, we would be okay.<br /><br />Thus we approached the shack, Veronica in front, announcing the purpose of our visit as we precariously covered the short distance between the gate and the front door. Soon we stopped again, before the curtained doorway, listening. Veronica looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and pushed aside the blanket. Holy of Holies, I thought as I stepped through the doorway, following Veronica into the cool darkness of the dead man’s abode.<br /><br />Dark it was, but not quiet. Flies buzzed and hummed in the unlit room. I was used to flies swarming all over me, taking whatever sustenance they could from my sweat, but these flies paid me no attention. There was a more attractive dish set for them. The bloody remnant of a person lay on the dirt floor.<br /><br />With the curtain slightly open it was possible to make out some of the former man’s features. He was dark-skinned, moreno as they say in Spanish. He was small, with black hair. His eyes were, mercifully, shut, so his eye color was not verifiable but I had a pretty good idea of what they would have looked like. The man was probably from Guatemala, an indian from the mountains. I could tell where someone was from just by their appearance. His eyes would have been black. His voice would have been high-pitched, his Spanish fast and mingled with indian terms that made it nearly unintelligible to me. He must have recently died because I detected only the faint odor of unwashed skin, rather than the stench of rotting flesh.<br /><br />While I was still staring down at the dead man’s face, Veronica turned and threw her arms around me. She whispered hoarsely, "Llevame de aqui!" Take me away from here.<br /><br />In the moments the embrace endured, while I inhaled her strange mixture of pleasant girl-scents and repulsive body-odor, I wondered what she meant. Was she asking me to take her out of the shack, or out of Anapra?<br /><br />I pushed her away slowly. She jutted her face forward and up, into mine, her full lips grappling my own. I pulled her back and returned the kiss, hands running up and down her body, underneath her shirt, rasping against her back. She used her arms to force my face against her own. Our teeth clacked together painfully. I slipped her shirt up over her breasts. Her torso, slender and brown, was unbelievably smooth.<br /><br />Then I became aware of the smell, an awful reek. It was sweat, dirt, blood and the stench of her sex all at once. I remembered the corpse and Don Luis and suddenly wanted to vomit. I pushed her away, against the concrete wall, and stepped outside into the clear sunlight.<br /><br />I stood there and listened to the sounds of Anapra and the distant sound of America. I heard Veronica crying inside the house, just a few feet away; easy to comfort there in the darkness with the dead.<br /><br />I stepped through the gate and onto the street.<br /><br />I waited at Rita’s house and played reluctantly with the boys, kicking around a half-deflated soccer ball that appeared to be older than Peter’s Toyota.<br /><br />I thought about something Peter had told me and the other new volunteers the day after we arrived. He’d said that we needed to understand that that we did not become volunteers to help poor people. We did it for ourselves. I can remember thinking it was a bunch of shit and feeling a little insulted. I had come to help poor people even if he didn’t think so. After a few months, though, I realized that he was right. In all the emotional turmoil I experienced in those early days I cried on several occasions. But I never cried for the miserable, downtrodden people I met. I cried because I was afraid that the same misery could occur to me someday, that reality was a relentless tide of events that could not be stopped by wishful thinking. I cried because no one else would cry if I ended up on the street, hungry and cold. I cried for myself.<br /><br />Standing there at dusk in Anapra, I played soccer with Rita’s boys and understood that Veronica, too, cried for herself and not for the dead man. But just as no one could do anything to assuage my sorrows, I could do nothing to alleviate hers. We were two different worlds and the distance between us was not navigable.<br /><br />Veronica had not returned when Peter and Rita came back with Don Luis, who was conscious but weak, just after sunset. There had been no room at the General Hospital and they had given up waiting there. In the meantime, Don Luis had recovered somewhat. Peter promised to come in the morning and take him back to the hospital.<br /><br />I told Peter that we had not found the victim and that Veronica had stayed out trying to find him. Peter resigned himself to trying again the next day and I was grateful when we got in the truck and drove away.<br /><br />Peter called the next day and informed me that Veronica had found the man dead. The whole thing was being investigated by the <em>federales</em> and I could forget about documenting it.<br />"Keep me informed." I replied dully.<br /><br />I had two days coming to me. I planned on going over to El Paso to take a shower. Then I was going to go to the library and read magazines in the air-conditioned basement before eating a hamburger and drinking some beer in a clean bar. I was going to be a good American and forget about Rita, about Veronica, about Don Luis and the dead man, about a whole world out there just dying to live.Odysseushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00028190531437571201noreply@blogger.com0