by A. Sparrow
“Hey man. Come on in. Buster’s on his way. Can I get you a cup of coffee? A bagel?”
“Coffee’d be great.”
“So awesome to see you! God, how long has it been? I couldn’t believe it when you posted you were coming up this way. You’re looking good. I see you’ve kept off the weight, unlike some of us. Heh-heh!”
He pours me a mug and I follow him into a basement redolent with fuel oil and kitty litter. His drum kit is set up on a scrap of carpet in the corner. There are amplifiers and microphones scattered about. Just like old times.
I lay down my bass case.
“Look at all this gear! Do you guys play out much?”
“Uh … no. Not really. This stuff all belongs to my son. He had a band when he was in high school. He’s in the Air Force now, stationed in Okinawa.”
“What about Buster? He’s got a band, right?”
“Well … he still writes and records stuff. Pretty much solo. He posts a lot on YouTube. You should hear him. He sings now. He’s gotten pretty good. You’ll see. This will be fun.”
“I tried to get Sari to come, but ….”
“Oh yeah? You spoke to her? How’s she doing?”
“Fine. She’s just … not really into making music these days.”
“Happens,” says Joel. “I went through a dry spell. Fifteen years, I never touched my drums. But when my boys started to get into music … I started playing again.”
“Yeah. Once it’s in your blood, it’s there. Not quite like riding a bike, but it never really goes away. Does it?”
“Hey, remember that song we used to do with the drum and bass break in the middle, kind of sounded like a funeral dirge? I always liked that bass part.”
“Doesn’t … ring a bell.”
“It’s the one we recorded in Pittsburgh.”
“Pittsburgh? Uh … I didn’t go with you guys to Pittsburgh.”
“Didn’t you? Then who played on it?”
“Beats me. I was in grad school. Remember? I stayed behind … in Ithaca.”
“That wasn’t you? Well, shit. Who was that, then? When Buster comes, he can show you how it goes.”
He gets behind his kit and starts bashing around. He sounds pretty good. A little rough around the corners of his fills but otherwise fine. Joel was always an energetic and creative drummer. On the busy side at times, but rock solid when it mattered. This jam has potential. I’m starting to get excited.
We finish our coffee and got some more, waiting for Buster to show.
The phone rings. Joel answers it. His eyes flick back and forth. He is all frowns.
“Um … that was Buster. He’s gotta take his kid to the ortho. He can’t make it today.”
“Crap.”
“Hey, no problem. We can still play, right.”
So I plug in and tune up. Joel bashes on his drums while I pluck away at various bass lines from the old days. It’s nice, but it feels kind of empty and pointless with just us here.
Joel tucks his sticks under his arm. “How long are you gonna be around the area?”
I want to tell him a week. I want to make this jam happen. But I feel that pressure starting to build again. I know what’s going to happen if I stick around. I’ll hole up somewhere. The mental paralysis will sink in. And that will be that. My life will end in Cortland. What a frightening proposition.
“I’m … uh … gonna have to hit the road.”
“Oh really? That’s too bad, man. Buster would have loved to see you. Well … maybe next time you’re passing through, give me a heads-up and I can put something together.”
“Sure. Next time.”
I thank Joel for having me over. I leave my bass plugged into his son’s amplifier. That seems to encourage him. My promise to return seems not as empty.
The pressure eases when I am back in the car and on the road. Pangs trickle through my core when I see the road sign for Route 13 and Ithaca, but I turn in the opposite direction. It is time for the second item on my bucket list. To climb an Adirondack mountain.
***
I was an avid hiker back then. That all changed when I married Estrella, who liked the outdoors, but never made it a priority in our life. In my college days I would often drive to the White Mountains of New Hampshire and disappear for days into the wilderness areas, packing no tent, just a tarp and a ground cloth. I had always told myself I’d give the Adirondacks a try. They were hours closer to Ithaca for one thing. But for some reason, I never did. And now is my chance. My last chance to see.
I drive non-stop to Lake Placid. When I arrive, the whole place is socked in with clouds and fog. A steady mist smothers everything. I can’t even see halfway up the slopes of the mountains. If I went up a trail, odds were that I couldn’t see more than a couple feet in front of my face.
Funny thing is, the same thing has happened every time I’ve passed through this place. One reason why I’ve climbed Rockies, Greens and Whites but never an Adirondack.
I go online to see the weather forecast. A cold front is passing through, bringing with it unseasonal temperatures. It’s going to be pretty much the same slop tomorrow, only colder, so I gas up and hit road, trying to keep my insides from turning to lead. I fight the faint urge to stop the car, walk deep into the woods and lie down on the leaf litter. And stay there. Forever.
Again, the only thing that keeps the monster at bay is to keep on the move. To have a destination, any destination beyond my present location.
I check my phone and notice that I missed a call from Estrella. Probably to bug me about that forwarding address again. God knows what form she wants to send. Our divorce is final. Why can’t she just leave me alone?
I still don’t quite understand what happened to us. We had gotten into this rut where she would go to bed early and I would stay up late watching sports. On weekends, we did our separate chores, passing each other phantoms on auto-pilot. Our conversations stayed trivial and mundane but at least, we rarely argued. I thought she wanted it this way. I thought this was adulthood. Maturity.
To my mind, our marriage had evolved into the entity that all marriages become if they stay on course long enough. Well-worn like a well-loved leather jacket or a pair of comfortable shoes, loose in all the right places. No spots that rub.
So there we were, on cruise control until Estrella had the revelation that she wasn’t happy anymore. And down came the hammer, like a meteor out of a clear blue sky. From my perspective, anyhow. In retrospect, maybe I should have seen it coming. Maybe, though, it was inevitable.
Thus began the end game. Weeks of the silent treatment. A couple of awkward confrontations complete with rants and monologues outlining flaws and insults going back a decade. Then, voila! Divorce papers showed up on my desk at work.
I have no defense. It’s true. I got stuck in a rut. We were both stuck. Me, in more ruts than one. I had etched grooves into my life stream so deep I couldn’t see over the sides. They had become gorges, leaving me no chance of ever climbing out.
The divorce didn’t cause my major depression. It was just another trigger. I had experienced plenty of episodes before. Like nor’easters they would come and go without much warning. But this time it lingered. The monster kept me in its jaws and toyed with me, like a sated lioness.
Now that I am on the run, I realize I have to keep at it or else the whole deal will shut down. I already caught myself fishing my hand around the junk in the back compartment seeking the chamois cloth that I had wrapped around my uncle’s handgun.
But I have the last leg of my quest to fulfill. So I quit the Adirondacks and skip north, crossing the border at Cornwall. Turn east towards Montreal. Pass Trois-Rivieres. I don’t stop until I reach Quebec City.
I eat an amazing dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall bistro. It’s just pot roast with potatoes and brussels sprouts, but it’s so nice having an appetite again. I must have put a few pounds back on already. My decision to die has paradoxically restored some of my will to live. I m
arvel in my renewed interest in in observing the ways of people and admiring pretty girls. Again, sensory pleasures matter.
I find a hotel that’s way too expensive but I don’t care. I need a shower. I plunder the mini-bar. Further deplete my bucket fund and Maggie’s inheritance, but I figure the life insurance money and trust fund will more than make for it. I’ve done my research, and if I do things right and don’t resort to that gun I can make my death look less like a suicide than a misadventure, guaranteeing that she collects on all the policies.
I’ve got lots of policies, too. I went through a period of collecting cheap insurance plans when she was small and Estrella was a stay-at-home mom and my tenure was still uncertain.
There’s a Canadian football game on TV. The Montreal Alouettes against the Toronto Argonauts. The Argonauts are kicking butt. Clean and drunk, I pass out under a down comforter puffy enough to have denuded a flock of geese.
The next morning I have an amazing breakfast. I fill a sack with half a dozen buttery croissants from the bakery next door.
I drive north through dense forests to another river town called Saguenay. Stop for some coffee and poutine. Pick up a few more things at a grocery store. I peek at a map and see there is not a whole lot of civilization ahead of me. This generates a genuine frisson of excitement in me that eradicates the lead from my bones. I sense adventure ahead.
So I hit the road again, passing through a series of tiny little farming towns along the St. Lawrence Seaway until I cut north again on a smaller road called Route 385. The map tells me this will lead me to the border of Labrador and Quebec.
As long as I keep moving and new horizons keep regenerating on my windscreen, the heaviness keeps its distance. I listen to French talk shows on the radio even though I can’t understand a word. That little bit of exoticness helps draw me out of the world that had dragged me down. I feel like my car is a wood chip on a raging river, staying afloat only by remaining free and floating on the current. If I get sucked into an eddy I will die.
Towns are so few and far between on this road, I feel obligated to stop at every one to gas up, even if my tank is not empty. I buy two five gallon jerry cans at a service station in a strange town called Fermont, Quebec. Strange, because of its ramparts: a mile long curving wall that faces the northwest. It shelters a sprawl of low and ugly structures between it and a lake. The place is a mining town, populated mainly by men wearing reflective orange. The place has a real frontier feel about it.
I consider sleeping in the back of the Honda, but it’s so cold. I book myself a room at a hotel built into the wall, which turns out to be an entire town under one roof. I’m up by five for breakfast and back on the road by six.
Just outside of Fermont, at the Labrador border, I come across two First Nation girls hitchhiking. I spot them on the road a quarter mile ahead. In my condition, I really shouldn’t stop, but I do anyhow. It’s chilly out and they’ve probably got a long way to go to get where they’re going.
They’re short and round. Bundled in scarves and snorkel coats. Their hair is well-brushed, dark and sleek. They both wear a little too much makeup.
“Where are you guys headed?”
“Happy Valley. Goose Bay.”
“Are those … two different places?”
“Not really. Pretty much the same.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Nah. We’re from Davis Inlet. Up north.”
“North, really? Can you drive there from … Goose Bay?”
“Nah. There’s no roads. Most go by boat. Though in the winter, when the bogs freeze over, some go by skidoo through Hopedale.”
They toss their packs into the trunk climb aboard. The shorter, older of the pair rides shotgun. The younger girl, remarkably tall, sits behind me. They’re not very talkative at first, so I try to make conversation.
“So what’s there to do up in Davis Inlet?”
“Sniff gasoline,” said the short girl. “Suicide’s popular. But … the place don’t exist anymore, really. The government moved everybody off the island to a new place they call Natuashish. Easier to hunt caribou from there, once the herd comes back.”
“Caribou, really? Is that … where you’re headed?”
“Nah. The town voted to ban alcohol. Me and my sister, we don’t know what we’re gonna do.”
We bounce along a rough patch in the road. The older girl is counting money while the other girl braids her hair. They chat quietly with each other. I can’t tell what language she is speaking.
“Are you guys … Cree?”
“Well, yeah. Kinda. Innu.”
“Innu’s a tribe?”
“Eastern Cree … basically. Naskapi.”
“What are your names?”
“I’m Sarah … and this is Maybelle.”
Maybelle whispers in her sister’s ear.
“Hey mister. You wanna fuck?”
“Excuse me?”
“How much you pay? One of us. Both of us. How much you pay?”
“I wasn’t really expecting—”
“You wanna blow job?”
“Listen … I’m really not in the mood. Are you two like … prostitutes?”
“Sometimes.”
“You need money?” I reach behind the seat and grab a thick wad of hundred dollar bills from my duffel bag. That leaves about four thousand dollars.
“Here. Take this.” I hand the wad of cash to Sarah.
They look at me and blink. Maybelle’s hand darts out and snatches the money from her sister’s hand.
“So what do you want us to do, mister?” says Sarah, grinning broadly, her eyes flaring wide.
“Nothing. I don’t want you to do anything. Consider this a gift.”
Maybelle whispers in her sister’s ear. “You just win the lottery or something?”
“Nope. Just … uh … sold a house.”
“Ain’t you gonna need it then … for like … rent?”
“Nope. I’m done with renting … and mortgages.”
Maybelle whispers again to Sarah.
“You got cancer, mister?”
I laugh. “Nah. I wish … it’s more … socially acceptable.”
They just look each other. Maybelle slips the cash into her purse.
Sarah thanks me.
***
An hour later, we pass through Labrador City. The girls are both sleeping, Sarah slumped against the door, Maybelle stretched out in the back seat. A tight lump of manhood presses against the front of my jeans. My subconscious is not pleased with my refusal of the girls’ offer. But what’s done is done. The money is a gift. I’m not going to welch on my promise.
A large dog is running along the road ahead before darting into the taiga. I’m thinking what’s a dog doing out here in the middle of nowhere? And then I realize, this is a wolf. I pull over and watch it trot along the road. I wonder what happened to its pack. Is it possible for a wolf to be lost in the wilderness?
The girls are still snoozing an hour later when I stop for gas in a place called Churchill’s Falls. I pull the title of my car out of the glove compartment. The girls don’t know it yet but they’re about to become owners of a new car. I would need their full names, and maybe some kind of identification number to execute the transfer.
We’re still a good four hours out from Goose Bay. I buy some candy bars and bread and prepackaged ham slices from a convenience store, a handful of candy bars. I get back to the car and the girls are gone.
They have returned about half of the money I had given them on the driver’s seat. I just stand there and stare at the cash until a chill wind swirls in and blows some of it out into the parking lot.
I pull out of town and re-enter the wilderness. What follows is twelve hours of the loneliest stretch of road I could ever imagine. Besides the occasional truck driver, a moose and a raven are the only living things I see. Where am I going? I am fascinated but fearful of what lies ahead.
I regret giving those girls
all that cash. Had it scared them away? Did something about my gift bother their conscience? They were probably not used to receiving such lavish gifts. Maybe they saw it as a debt they could never repay, with services they could never provide.
I probably should have stuck around town to make absolutely sure they didn’t want to ride with me anymore, that they hadn’t simply just gone for a walk. But they had left absolutely none of their belongings behind in the car. It was pretty clear they didn’t want to ride with me anymore. I ride on, alone.
Sometimes I go almost an hour without passing a vehicle coming the other way. I slow down, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver but they always zoom right past, sometimes giving me a little wave as they shower me with pebbles. One put a little crack in the windshield right in my line of sight.
I stop to snack on some white bread and ham slices for lunch in a boggy patch of spruce just like all the other boggy patches of spruce I have been driving through since Churchill’s Falls. I check my phone. Absolutely no service. There has not been any signal since I left Quebec.
Without those girls in the car to distract me, I can feel the heaviness lapping at me again like some ocean on uninhabited shore. The tide stays out, as long as I keep rolling. But even then, when it gets dark the world closes in and I lose the sensation of gaining ground. I start to sink. It feels like I'm being dragged through my floorboards. By this time, though, I am less than a hundred kilometers from Happy Valley-Goose Bay.
I mistake the lights of town for the aurora borealis, but soon it becomes obvious that I am approaching the first significant habitation in hundreds of miles. The place is all spread out, but I find a hotel pretty quick. There aren’t any restaurants still open so I just check in and collapse. Exhaustion is merciful in shutting down my brain.
In the morning, I notice that my phone has gone dead. When I plug it into the charger there are seventeen texts and four voice mails. All of the voice mails are from Estrella, some of them irate, all wondering where I am. There are a couple of texts from folks I missed seeing in Ithaca because they had been out of town. I am invited to breakfast in one hour, six hundred miles west and south.
Most of the texts were from Maggie. I hadn’t heard from her much over the first few weeks of her college semester, but now she was settling in and had time to think about her dad a bit. They are just chatty little notes, telling me about a restaurant she had discovered, a picture of her meal and the lakefront in Burlington. I don’t let it penetrate my consciousness too deeply because I know it will hurt if I think about it.
