by Ryan Hyatt
The November weather was unseasonably warm, even by Arizona standards. It probably had to do with climate change, but Chuck only cared so much. His own problems, let alone the world’s, were largely out of his control. In his mind, it was up to the big people like Joe G., captain of industry, and other Eco-Socialists of that ilk to manage the big problems.
On a positive note, Phoenix was clean, wide and open as ever. Although it was often compared to a little Los Angeles, with its traffic and sprawl, the city of Chuck’s birth was little like it. The preferred mode of transportation was truck, as opposed to car, no matter how much gas cost to drive one, and there wasn’t as much disparity in wealth as was the case in Los Angeles. Scottsdale, Phoenix’s affluent area, might have been a place where people from Beverly Hills owned a getaway home, but it would never be their main place of residence. Those with real money had bigger and better markets and climates to claim and call their own.
Despite the heat, Chuck insisted the limo driver proceed to their destination without the air conditioner, the windows rolled down. As much as Phoenix masked the desert with its sheen of concrete and stucco, gas stations and houses – heading north on the freeway away from the city’s center of scant skyscrapers toward more open and arid land, dotted with cactus and sagebrush, mountains and valleys – Chuck felt a peace and serenity he hadn’t since his last visit home.
Despite fond claims of progress, Arizona was still a land that could swallow a man whole. Leaving the bubble of civilization, Chuck realized this profound fact. Here, nature would never really be tamed. Phoenix was located inside a vast basin, surrounded by howling coyotes, snakes, mountain lions and other wildlife. This was true, no matter how much the transplanted residents who found themselves in the Valley of the Sun liked to pretend with their night lights, imported water and gasoline that they weren’t vulnerable to the fray.
A quick drive into the timeless landscape beyond the city limits was all that was needed for a proper attitude adjustment.
That’s why Chuck loved Jerome. An old miner town, it didn’t have much to show for itself in the way of progress, save for a small tourist business based around a few haunted bed and breakfasts, most of them flushed away by the Greatest Depression. Jerome lacked the reddish topographical glitz of nearby Sedona, nor did it have the refreshing relief of greenery and rainfall of its other neighbor, Flagstaff. Built alongside a sparse mountain slope, Jerome only had a few narrow streets, best suited for walking, some boutiques and eateries, and at least one decent oak-laden dive where a man could whet his thirst.
Chuck directed the driver to his cottage located on one of those winding residential roads. He tipped him and bid him farewell and stood for a moment along the small stone path overlooking his sanctuary. He didn’t bother checking his mail. No one sent any good news by post anymore, only bills, but he did briefly examine the wooden structure that was his home. Built almost one hundred years prior, it was once owned by the town postmaster. It needed a new coat of yellow paint, among other things, and Chuck hoped it lasted another hundred years, or at least long enough for May to claim her prize. The rickety old shack wasn’t of much splendor, unlike Joe G.’s magnificent haunt perched high on a hilltop in The City. Still, Chuck’s home was his, paid in full, and for that reason he was grateful.
Chuck never locked the door. He turned the knob, pushed and it creaked open. The first thing he noticed was the cuckoo clock hanging on the wall opposite in the kitchen. Although he made his living talking up cheap plastic electronics – smart devices that often talked back – Chuck’s personal tastes were more aligned not with the latest, but with the last. His appliances and furnishings, in those few cases when they were still functional, were antiques by most people’s standards. The march of progress was something he fought tooth and nail, and this attitude was reflected in his décor. His home and its contents, to the modern mind, were in a state of decay, in desperate need for an upgrade. To Chuck, the state of his home and its wares were part of their charm.
The freebies he received to review he donated to charity, which was perhaps one reason Chuck never had to worry about a break-in: as reclusive and vagrant as he was, people in the town of Jerome only had reason to like him. The only modern furnishing contained in Chuck’s quaint home that alluded to his profession and technical knowledge was his desk, with its sleek computer.
He dropped his duffel bag and walked the short hall to the bathroom. The toilet wasn’t flushing right, something he eventually would have to address.
In time, he told himself, and Chuck laughed to himself. ‘In time’ was his homeowner’s motto, he realized, his home a testament to time itself.
When the time came, it would be May’s decision what aspect of this legacy was worth keeping, if any. He secretly hoped she scrapped the home and rebuilt one to her liking.
Chuck grabbed a glass of tap water from the kitchen and returned to the living room, plopping into his squeaky recliner. It had brown upholstery and a slight stench of sweat, but it was comfortable and his. He propped his feet on the coffee table and stared at a blank, old, thick, turn-of-the century television set, as he recalled a heart to heart chat he had with May in that room when she was four or five. She was seated on the flower-patterned couch next to Chuck, and she asked her father why birds had feet, but humans didn’t have wings. It was a good question, but Chuck wasn’t sure he had a good answer. He simply had to iterate that what made birds and humans different from each other was not what was similar about them, but what was different about them: namely, a bird’s wings. After providing a few more examples regarding feathers and brain sizes and eye colors, she seemed to have gotten the idea.
So much of what they used to talk about became inspiration for his children’s stories. He loved that little girl, not so little anymore, and it killed him when she wasn’t there and he needed her, always.
That conversation took place a decade prior, and Chuck found it somewhat regretful May rarely spoke with such carefree innocence anymore. He knew through recent phone calls she was no longer a child, but a young woman, a little cold and withdrawn like her mom, who had become a little too accustomed perhaps to not seeing her daddy. Chuck hoped to grow closer to her over time, and unlike the doomed and discarded state of his home, he was steadfast about preserving the state of his daughter’s soul, committed to any opportunity he saw on the horizon that might help keep her heart shining bright.
Chuck gazed at the photo collage hanging on the wall near TV set. They weren’t recent pictures. The oldest May was in any of them was ten. Now she was fourteen and menstruating. By God, how times change, even in Jerome, despite Chuck’s fondest wish to the contrary.
The house was dusty but that wasn’t unusual since no one had been there to clean it for a while. April and May lived in the blue cottage across the street. May stayed there most of the time, except when Chuck was in town, or she wanted a break from her mother. Since Chuck lived within shouting distance of his ex-wife, family feuding was a lot easier, an arrangement that once seemed necessary, especially when Chuck hoped to reunite with his ex-wife. Sitting in his squeaky recliner, sipping his water, enjoying the silence, Chuck wasn’t sure such close proximity to his biggest problem made much sense anymore. It had only been ten years since their split. Perhaps it was time to move on.
After a few days writing his next children’s book, which he found to be progressing quite naturally, Chuck decided it was time for an adventure. He donned his finest duds—a silk Hawaiian shirt and pair of pressed khakis—closed the front door of his house, and passed the empty house occupied by his ex and daughter across the street, a nice leisurely stroll around the block and up the hill to Jerome proper.
It was Thanksgiving. While his neighbors feasted and fraternized with family and friends, Chuck was off to spend the holiday with strangers, and he knew just the spot.
The weather was clear and cool since shortly after his arrival. It wasn’t as pleasant as the weather enjoyed by the residents
who lived in The City, but then again, what was? Still, the Arizona afternoon was nice enough for a man nearing fifty to walk a mile without worrying about having a heart attack.
Chuck waved to the Bronsons on their porch as they waited for their grown kids to arrive, he assumed. He told him his business in town, really not much business at all, since April and May were gone.
They invited him to dinner. He thanked them, but declined and continued his stroll.
Winding up the street, then another, passing storefronts, Chuck arrived at his destination. Greely’s doors were open and from inside came the whiff of barley, the crack of billiards. Chuck was greeted by Sonny, good old Sonny, clad in leather chaps. This was where the action was, if there was any to be found within fifty miles.
The fries at Greely’s were fair, but Chuck didn’t come to eat. He said hello to one of the waitresses he recognized, and then he stooled up at the bar. There were only four people present, including those already mentioned, but it didn’t matter. Time was all Chuck had. It was eleven in the morning, and he figured if he paced himself he might be able to make it to the sunset and see the place come to life when the local misanthropes arrived to get a break from their families. He ordered a Whiskey Ginger, and then he popped a few quarters into the jukebox. It played Johnny Cash.
As the hours passed, patrons came and went, some Chuck recognized, most he didn’t, until they came around to the bar to buy a drink and they met. The times were changing, after all, and with them so did the clientele at Greely’s. There was a new element, a younger element, hipper than the old blokes who used to reside there. Judging by their conversation and choice in music, they were artists, probably selling in the boutiques. How, in this economy, Chuck couldn’t imagine, but he gave them credit for trying.
There was a dozen or so among this young set who consistently came and went, and maybe for that reason, or because of the buzz he felt, Chuck assumed they were a worldly bunch. They smelled of reefer. Adventure was in the air.
There was a shift change, and a new bartender appeared. Chuck had never met the woman before. He found it hard to believe she lived in Jerome. She was too full of mirth. She looked just shy of thirty with all of the freshness and ripeness of a salad that hasn’t been set out too long to spoil. Catching a woman with a job and some passion left in her, before she succumbed to the usual adult neuroses, to Chuck’s mind was like finding gold. Not too bad for an old miner town after all, he thought.
“What’ll you have?” he said.
Polishing a glass, the bartender leaned toward him and said, “Whatever you’ll give me.”
“That’s the spirit!” Chuck said. “I’m drinking a Whiskey Ginger.”
“You would be,” she said with a grin and stored the glass under the bar. “How about something more festive, like tequila?”
“Make it two of your best.”
Suddenly Chuck felt like a man in charge. He probably needed to eat, but a meal was no reason to spoil this fantasy.
Chuck made a toast.
“To the holidays,” he said.
“To every day,” the bartender said. “A holiday.”
She smiled, and that’s when her older patron noticed her dimple. How lovely, Chuck thought. They drank, he chased his tequila with water, and then he dismissed himself to use the bathroom.
When Chuck returned, three young women and a short man accompanying them were crowded around his chair.
“I’ve seen your face,” the man said as he gauged Chuck suspiciously. “You write children’s books, don’t you?”
“I did – yes, I do,” Chuck said, surprised to be recognized. “Who might you be?”
“Alberto Grenado. I’m May’s English teacher,” he said. He pointed to the bartender. “That’s my sister, Rita.”
“Oh, wow,” Chuck said. “Small world.”
Chuck offered his hand, and he and Alberto shook. Rita smiled, and Chuck smiled back. He was enamored with her dimple.
“How’s my daughter doing in your English class?” Chuck said.
“Could be better,” Alberto said. “May’s very bright, but she doesn’t apply herself. Where have you been?”
“On business.”
“I met your wife.”
“Ex.”
“You missed parent teacher conferences.”
“Like I said, I’m rarely home these days.”
“Too bad,” Alberto said. “May showed me your book. That’s how I recognized you. It would probably be better for her if you were around, motivationally speaking, of course. She’s proud of your accomplishments.”
“I guess they’re not so great if I can’t spend more time with her.”
Alberto smiled. He seemed happy to hear that.
“Where is she now?” he said.
“Chicago, with her mother.”
“Oh, I see. Another drink?”
“I’ve had enough, for now,” Chuck said.
Alberto smiled again. He seemed happy to hear that, too.
Meanwhile, the three women seemed happier having their drinks without Alberto. His phone rang, and he excused himself to take a call.
“What’s his problem?” Chuck said.
“Don’t mind him,” said one of the women. “He’s a little judgmental.”
“I can tell,” Chuck said. “Why does he care what I do?”
“He’s a teacher,” one of the women said. “All he does is care.”
“Maybe, but I think I’ve heard enough,” Chuck said. “I’m out of here.”
There’s a fine line with alcohol, and Chuck was sure he crossed it. Drinking had the capacity to make him feel high one moment, and low the next. An off encounter was sometimes all it took to the ruin the fantasy of a good time.
As Chuck walked away, Rita followed him with her eyes. She sensed his troubles, and he sensed that she knew he knew it. However, Rita was not dejected by Chuck’s dejection, as April used to be. She had surer footing, an optimism that stood on its own, unavoidable, it seemed.
Rita met him at the door, put her hands on his chest, and like a mighty boulder, Chuck couldn’t get past her. And, frankly, he realized he didn’t want to. He was drawn to Rita. He was drawn to her dimple. Anything he said or did that revealed such warmth was probably worth the trouble.
“Stay,” Rita said. “There’s no reason for you to go. No one cares about your past, only about your future.”
“That’s not what your bother thinks,” Chuck said.
“Maybe not, but it’s what I think,” Rita said, and she let go of his chest. “What matters to you more?”
Chuck laughed. Rita smiled.
Yes, worth it.
Chuck gently squeezed her hands, leaned in to kiss her cheek, and said, “Thank you.”
The women at the bar clapped when Chuck rejoined them, and as the jukebox played, they played pool and some regaled him with their tales of coming of age in the age of the Greatest Depression. Betsy, a medical professional from Flagstaff, helped manage a clinic recently erected to bolster the services provided for the ‘mentally ill,’ many of whom were chronically unemployed individuals whose numbers and diagnoses had swelled over the past several years, but whose suicidal symptoms were often easily alleviated once they started to earn a regular paycheck.
“Our worst cases are often only successfully treated once a job opens up at our facility that we can offer them, even if it’s just to fold towels or sweep or lead discussions in one of our support groups,” Betsy said. “The drugs we prescribe only go so far to make things right for people. Many of them also need a sense of purpose, and a job at least is a start. Unfortunately, most of our patients see a job as an end in itself, when most of us who have one know that it’s not. There are bigger questions about life that even a job cannot answer. I think about how much we rely on technology, and it makes me wonder how much we really need people working nowadays. Much of what I do during the week requires a human touch, but so much more of what I do could be done just as ea
sily by a machine. It seems with the right thinking and planning, there is so much our society could be focused on right now besides work, and yet it is a national obsession, so much so that the lack of it is actually making people ill…”
“Let me get this straight,” Chuck said. “You work at a mental health clinic designed to stave off depression for those trying to survive the Greatest Depression, and some of your patients are only cured once they are hired at the facility where you work? It sounds to me like your clinic can expect exponential growth for as long as the hard times last. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, as long as we manage to get funding, but how much longer will that last?” Betsy said. “People need jobs because they need money, and money is scarce, especially around here. The good we can do will always be limited as long as we have a limited approach to the problem, which is not work but life: specifically, what we ought to be doing with it. You’re a tech blogger, right? You should know. With the vast improvements the world is seeing in technology nowadays, why are we still struggling to make our lives better, more meaningful? I wonder how much longer people can be expected to need jobs and money that simply don’t exist. What will the meaning of life become, then, once they see the truth? I’m sure our priorities and pursuits will change. They’ll have to. Our world will be happier. There won’t be as many cases of depression to treat, because there won’t be as many great depressions to fix.”
“Damn,” Chuck said, “I haven’t heard a speech like that in a while, reminds me of a friend of mine. Are all of your friends as thoughtful as you are?”
“Rita is,” Betsy said with a wink. “She’s my bestie. Always has been, always will be, and for all the right reasons.”
“Good, because I think you two ought to meet my friends,” Chuck said as he racked brain and balls. “I don’t know the answers myself, but I have some pals in California who think they do. What do you say we take a break from the big questions and return to our game in a few?”
