This Location of Unknown Possibilities

by Brett Josef Grubisic

  He tapped for another venue listing, gamble 2B, a 24/7 gym—a long-shot mentioned by the site’s dedicated pervs. Reading between the lines of the already sketchy details, Jake calculated the beach held greater promise. The gym: too much work, the pursuit of few and unreliable clues that might result in a conversation that could lead to a meeting for a beer likely to end in a frustratingly unproductive hand wave and “Hasta la vista, dude.”

  Jake wanted results, within the hour, not tomorrow, and minus the desperate ambiguous courtship that produced nothing except crossed wires, wasted breath, and bluer, more engorged balls.

  He deleted directions for the gym.

  Perusing the first map while attempting to divine secrets from its segmented colour-coded landscape, Jake’s mind leapt to ancient seers in rough woven robes who’d ripped open farm animals and based history-making battles on the arrangement of guts. He grinned. At least there was no blood and stench for this roadside oracular moment.

  If the area between the beach and the public rest stop consisted of what he predicted—trees, bushes, tall grass, a labyrinth of narrow trails—then, Jake wagered, it would be ground zero for action. In virtually every town he’d passed through pioneer-like necessity concocted out of the way pockets for libido: gravel pits for randy teens, outskirt motels for married types taking on extra commitments, and blanketing forests or pitstop toilets for men who sought out other men. Appetite was a reliable presence even if it might be perpetually frowned upon; it usually dug up a shadowy place to slake itself. Nicos said the crash site pit definitely played that role; the lakefront campground might easily be another. The fact of an address posting on a website likewise implied cause for living hope: if he’d found the place with minimal searching, then others could too.

  “Okay, buddy, you win, we’ll go take a peek.” Immediate problem solved and feelings leavening, Jake’s ongoing negotiation caused no further embarrassment. Finger of accusation folded away, mind and body rejoined in a stable relationship once again.

  5.

  The fits and starts of oncoming traffic had increased to a trickle as Jake shot by the stretch of orchard farms preceding the lake; with no sign of Chaz and the professor approaching from the opposite lane, he huffed thanks. Answering a question from Chaz in the morning would encourage Lora to put two and two together, and being ribbed about bad habits would hurt an already tender bruise; he could live without the professor’s stock taking too.

  Grimacing at the cock-teasing cornucopia fruit stand, Jake silently blamed its owners for this late night ramble. He re-checked the map and signaled left; and spotting the log cabin facade of the public toilets, he parked in front. The lot stood discouragingly empty.

  Jake switched off the headlights. Bathed by yellow light from a bare bulb outside the men’s toilet, he pondered the pros and cons, the lack of cars powerful testimony in favour of turning the car key and flipping into reverse. He decided on giving the area a look; a short reconnaissance mission would take no time.

  The padlock on the men’s toilet shut down one venue, never a quirk of his in any case. Jake caught the glow from distant RVs, but heard no laughter or drunken words and not a note of party tunes. Wardens enforced rules here, apparently, and polite campers obeyed them.

  Checking the Ford for a flashlight, he said, “Damn it.” Another coin to toss: wandering along moonless trails or bailing on the search? He opted for a compromise: a few minutes only, and if the time passed without making contact he would walk directly back to the vehicle, put the engine in gear, and drive away without a second thought.

  The treed landscape ahead looked faint, like X-ray images. The underside of slender willow leaves revealed the faded colour of sage, while chest-height bush masses stood barren, long stripped of the unmarred green of early spring. Jake believed that poison ivy grew vine-like and close to the ground; he’d never seen it before and kept an eye out for leaves that looked like the poinsettias Lora carted in each December. Caution would be needed only if he detoured from the path; well-traveled and free of any triffid-y plant life, the sandy and dry trails offered safe passage.

  The trail forked and Jake chose the least trod on the right: the maze appeared to lead away from the lake and into confounding aphrodisiacal darkness. He continued along in a bush-choked morass, where low cloud cover reflecting dim light from the town undercut the disorienting power.

  If a pleasant ambling hike in the middle of a fragrant night had been the goal, Jake could have breathed with satisfaction. Instead, his awareness of clock-ticking futility increased with every turn. Skirting the campsite’s forlorn branches Jake thought of how unfriendly the landscape would become when winter landed.

  Veering left, he crouched when approaching a group of teenagers singing around a fire. With peals of laughter and carefree teasing they rehearsed “Macarena” and stumbled through the elaborate dance. Jake wondered if they were practicing for an upcoming wedding before he noticed the joking in Spanish between flubbed dance steps. Tourists. The hearty innocence struck him as a cosmic accusation, and he retreated away from the water before delving into that corridor of self-loathing. Entertainment, for him, took another form, a different path.

  Each trail segment spread open emptily; no litter-strewn secluded alcoves off the edges hinted at past rendezvous, mating dances, and frenzied rutting. If a thriving underground community had once frolicked within these pointless offshoots, its heyday had passed. Jake squinted around for the typical signs—discarded condom wrappers, tissues, butted cigarettes, gum packs—and uncovered none. The locals could be tidy or cautious, there might be a diligent maintenance crew: with those rationales, Jake grew conscious of the foolish grasping at straws.

  Seeing the parkland changing into an unnavigable jumble, Jake’s feet stalled: in a matter of seconds he’d lose his bearings completely.

  In the dark and lost: that fact seemed inevitable. Between the profusion of trails, the miserly and varying levels of light, and a devolved instinct for direction, Jake would feel no surprise if he, to all eyes a bristly drifter with unknown designs, burst into the middle of the RV camp looking dazed and suspect to onlooking families relaxed around a fire. He’d calculated that the best probable location would also be the quietest—a midway between the parking lot and the lakeshore. Stopped to listen for singing, Jake heard silence; catching no flicker of flames he trudged forward, smothering the spiking urge to giggle.

  6.

  Once cleared of the chemical aura of the public toilets near the parking lot minutes before, Jake had inhaled the weedy lake water air and hay odour of the desert; and in pockets here and there spews of diesel exhaust and inviting drifts of campfire smoke had passed through his nostrils, sweet marshmallows aflame inciting hunger pangs.

  Now with each step, though, he rubbed his eyes and felt particles of former lake shore catch inside his nose.

  Jake slowed to listen; catching no movement, no cough, no murmured conversation, or, better still, throaty groans, he ­concluded that precisely one mobile body patrolled the area. Not much of a consolation prize, he thought, recalling the porn masturbator-siren plan from the failed orchard rendezvous.

  A rustling of branches and murmuring baritone voices grabbed Jake’s attention.

  “About time.” He course-corrected.

  He peeked into an off-trail grotto furnished with skinny pine logs and a pair of tree stumps. As Jake stepped inside two wizened men froze in mid-motion, one handing a buddy a bottle. An interloper, Jake wanted to confirm his good intentions: the newbie’s sudden arrival was no accident and the men should carry on. Jake understood that all communities liked to preserve traditions.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Oh boy, you scared the bejesus out of us,” the ball cap wearer said. “You came out of nowhere.”

  “We weren’t expecting company.” Ball cap’s friend drew from a cigarette.

  “This he
re’s Jack,” ball cap said, pointing.

  “And this here’s Jesse.” Jack’s hand, shaped into a pistol, had fired an imaginary bullet.

  Jake smiled at the vaudevillians and dropped his voice. “Howdy, old timers. What’s going on tonight?”

  “We’re having ourselves a symposium.” Jack tipped his hat.

  “We’re seeing what the night will drag in,” Jesse said. “Find yourself a stump, we ain’t going nowhere.”

  Jake had no intention of staying long and remained unseated. “I’m good. You expect anything, this place see much of a crowd?”

  “It’s like fishing,” Jesse showed off imaginary fly reel skills, “some days are better than others.”

  “And some nights there’s nothing at all. More like hunting deer, seems to me,” Jack offered. “Fishing’s about waiting, see, hunting deer’s about tracking the bastard down.”

  “Fishing’s not waiting, it’s tracking. Just need good bait.”

  “How’s your bait?” Jack lifted the bottle. “Want a swig? We got plenty.”

  “No complaints,” Jake intended to stay at the entrance, “I’m good.”

  “You gonna show us?” Jack persisted.

  “Yeah, buddy, give us a little show,” Jesse said.

  “Nah, c’mon guys.” Jake could see this exchange would drag on forever unless he shut it down. “I’m having a dry spell, so I figured I’d take a look out this way, maybe find a tourist or two in the same boat.”

  “Two, eh? Ha! Once in a blue moon. If you’re lucky.”

  “’Round here you get it where you can, truckers at rest stops like the one you musta parked by,” Jack said.

  “Last week, this young kid, a hitchhiker, let me jack him while I drove.”

  “You tell that BS story to anyone in the bush, it’s always last week, like you got the Alzheimer’s.” Jack grabbed for the bottle. “Summer’s better than winter.”

  “Winters are for the wife,” Jesse said. “Sometimes for Indian gals too.”

  The men traded the wine as they spoke. When Jim raised it, Jake, conscious of appearing stuffy, said, “Nah, I gotta drive.” He couldn’t stomach shooting the breeze for long, that strategy handy only with a grasp-worthy prize in close range.

  Jake listened as the men bantered grandfatherly about fishing and hunting and supposed past triumphs. At home on their tree stumps, they could be hobos killing time before the next boxcar. The only missing elements: the Depression, a few empty tins of beans, and a rabbit roasting on a wooden spit.

  “Shh,” Jesse said, suddenly still.

  “Heads up,” Jack lifted the bottle.

  “Oh, speak of the devil.” Jesse lifted himself from the stump. “We’re just talking about what the night’ll drag in.”

  “I figured I’d see the pair of you tramping around here,” the newcomer said. “Who’s this?”

  “A pleasure meeting you, gentlemen.” Eager for an exit, Jake capitalized on the opening. “It’s getting late for me.”

  “You sure you’re gonna take off? Jesse here can pull out his dentures. Shut your eyes and it’s the same as pussy, believe you me.”

  Jake caught an infantile whine in Jack’s voice. Stuffed deep into the pocket, his thumb stroked the head of his rarely shy tool—a lusty keener with a seldom hibernating exhibitionism. The momentary contact prompted an instantaneous affirmative response: Let’s put on a show! C’mon, really? Jake thought.

  He knew the stereotype contained a hefty chunk of truth: men would put their dicks in anything—a carved melon, a knot hole in a fence—as long as it looked receptive enough. The response made sense, like that study on the news where scientists proved babies react positively to a standard facial configuration. It didn’t matter if they saw a snowman with a carrot nose and charcoal eyes, they’d still reach out for Mama or Papa. Hardwiring.

  So why not the toothless, wine-doused oral cavity of an ancient tramp? Stranger things had happened.

  Jake remembered a z-grade clip Jeremy had sent: a farmer wearing a wide straw hat strides toward a donkey in a equatorial field with banana palms in the background; the guy approaches while the animal chomps on grass; it doesn’t bolt as the stalker draws closer, nor stop grazing when in one confident motion he steps behind, drops his pants, shoves the beast’s tail aside, and begins fucking. Though Jake had peered closely and enlarged the screen size, the grainy resolution and the camera’s distance made it impossible to tell whether the horndog actually poked into the animal or faked the act as a stunt to post on the Internet or sell to the makers of Barnyard Lovers or Filthy Farm. Jake had checked: aficionados could chose from countless titles, horses easily the farmyard’s big men on campus.

  Jesse belonged to a different league, but compared to what Jake had in mind when he’d turned around near trailer park Xtina’s, the offer stood miles below lame. “You never know,” he said. “Gentlemen, I’m going to wander a bit more, see what I can bump into.”

  “Watch out for coyotes,” Jesse said.

  “Happy trails, buddy.” The men spoke as a chorus.

  7.

  Slogging through prehistoric lake bottom in search of the parking lot—any optimism about roadside fun now DOA—Jake wondered about the men, their friendship, and the routines they followed beyond nighttime hunting. Had they known each other when they were his age and considered themselves adventurers thumbing noses at convention and the humdrum routines of Wonder Bread neighbours across the lane?

  He imagined Jeremy and himself twenty-five years in the past: the summer of 1985, a time not so far removed from the present—or, for that matter, from Flower Power, Free Love, Women’s Lib, Sexual Liberation, and disco. The men on the stumps didn’t seem to belong to that era, forty years old then and humming along to Huey Lewis or Bananarama. Maybe time was different—slower, clinging—outside of the ADD of cities and urban itching for the next season’s trends, the latest restaurant, and the flavour of the moment.

  If casting these guys, he’d drop them in a buddy movie set in the depths of the Dirty Thirties. Something black and white with Bogart, maybe.

  Mulling over parallel lives provoked another thought, a jump into the future the same distance. Was it a done deal that he’d become the spitting image of Jack or Jesse, or one of those men he nodded at politely while being steadfast in avoiding close contact with their knee-jerk badgering, their bottomless cup of need? Would he take drives with feverish dreams—hopeful but in fact bereft of hope—of stopping for agreeable hitchhikers or running into pent-up tourists on the down low? And with diminishing cachet would his choice of nightspots decline steadily? Would a flashy car and open wallet lure bar stars and street trash—or prostitutes, the grade of which relied on retirement savings?

  Jeremy had told Jake about a patient, one of his down-and-out Eastside types who budgeted for rock-bottom alleyway servicings exactly twice a month. Jeremy unreeled the story for gossipy pleasure, of course, but really, should they be smiling? Would he eventually sit with Jeremy on stumps or equivalent, living disasters, absolute proof to intimidated passersby that decadence came with an exacting toll and the wages of sin is death, and all that evangelical hellfire and brimstone?

  Vulnerability to whatever the world throws at you is one thing, he conceded. But hamstrung and thwarted by your own bad habits? Not on his watch, thank you.

  Jake backed out of the lot feeling chastised, rebuked by a fickle cosmos—giving, then taking, at whim—and tonight deciding on a Sunday school talking-to about priorities. And though he’d bet with fair confidence that the future would never include weekly bouts of skulking and drinking cheap wine while squatting in the barren cul de sac of a family campground, he felt shaken by the possibility that his philosophy of private life had encouraged a wild misstep, or that, in the favoured scolding parental phrase, his failure to live up to his full potential grew visibly each day. At leas
t he might make room to remap the usual after-hours vocations.

  Fuck that noise, Jake thought.

  Scared Straight tactics might work on all-bark, no-bite teenagers. Lesson givers could kiss his ass. Pot-bellied Mr. Zsi-something, that black-eyed physics teacher gleefully assigning an F in Grade 12—“Sooner or later, Yak-ob Neu-gent,” the man scolded time and again, voice Eastern Bloc guttural and war-weary despite having fled Hungary right after “dat bald murderer” was sent to the Soviet Union at the start of the Cleaver family’s run, “you vill understand dat you can’t just coast by on dat smile”—and the cold eye of the universe dead set on schooling him with a wake-up call, had nothing worthwhile to tell him, each no better than a hypocritical circle of hardcore drinking buddies staging an intervention.

  Besides, that regret and repent bullshit wasn’t part of his vocabulary, never would be. As for raw deals, the universe could hand them to somebody else.

  AC blasting, Jake gunned the engine and shot toward the respite of an empty room.

  AN ARTISTIC INTERVAL

  1.

  Marta scrambled to greet Luna, who peered through Joan’s front window, face strained with apprehension about the could-be star turn awaiting steps away.

  “C’mon in, we won’t bite,” Marta said, wrestling with the off-kilter door and relishing the change in air quality. “Have you kept that mood intact?”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve got fury for days.” Despite the proclamation Luna looked cowed. “This here’s Lornette. She’s my moral support.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lornette. I’m Marta.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Lornette said. Flustered and shy, the freckled redhead appeared ready to curtsy. “I can wait out on the sidewalk if I’m in the way here.”

  “So much for moral support. You stay put.” Luna clasped her friend’s arm.