High Desert High

by Steven Schindler

  “I’ve never been to New York. I’m an army brat. Mostly west of the Rockies. My dad was a missile silo tech during the Cold War. While I was flashing peace signs and marching against Viet Nam and Nixon, my father was actually someone with his finger on the Button. It was a job to him.”

  That was a lot for Paul to take in, in light of his current head full of cotton and chaos. He couldn’t tell how old Kate was, even though sizing-up people’s ages, weight, ethnicity, hair color, and distinguishing characteristics was a prerequisite in his former line of work. His mind rushed to calculate; if she protested Viet Nam and Nixon she had to be at least fifteen in 1974, the year Nixon resigned, which meant she had to be close to sixty.

  “You were at protests during Nixon?” Paul asked, trying not to be too overt in figuring her age.

  “Actually I was only around five. My big sister who was fifteen took me along with her.”

  That put her somewhere in the fiftyish range, which pleased him, because there just was something about her. That something that may not hit one for days, weeks, months, or in Paul’s case, years. But he felt it. Was it the aroma she exuded, her caring demeanor, or maybe just his damaged condition?

  “My older brother took me to a bar when I was five, but never to a protest,” Paul said, smiling.

  “You start early in New York.”

  “Yeah, and we finish early, too. Look I’m really sorry to cause concern and a disruption….”

  “No cause for concern. No disruption. Don’t forget you’re in room 8. There’s a certain … sensitivity for strange occurrences in this room.”

  “Oh, right. I didn’t even think of that. Again, my apologies. By the way, is there coffee in the lobby office?”

  “Yes, and some breakfast pastries. Stop by, won’t you?” She asked, with a soft smile and went on her way.

  “Thank you, I will,” Paul said, watching her as she glided away, the dirt crunching under her Birkenstocks.

  He felt like he already blew it. Here she was, looking in on a hung-over stranger, who probably reeks of saloon, admitting to screaming nightmares and hanging out in bars from the age of five. And in the infamous room 8 of death, no less. Just wait until she finds out that he’s a former narc. That’s probably worse than having your finger on the Button in her book.

  After breakfast and a shower, Paul’s head began to clear and he decided to call Tracy. He didn’t want to appear to be prying into her life, but that is what he wanted to do. He thought how ironic it was that he, an undercover narc most of his life, was sitting on the bed where a rock star had overdosed and died at the age of 27. Was it worth it? He could have just as easily died at the same age as Gram Parsons from drugs. Not from ingesting them, but from chasing drugs just the same. His life had been spared by dumb luck on more than one occasion. There were chases, stings, breaking down doors, busts that went terribly wrong, but the most dramatically nightmare-inducing incident was the time a gun misfired while a bad guy pulled the trigger with the barrel inserted into Paul’s mouth. Luckily, his backup arrived in the nick of time, but the ensuing struggle broke several teeth, which still pisses him off since one of the molars was still a jagged reminder.

  He punched the numbers into his cell and called Tracy.

  “Hello,” Tracy’s voice could be heard over a crowd of people enjoying music outdoors somewhere.

  “Hi, hon, it’s your old man.”

  “Hi, I can hardly hear you. It’s a little crazy here.”

  “Is everything all right? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. We’re just relaxing by the pool.”

  “Do you want me to come down and … do anything for you? Do you need anything?”

  “No, we’re really busy with planned events for a couple more days. This is a big week in Palm Springs. I’ll call you then. Take care.”

  “Yes, you too.”

  He had no right to think that Tracy would suddenly accept him into her life as a normal father might be at this point in time. He was well aware that she probably had no concept of the pain he suffered being forced away by her mom, and the certain brainwashing his ex had laid on her. Thank God Greta occasionally put in a good word for him. But here he was, in the middle of nowhere on a dead man’s bed, pondering his future. Without his elaborate support group of neighborhood friends, he felt more alone than ever. And as he looked out his window, across the patio, he could see the hills of Joshua Tree National Park in the distance. Maybe that’s just what he needed to clear his head. Maybe he needed to be in the middle of nowhere. Far from everything he was used to. Everything that made him what he was up until that moment. No bars and buses filled with pizza, kegs, and friends. No back-up units busting through tenement doors to save his ass. No girlfriend-of-the-month hookups.

  He put on his most comfortable sneakers and a pair of shorts. He was ready for a long hike in the park. Clear the head. Get a new perspective. He loved long hikes at the beach and in Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. Never once did he say after a long hike, well that sucked.

  Kate was behind the counter in the office reading a magazine. She hadn’t seen him through the window, so he could have just gone on his way unnoticed. But he decided to stop in.

  “Any more pastries left?”

  Kate looked up from her magazine and smiled. “No more pastries. But there’s some fresh coffee. How are you feeling?”

  “Like forty bucks. I’m going for a hike in the park. Any suggestions?”

  “Where’s your water?”

  “Water? I need water?”

  “You always need water. The desert will suck everything out of you. And with any exertion at all, it can be deadly.” She walked over to a small refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. “Take this with you. Do you have a protein bar?”

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Take this,” she said handing him a protein bar from under the counter. “Do you like the ocean?”

  “I love the ocean.”

  “Do you fear the ocean?”

  “Hmmm. Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Love the desert. Fear the desert. Try a marked trail at first,” she said, pulling out a map of the park and laying it out on the counter. “Try this Lost Horse Mine trail. It’s a good newbie hike.”

  “I’m in pretty good shape, you know?”

  “I can see that. Just start slowly,” she said, softly putting her hand on his.

  “Duly noted. Thanks.”

  “Stay on the trails, and watch out for rattlesnakes.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. And take my number in case you run into any trouble,” she said, writing down her number and handing it to him. “Just punch in my number on your phone.”

  Paul complied. “I don’t know what kind of help I could need, but I appreciate it. Bye.”

  He left the office and thought that perhaps that was just a subtle way of her giving him her phone number. That made him smile and think to himself that he still had it.

  The road to the park entrance was longer than Paul had anticipated. All around him were rocky hills, hardscrabble, Joshua trees, yuccas, and the occasional house or horse ranch in the distance. The park entrance was a proper gate and park ranger kiosk. Paul showed his pass and noticed the friendly female ranger with the Smokey Bear hat was not carrying a firearm. How dangerous could it be? He thought to himself.

  It was almost 1 P.M. and he noticed the temperature had risen over 15 degrees from the morning and was now sitting at 95 on his dash temperature gauge. Not too bad. It’s a dry heat. Paul didn’t realize it, but he was experiencing a common affliction many drunks go through the morning after a bender: hangover euphoria. That’s where one convinces oneself that despite blacking out, throwing up, having the horrors and a splitting headache, and swearing off alcohol forever, things were starting to look up and a cold beer would go great right about now. But first he needed to go on this hike to prove to himself he could do it. Hiking up a trail in desert h
eat? So what. It’s nothing compared to running up a dark stairway chasing a perp in 100 degree heat and 100 percent humidity on the Lower East Side. He had to deal with life-and-death situations on the job with worse hangovers and less sleep than this.

  He followed the signs for LOST HORSE MINE and parked his car in a dirt lot where there were two other vehicles parked. He switched off the ignition and could immediately feel the cabin heat up. He opened the door and a rush of hot, dry air enveloped him, causing him to gasp. He stepped out of the vehicle and the only sound he heard was the dirt crunching under his feet. He closed the door and paused to take in the silence. He closed his eyes and could feel the hot air pressing on his skin as if he was in some kind of pressure chamber. He heard a hum in the distance and opened his eyes expecting to see maybe a model airplane or a kid with one of those radio-controlled drones, but saw nothing. The hum became a buzz and at the other end of the lot, coming between two large rock piles, was a dark cloud, changing shape as it got closer to him. What the hell is this? He thought, frozen as it came towards him, increasing in volume and intensity.

  “What the hell?” he said aloud. “Holy shit! It’s a bee swarm!”

  Suddenly the black cloud of what seemed like a billion bees darkened the space and totally surrounded him. Some touched him, poked him, and went right up to his ear hole, scaring the bee-Jesus out of him. But just as suddenly as this cloud of buzzing bees appeared it was gone. Floating away, across the lot and into the open desert, disappearing in the distance. He never imagined such a thing. A small car pulled into the lot and parked by him. Two twentyish females emerged and began putting on their backpacks.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” the girl on the driver side asked.

  “That swarm? The billion or so bugs. I mean bees. It was a huge black cloud. Of bees.”

  “Uh, no. Missed that.”

  Paul could tell they thought he was a nut. The two hikers took off up the trail, peering back at him as they briskly walked ahead. He figured he’d wait a few minutes so they wouldn’t think he was stalking them. He walked around the parking lot just to check out the lay of the land from the other side, and in each direction as far as the eye could see there was the same landscape he had been seeing since he arrived in the high desert: dirt, sand, tumbleweeds, rocks, boulders, Joshua trees, and yuccas leading to rocky hills and mountains in the distance. It all looked the same. Like one gigantic empty lot. There was nothing there. No tall trees, no green grass, no lakes, rivers, ponds, swamps, meadows, critters scurrying, or birds squawking. What was the point? He could look at this Joshua tree in the parking lot, or hike for an hour and see a few more. Paul walked back to the Escape, and from under a pile of rags pulled out a pint of Vodka. He took a long gulp. Then another. Maybe that would help liven up his journey.

  He was a few hundred yards up the trail and the two hikers that preceded him were nowhere in sight. The trail took a turn through some giant boulders that must have been 40 feet high and gave him some welcome shade for a few minutes. But when he emerged at the other end of the boulders he saw the real trail: a steep rocky incline that switch-backed up a mountain of rock and boulders. The sun was beating down on him and the heat was being reflected off the rocks and dirt. He picked up his pace to conquer the obstacles that were ahead. This was nothing. As the trail got steeper he began bounding up the path. It was for tourists, right? Probably on the weekends there were Cub Scouts trooping up here with little old lady den mothers. Maybe even church groups with pastors pushing seniors in wheelchairs. He wasn’t a senior citizen, despite the mailings he got monthly from the AARP since he turned fifty.

  Higher and higher, faster and faster he went. He paused at a switch-back about half-way up and gazed at the vista laid out before him. He noticed he was breathing more deeply. He could control that, right? He was light-headed, but that was normal under these conditions. It’s hot, he’s jogging up-hill. He can do this. He remembers the time he was playing in little league on a hot and humid summer afternoon. That was the hottest he had ever been in his eight years on the planet up until that moment. He was in right field. No shade. A long inning. Sun just beating down on him. Should I keep going? Yes. Up, up up, the vistas were amazing, as far as the eye could see, no cars, no people, no buildings, no structures of any kind. The horizon goes on forever with nothingness. Just miles and miles for 360 degrees of sand dirt rocks boulders hills mountains. Should I wave to my coach, Mr. Paccione, and tell him I don’t feel well? That I think I’m going to be sick. I, might, faint….

  At a sharp turn in a switch-back, Paul for a moment thought he was seeing another black bee swarm, but no. It was black spots, getting larger and larger as he collapsed like his bones had turned to Silly Putty and he fell backwards down an embankment. He rolled down ten feet or so and landed on a flat surface of soft dirt, missing a large boulder by inches. He was unconscious.

  Kate was registering a guest at the front desk when her phone rang. She looked at the number. It was a New York number. She swiped to answer.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a young German couple signing in. “Hello, is this Paul?”

  All she heard was a whispering wind blowing through something … a mesquite tree, cypress? Is that someone breathing? “Hello? Hello? Are you there? Did you butt-call me? Hello?”

  “Eez everyting okay?” asked the German man.

  “Excuse me. Someone will be here in a minute to take care of you.”

  After getting another worker to take over, Kate grabbed two bottles of water and headed to her 1989 Bronco. She checked the cargo area for her emergency first aid kit, retrieved it, and put it on the passenger seat. The spinning tires threw dirt and rocks behind as she sped to the park road. Her mind raced, If he just butt-called me and he’s walking up the Lost Horse Mine trail, I’ll make some excuse as to why I’m up there. Hopefully that’s all it is.

  She showed her yearly pass at the kiosk and sped to the lot closest to the trailhead for Lost Horse Mine. She saw Paul’s car in the lot, looked in the window, and saw his bottle of water still on the front seat next to his park map and energy bars. What a knucklehead! She double-timed it up the trail, scanning the areas next to it. Two female hikers came towards her.

  “Have you seen a man hiking? Fiftyish. Olive skinned.”

  “No.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said as she rushed passed them.

  Am I panicking for nothing? Am I being ridiculous? Butt-calls happen all the time. It doesn’t mean someone is having a medical emergency!

  She stopped suddenly when she smelled a strong scent that usually emanates off a Creosote bush after a rainfall. But there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She turned slowly, and down the embankment next to the turn in the switchback there was a grouping of Creosote bushes about 20 yards down.

  “Paul!” She shouted as she adroitly negotiated the rocks and loose dirt towards the shoes she saw between two bushes. How did the hell did he get in that position?

  “Paul!” She went around the bush to where his head was situated. He was breathing. “Thank you, Lord!” She began her routine. Pulse? Normal. Body temperature? Above normal probably. Injuries? Blood? Nothing obvious. She began pressing on his arms, shoulders, and feeling his head. A nasty bump, but no blood. She opened her bottle of water and caressed his head so she could put some water on his lips. His eyelashes fluttered and he moaned.

  “Paul. Paul. Can you hear me?”

  He slowly opened his eyes. “Oh. Yeah. My. Head. Where am I? Marcy? Is that you?”

  Paul had woken up from being unconscious many times. On the job there were two car accidents, three times falling or pushed down stairs, one time hit over the head with a frying pan, and one time falling one story down an abandoned building’s elevator shaft. Not-on-the- job unconsciousness included getting sucker-punched in a bar league football post-game rumble, a car accident, trying to break up two bar fights, and waking up several times in various apartments, hotel rooms, and subw
ay cars after drunken blackouts.

  “It’s Kate. From the Joshua Tree Inn.”

  “Shit. Don’t tell me room number 8 killed me?”

  “No, you collapsed. Probably a light case of heat stroke and dehydration from a heavy dose of booze the night before.”

  “Oh. How did you find me?”

  “You butt-called me?”

  “I did? People always tell me I’m talking out of my ass, and for once it paid off I guess.” He began to come to and sat up. “But how did you find me here?”

  “I got lucky, I guess.”

  “You got lucky?

  “Take it easy and take little sips,” Kate said still caressing his head gently.

  “I feel like a jerk. My first hike in the high desert and it almost kills me.”

  “Respect the desert.”

  “Right, you said that didn’t you? But tell me what happened. How on God’s green earth, I mean brown earth, did you find me?” Paul said, sitting a little straighter and starting to look more like himself. He began to pat his hair, causing dirt and some pebbles to fall out.