“It’s open. Come in,” Tracy said, turning off the water and wiping her hands thoroughly. “Sit here. I’ll be right with you,” she said going in to the bedroom.
Paul immediately noticed Heidi’s photo. He saw in her so many of his fellow cops who had that look of pride, strength and youth. Not like the pictures on their retirement ID’s, taken at the end of their careers, when their faces had the effects of decades of “on-the-job” written all over them.
Tracy took a seat in a chair across from Paul. She expected him to look different after his hospital stay. He didn’t.
“I’ll get right to the point, Tracy,” Paul said leaning forward, jutting out his jaw, and already creating tension. “Did you bad mouth me to Dr. Slater?”
“What? All I did was answer questions. They called me in and I answered the questions. I didn’t recommend anything, nor was I asked to. And I don’t really appreciate the tone this has already taken.”
“Where’s Heidi?”
“She’s on duty. Listen, I need to tell you something,” Tracy said, getting up from her chair and standing next to where she put the picture of Paul. “I’m signing up.”
“Signing up what?”
“The Marines.”
Paul rose and stood behind the sofa. “Are you crazy? You know we’re still at war, don’t you? You think you’ll be doing duty on a golf course in Palm Springs? You’ll be driving ambulances over IED’s in Afghanistan. No, you’re not!”
“Why do you think I came out here at all? It was to be with Heidi and join the Marines. I’ve always wanted to … be part of something bigger. Something that mattered.”
“You’re a big girl. You can do what you want. But don’t count on me for support!” Paul said, raising his voice, on the verge of yelling.
“Are you kidding me? Why would I expect that after all these years?”
Paul knew he was done. He was angry. He had no control over Tracy. He was back where he started. Not before today, but before everything. Back when he lost his daughter and wife. Back when he realized that he was alone, and all he had was his cop friends in the same boat as him: without a paddle and up the same shit creek. He dealt with it then and he’d deal with it now. “Okay. You do this and you’re on your own.”
“I’m not on my own. I have Heidi.”
Paul rushed towards Tracy, and she braced herself for whatever might follow. He grabbed his picture off the table and stormed out. “I’m outta here.”
High Desert High
Chapter Nine
The nights were much cooler now that autumn had arrived, especially at the 4,000 ft. altitude where Paul lived. But as he drove in the flatlands of the desert east of the Coachella Valley just before sunrise, the temperature was in the 70s and rising fast. He had spent too many nights looking to the sky, waiting for a sign. Maybe if he hadn’t been drinking, he might have stayed up later and seen something. But since that night of the accident he’d seen zilch. Everything just seemed dull to him. Maybe he was just becoming duller.
Paul decided to seek something that wouldn’t be an obscure, hidden sign requiring concentration and all sensory powers fine-tuned to his environment. He was on the way to something that some say can be seen from space: Salvation Mountain.
Salvation Mountain is actually a man made, five-story-tall, multicolored, pile of hay bales, stucco and paint. Gazillions of gallons of every shade of paint put together in the middle of the desert by a man named Leonard Knight, a Korean War veteran and mechanic who toiled over three decades to create this monument to Jesus with biblical verses and giant hearts, GOD IS LOVE signs, all topped off by a cross. Some call it a fever dream hallucination, but thousands of visitors say they have been changed by experiencing it. Knight died in 2014 at the age of 82 but his legacy lives on thanks to a dedicated group who have kept the bulldozers at bay.
He parked about a half mile away on a side dirt road, the sun just starting to illuminate the panoramic desert landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see. Knowing that tourists come by the busload to witness this mountain of rainbow love, he wanted to beat the crowds. He was tired and wired at the same time, having slogged down cup after cup of lukewarm coffee from his thermos. Of course he wanted a drink, but his days of drinking and driving were over. One more time being pulled over for even a tick on the breathalyzer would surely lead him to the dreaded 5270 hold, which was a minimum of 30 days locked in a psych ward or even jail time.
Paul hadn’t heard from Tracy since he stormed out. And hadn’t bothered to confront Kate or Jasmine or even Ash. What was the point? He was alone now in his desert world, which was slowly becoming a dystopia. It was easy to isolate one’s self on his five-acre fenced desert lot. He went to the 24-hour Super WalMart to shop, only in the wee hours of the morning when it was mostly just him and the workers stocking shelves. He was starting to relish his loneliness, although he never thought of it as such. He was merely living life on his terms, or doing the things he wanted to do, or not answering to what others expected from him. It was much easier to do this when you were behind your wall and the few people who knew you existed didn’t even want anything to do with you. He had finally cut the cord and no longer even had satellite TV. His phone would suffice if he needed to know a Mets score or the definition of dystopia. There was a developing routine to his lack of having a routine. But he still needed to know the things that gnaw at one’s soul when everything else is stripped away or walled off. And he hoped that maybe a visit to Salvation Mountain would be that thing.
By time he walked the half-mile, the sun was well over the distant horizon, causing a long shadow of the cross atop the mountain of praise to create a path for him. The low light of the bright desert sun caused the bold colors of the wildly painted mountain to jump out at him. A mishmash of primary colors made it look like the game board from Candy Land. Of course, like most remote desert experiences, the only time there was pure silence was when one stopped to observe and not crunch gravel as you walked. The air was still slightly cool, but the sunshine was getting hot quickly. The giant GOD IS LOVE letters in pink and red were reminiscent of the flying words in the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine animated film. Multi-colored flowers, trees, waterfalls, hearts, and giant LOVE signs were not unlike the psychedelic depictions in “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” He stepped slowly forward to actually touch the surface of the mountain itself, and it felt like the papier-mache props they used to make when he was with the Cub scouts. This monument to God was about as permanent as a humming bird’s nest. It amazed him that it stood here for over 30 years.
Paul heard an approaching vehicle coming from behind. It was a 1960’s Chevy station wagon painted with similar colors and a psychedelic motif. It pulled up next to a wooden booth off to the side, and an old hippie, stooped over with curvature of the spine and scraggly long gray hair, got out and began putting literature on the plywood tabletop.
Then another vehicle crunched its way towards them. This second vehicle looked like something out of the Jetsons and once it was upon them Paul could see it was the latest jet-black Tesla SUV. Its gull wing doors powered open and four twentysomething hipsters stepped out. The two males had shaved heads and bushy beards, and the two females had straight hair, Smoky Bear hats, and dresses that looked like a bunch of connected crocheted potholders that kids make in summer camp. Each of them had selfie sticks and started spinning around in circles heading for the mountain giggling and laughing hysterically.
Paul meandered over to the information booth where the old hippie was setting up shop. “Are these the usual seekers of truth who come out here?”
He smiled a big toothless hockey-player grin. “That’s why Baskin Robins has 31 flavors. Different strokes for different folks. As long as they drop something in the donation jar and we can keep this going, we welcome all kinds. God bless you!” He said holding out a large mason jar with DONATIONS written on it.
Paul pulled out a five and put it in. “Do you think people come
here because it’s an unusual roadside attraction? Or they’re looking for some kind of religious experience?”
“Jesus did miracles to attract a crowd. Some folks just went for the show. Some heard what he was saying and were saved.”
The four hipsters fell onto the ground and were hugging each in the dirt like a mud-wrestling match.
“I’m not sure if they’re the saving type,” Paul said watching the foursome. “Then again, Mary Magdalene was one of his closest followers.”
“Oh, you know your Bible!”
“Just an old altar boy.”
“You’re a Catholic?”
“I guess. I stopped going to church after I found out that the priests in high school who were prowling the locker rooms and showers were looking for more than just rowdy kids.”
“Take a flyer. It’s about salvation. Non-denominational. Some good local churches are on there, too. You never know where you’ll find salvation.” the hippie said, clear eyes beaming warmth.
“Thanks,” Paul said, taking the single-paged flyer, folding it, and sticking it in his back pocket. “I’ll check it out,” he said with a wave as he got in his car and drove off, in the opposite direction of the Priuses and Teslas looking for their versions of salvation.
Being an alcoholic within walking distance of a bar had its advantages. You got a little exercise on the way there, you talked to people, and you could pick up some food to go. But there were no such benefits in the remote area of the desert where Paul lived. He didn’t realize how much he had been drinking until he would take an empty Guinness can or vodka bottle to the recycle bin he kept in the garage. It was so full the lid wouldn’t close. His garbage bin was filled with empty frozen food boxes and cans. Once a connoisseur of New York diners and ethnic eateries, he was now content with Aunt Jemima frozen scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns for breakfast. He convinced himself that the small pile of peas in his frozen Hungry Man dinner satisfied the veggie portion of his food pyramid. And why bother showering and shaving every day? Since he didn’t have a bookie nearby, even his interest in sports was waning. He started going to bed earlier and earlier. And sleeping later. And later.
His phone rang occasionally, but if he didn’t recognize the number, he didn’t answer. In fact, lately, even when he recognized the call he let it go to voice mail. And those messages were Tracy saying “Hi. Just checking in. Nothing up. Take care.” Other voice mails were offers on refinancing, getting rid of unwanted timeshares, discounts on solar panels, and other assorted phone scams. Sometimes he’d answer his phone when he knew it was a telemarketing call just so he could lead them on, making them think he was interested, then yell and curse at them in a rage until they hung up on him.
There was an ease to going native in the high desert. During late-night visits to a gas station or convenience store or the Super Walmart one would see many others who had decided to abandon all norms regarding dress and hygiene. An overweight woman’s Depends are sticking up out of her sweatpants while on line? So what? A toothless tweaker has a cart filled with candy and cold medications? Big deal. A hobo pays for his booze with loose change, mostly pennies? Be patient and just wait your turn. Having a few days growth on your face and wearing jeans and t-shirts well after the smell of Tide and Bounce faded away didn’t cause stares or dirty looks. Nobody cared. Sure, there were also hipsters in line with $500 hats, real estate agents in Wall Street-worthy business suits, and well-to-do retirees stocking up on supplies and loading them into their Cadillac SUVs. As long as you didn’t cut the line or hassle anyone, you were part of the community that cherished the freedom and live-and-let live attitude that most desert dwellers cherished, whether in a fenced-in security-alarmed compound or living under a blue tarp lean-to next to a dry wash. There was also an understanding that a dusty hobo might be an eccentric expat rock star or Beverly Hills refugee needing time and space to find the person they were before they became what they are. Which is also why there are giant statues of Christ, man-made mountains to Jesus, and standing room only AA meeting halls and ramshackle chapels filled to the rafters.
Paul enjoyed the late-night trip to the Super Walmart. He planned his trips a day in advance to make sure he was sober for the half-hour drive. He finally was beginning to get the feel of the massive mega store. A wrong turn down an aisle could send you on a half-hour detour. Which is why he found himself in a part of the store he had never been, where there were actual bales of hay for sale. There was a tap on his shoulder. “Paul, is that you?” It took Paul a second to realize that it was Mabel, the horse-rescue lady who was instrumental in his rescue at the scene of his accident. “Are you doing okay?”
“Mabel! Hi! Sure, I’m doing fine.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look so well. Did you recover okay from the accident?”
“Yeah, everything is great. Look, I’m kind of in a hurry. Do you know where the drug aisle is from here?”
“Front of the store. Do me a favor, Paul. Stop by the ranch soon, okay?”
“Sure, yeah, thanks. Bye.”
Paul hurried away and as he pushed his cart through housewares he caught a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror. I do look like hell! he thought. It’s probably just the awful lighting in here.
As he drove back home on the winding two-lane highway he tried to keep an eye on the black velvet sky. He had seen so many odd things up there when he first moved to the high desert that he thought the sightings would become routine. But there was nothing. And that was just fine with him. Whatever all that was, he was content now to just stock up on his stout, vodka, and frozen foods and live his life far from the entanglements in the lowlands.
When he was ready, he’d call Tracy and Kate. He just needed some time to readjust. Everybody needs that, right?
His readjustment was becoming a gradual tolerance for abandoning the normal activities of daily living. Garbage cans stayed full longer and sometimes overflowed. Dirty dishes piled higher in the sink and onto the counter. Dust bunnies went from wispy to resembling Tribbles. It became easier to sleep in a sleeping bag than in a properly made bed. And his ever-expanding Afro and beard were similar to the hipsters that he saw more and more even in his own nearby gas station. He discovered that if you stopped dusting entirely, after a while you didn’t notice. The joy of listening to birds and mysterious creatures in the distant desert landscape disappeared as he found solace on the sofa facing his television, which he hooked up to a DVD player to watch compilations of long-forgotten cowboy and Indian movies that were long forgotten. Adventurous hikes seemed a waste of time. And why gaze at the night sky? It never changes. He even stopped unlocking his front gate, which had allowed people to just pop in. His gate had been locked for days.
Tracy was concerned about her father. He answered the phone one time for every five she called. And then she got the bum’s rush to get off the phone with a Everything’s fine, gotta go, bye. But after all she went through with her own mother in those awful final years, she wasn’t exactly anxious to get involved. Now she had Heidi.
It became obvious to Heidi what was up with Paul. She had seen it too many times with friends who returned from combat and then left the military. The isolation, the fits of rage, the depression. Interventions were tricky business. Not only for the person suffering from addictions or PTSD, but for their loved ones who were also in a state of denial. Heidi knew the time was fast approaching when she would have to convince Tracy that an intervention on her father might be the only way to save her from losing both her parents to essentially the same disease and fate.
Paul knew someone was trying to call him overnight. He always put his phone on vibrate and stuck it in the end-table drawer before going to bed. But he slept so softly, even his vibrating phone would wake him up. He thought he was dreaming when he heard some loud banging, until he awakened and recognized it as someone actually banging on his door, which was extremely unusual since he knew his front gate was locked. An unannounced visitor at 6:30
A.M. can never mean good news. He opened the drawer, picked up the phone, and stuck a large folding knife in his sweatpants pocket.
The pounding on his door was furious. He peeked through a side window and saw it was Kate. Her car was parked outside his gate with the driver’s side door open.
He opened the door to find Kate in a state of obvious panic.
“Paul, let me in, please!”
“What’s wrong?”
She rushed past him and took a position next to his kitchen island.
“You’ve got to help us! I don’t know what to do! It’s Ash!”
“Go on! What?”
“Jasmine called me, totally hysterical. She wouldn’t even tell me where she was. She said Ash called her and said they were all busted, and that you ratted them out. And that one of the guys in their gang or whatever said they were going to kill Jasmine and me unless you turned yourself in to them. And we can’t got to the police.”
“I thought you said they were all busted?”
“Not all of them. Not yet. They’re looking for them. They didn’t find Ash yet.”
“Okay, calm down. Do you want something to drink?”
“Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you rat them out?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Tell me the truth!”
“I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not. Do you think they’ll look for you here? Ash has been here.”
“Jasmine and I need somewhere to go.”
“Hold on. Let me make a call. Go get your car and pull it around back. Here’s the key to the lock. How did you get in here?”
“I climbed the fence. I cut my hand,” Kate said, holding up a bloody palm. The wound looked reminiscent of something to Paul. Like he had seen it before. What was it called? A stigmata. She took the key and went out to move her car.
High Desert High Page 22
