by Ryan Schow
So now she lives with Tad a few miles from here, and it still feels too close. I’ve been to their home half a dozen times and I swear to God, I don’t like it. It’s too large and too ostentatious and it’s really cold inside. Not cold like the weather, or ice cream—rather it feels cold the way you describe something as empty, something devoid of a soul. That brings me to Tad.
Oh, Lord…Tad.
I don’t like talking about him since he pretty much stole my mom from us, but whatever. He’s a small part of my life whether I like it or not. I’d tell you all about the guy, but I don’t want to waste too much time on the subject of Tad because of teenage angst over your mom’s new squeeze is just a tad too juvenile and annoying, even for me.
After going to my mom’s new place for dinner for the first time, my father asked me how it was. What he was really asking for was intel, gossip, my most judgmental take on what has become enemy territory. Naturally, I embellished.
“Tad is a bit of a douchebag with a tad more hair gel than a man his age should have. And he’s a tad bit condescending when he talks to me, acting like I should be more of a girly girl like mom, and not some practically flat chested tomboy who likes to shoot things and drive muscle cars.”
The way I said it, honestly, I’ve never seen my dad squirm like that. Was I being a bit too dramatic? A tad too self-deprecating? Perhaps.
“That kind of language is unbecoming of a woman,” my dad said, completely ignoring what I thought was a brilliant play on words.
“Did no one ever tell you? Douchebag isn’t a bad word. It’s an adjective people like me use so we don’t have to say a-hole.”
“Whatever,” he said, half amused. “And don’t say those things about yourself. You’re perfect the way you are.”
The one thing not lost on me was my dad referring to me as a woman. I’m a senior in high school and ready as ever to get out of the cesspool of bullies and narcissistic cliques and uppity teachers telling me how I should think rather than how to do math or science or where to properly place a dangling participle. I feel like an angsty teenage girl who doesn’t quite fit into the world around me. What I don’t feel like, however, is a woman.
To me, a woman has a job. She has bills and credit cards and appointments with the salon and maybe even a personal shopper. She has a place of her own, a few different guys wanting to please her, and she has sex. Lots and lots of wild sex.
So no, I’m not feeling so much like a woman. But if I’ve got to start somewhere, then staying home by myself for a few days will be the next step in the evolution of yours truly. It’ll be like a trial run of growing up. And I’ll tell you this…the first thing I’m going to do is not get up at six a.m. The second thing I’m planning for is more sleep!
Not that I’ll tell my dad any of this.
I won’t.
Right now the two of us are standing in the kitchen with a morning chill pressed on our windows and the outside world black and silent. I’m in my pajamas with bed head and sleep crusted eyes not wanting my dad to leave.
“Will you let me know when you get there?” I ask, folding my arms. “Because San Diego is a long ways away.”
He’s eating toast, skimming his itinerary one last time.
“I will. You have a list on the counter. Alarm code. Emergency credit card. Keys to the gun safe if you need it. Plus there’s a hundred dollars in there for food and gas. And you know where all the emergency numbers are, so…”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
He glances up at me, gives me a look, then opens his arms and says, “Come here.” I go to him, and he pulls me into one of his amazing hugs. I won’t lie, I’m a daddy’s girl. He lets go after a minute or two, tells me he loves me then says, “Will you please, please, please make sure you go to school?”
“I’m going to give it my best,” I say on the tail end of a long yawn, “but I can’t make any promises this early in the morning.”
He frowns at me, but that’s because he knows I love teasing him. And right now I’m only teasing him because I don’t want him going away. I don’t want him leaving me all alone.
“I got you a little something for when I’m gone,” he tells me.
It’s not hard to see how much he cares about me, how much he loves to dote on me. It’s one of my favorite things about him.
“You did?” I ask, feigning surprise.
“It’s in my office, on the desk. I’ll call you when the conference lets out tonight, then again before it starts back up in the morning. Keep your cell phone on, okay?”
“Ten-four,” I tell him with pouty eyes.
Outside, he fires up his new Dodge Challenger. It’s matte black, lowered on beefy custom rims and it’s got some pretty cool headlights, specifically the blood orange halo surrounds. With the shaker hood, the hearty rumble of the Hemi engine and glowing reddish-orange eyes, this beast has a life and personality of its own. The minute we saw it, we both fell in love with it, and that’s how Dad got his new car. Of course, with him getting a new car, I couldn’t help but ask about his old one.
“Baby,” he said, “my old car is your new car, if you want it.”
Hell yeah I wanted it!
Anyway, as my dad is leaving, I wave to him one last time, then stand there in my pj’s and listen to the Detroit engine grumbling its way down Dirt Alley. I won’t lie, the sound is beyond intoxicating. The second his wheels leave the packed earth and touch asphalt, Dad gets on it and that sexy black beast rips a hole in the early morning silence.
Had I known that was the last time I was going to see him, I would have hugged him a tad bit harder and a tad bit longer.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Back inside, I start a pot of coffee, blast the heater, then turn on the shower, step inside and refuse to get out until I’ve run the hot water to cold.
It doesn’t take long.
Wiping the fog off the bathroom mirror, I turn on a space heater, then wrap my hair in a towel. Standing in front of a full length mirror, contemplating my figure, I cup my puny breasts, take a moment to wonder if they’ll ever finish growing, then turn and check out my butt and calves. Smiling, I can’t help thinking: at least I’ve got these.
I’ve never had the entire house to myself before, so I walk out and get my coffee naked, feeling for the first time like a woman in her own home. Free to be how I want, do what I want, free not to worry about so many things. The cool air feels good on my warm, damp skin. The openness feels even better.
Coffee is amazing, but it’s still early and I didn’t sleep very well, so the music goes on louder than normal. Elle King’s album Love Stuff. Now the morning feels right. Like I can get on with it without thinking I need another three hours of sleep before attempting to wake up.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not one of those girls who goes heavy on the make-up. For me it’s just eye shadow, eye liner and a light lipstick. Most days I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. And when I do accessorize, it’s with a loose bracelet and a few longer necklaces just so I don’t look like I turn a wrench or shovel crap for a living. I like to think it’s a good look. Some would argue otherwise. I won’t claim to be on the cutting edge of fashion, because I’m not, but this is my style and I like it. Whatever, I’m digressing.
Eight o’clock rolls around too soon.
Dressed and ready for the day, I’ve got my book bag and car keys in hand and I’m nearly heading out the door when I remember the gift in my dad’s office.
On his desk is a rectangular package and an accompanying box. Both are gift-wrapped in silver paper with muted silver bows. Very stylish. The gift wrapping looks too fancy for either me or my dad, but this might be my last joy for the day so I really take it in.
Unceremoniously tearing open the paper, I feel a smile lifting my face. Within seconds I’m staring at two six packs of Carbon Express Maxima arrows and a box of twelve SAS screw-in field points. These arrows, they’re no joke. The tips…perfect.
&n
bsp; “Oh wow,” I say, mesmerized.
So about school?
Yeah…looking at these arrows, I’m thinking, not so much today.
I drop my book bag on the floor, crack open all the boxes, start screwing the field points into the top of each shaft. Holding the finished arrows, marveling at the weight and balance of each, it would be downright ungrateful of me to not go shooting today, right?
I have to. It’s practically an obligation.
So this is my plan, this is what I’m thinking: I get three more hours of (much needed) sleep, hit the archery range in the early afternoon, then on the way back home I’ll grab Mexican food, kick off my shoes and read in front of the window until it’s time for bed.
Sounds better than school, right?! I think so.
Once I’m done assembling all twelve arrows, I grab my heavy-duty quiver from the closet where there are twenty-four arrows already loaded. I transfer the twelve worst looking arrows into my backup quiver and replace them with the brand new set.
At this point I can’t stop yawning, so the clothes come off, the ponytail comes loose and I crawl back into bed, dragging the blankets all the way to my chin. Pushing past the coffee and my earlier plans, I close my eyes and then it’s sleep, sweet sleep.
Eleven a.m. I’m waking back up, my body is fully rested and I’m ready for the range. More coffee, some yogurt and a handful of almonds.
Fuel.
A few minutes later I’ve got both quivers and my fifty-five pound compound bow stuffed in the back seat of what is now my 1970 Oldsmobile Cutlass. We’re talking about flawless copper body, matte-black top, polished black interior that smells like old leather with a hint of gasoline and grease. If you want to know anything about this brute of mine, you need to think four barrel carburetor, four speed manual transmission and two exhaust pipes, split.
This is the 4-4-2.
The clutch is heavy, the gearbox is cranky and the engine is boisterous at a rumble. I give it some gas to warm it up and the too-rich smell of the exhaust somehow feels better than that second cup of coffee. First gear has me going, second gear is straight sexy and by third gear my day is looking measurably better. I might’ve even kicked the back end out turning a corner or two, but that’s only because I can.
My dad loved this car until he bought his Challenger. Now this is my car and even though it’s not feminine to say the least, I’m not exactly the poster child for femininity. Maybe it’s because I’m tall, my tits are small, and I have a body (and a disposition) that leans more toward athletics than fashion. My dad never questioned me on the car or my look. He knew both fit me just right, and they do.
He calls the Cutlass “Shooter’s new ride,” and somehow this warms me every time. And right now, Shooter’s new ride is headed to the park.
I’ve been coming to the Golden Gate Park Archery Field since I was a kid. A few years back, my grandfather was alive and archery was our thing. When he passed from colon cancer, I continued to come here in his honor. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, people tended to listen. Myself included.
Out on the range when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, he said to me, “If you can shoot arrows straight and keep you’re a-hole clean, you should be able to lead a pretty good life.”
Sound advice from a man who thrived in one and died from the other.
The thing about my grandpa was, even though he knew what he had—that he was dying—he never once complained. He just did what he could while he could and didn’t soak anyone’s shoulder with tears of self-pity or remorse for a life slowly being taken from him. I admire him for that. It makes me want to be a tougher, more steadfast girl.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The range isn’t packed at all. In fact, it’s empty. First it’s just me behind the bow, then it’s me and an older couple who are clearly novices. After that it’s some skinny kid with unkempt hair, an iPod, his compound bow and a quiver of too many arrows that look like they were stuffed in haphazardly and all at once by a one-handed toddler.
I look at him and I’m thinking, dude, why aren’t you in school? He’s looking at me, giving me the once over then not giving me the time of day.
I place a few arrows in the center ring, put two on the bullseye, then look over at him like, what gives? He’s just sitting there with his iPod listening to his music.
And not shooting.
“Hey,” I finally say, unable to take him any longer. “Hey!”
The older couple look over, but they see me looking at this miscreant and go back to minding their own business. He looks up and I make a motion for him to pull out his ear buds. He does.
“What’s your problem?” I ask.
“How do you mean?” he says, almost like he’s stoned.
“Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”
“I graduated already.”
“You’re at an archery range and you’re listening to music, not even looking at your gear, much less using it.”
“So?”
“So pick up your bow and arrows and shoot something. Or go home. Just don’t sit here acting like you’d rather be somewhere else.”
“Mind your own business,” he says, putting his ear buds back in.
“You can’t shoot can you?”
He takes one ear bud out and says, “I shoot here so I can play my PlayStation at home. It’s my mom’s thing. Real time for game time.”
“So you just come out here and sit on your butt listening to Nickelback or whatever?”
“Something like that,” he says, putting the ear bud back in.
I refuse to stop staring at him. Finally he looks over. Then, blowing out a tantrum laced breath, he stands up and fires off twelve arrows in quick succession. One of the dozen arrows actually finds the edge of the paper target, but all the others miss the hay bale completely.
He then checks his watch like he could care less and looks at me.
“Fifteen more minutes,” he says, po-faced and snide. He then sits back down, pulls out his cell phone and starts texting someone.
“Unbelievable.”
I’ve been through both quivers twice and I’m gathering my arrows for a third round when I hear a series of muted concussion bursts coming from the city behind me. The older couple and I turn toward the downtown skies. We don’t see anything. The noise persists though, almost like a fireworks display, but from really far away.
Now the kid’s taking out his ear buds, seeing us watching the sky, and he’s standing up, turning around. A dozen columns of smoke climb into the deep blue sky, working their way into the higher atmosphere.
Instead of collecting his arrows, the iPod slacker simply picks up his bow and leaves.
“Your arrows!” I yell at him. He just flips me off.
Wow, rude.
The older couple waste no time gathering up their arrows before hurrying out of there and leaving me alone. The far away sounds of things exploding concerns me. I collect my arrows, then check out the slacker’s abandoned arrows and I have to say, they’re not half bad. Good tips, firm fletchings, straight shaft…nothing more than a bit of dirt and grass to clean up.
Lucky me, I’ve now got a dozen more arrows.
After piling my gear into the Cutlass, I crank the motor and work the gas pedal until the engine catches with a sputter and a growl. As I’m sitting there with the car rumbling in neutral and my mind stuck on myriad possibilities for the explosions, I’m starting to rethink the whole idea of Mexican food. At this point it might be prudent to head home and check out the local news stations, see who knows what about the smoke downtown.
Rolling down 47th, I make my way through the Golden Gate Park down to John F. Kennedy Drive, straight through to Bernice Rodgers Way which quickly becomes Martin Luther King Jr. Drive. Making a right on Sunset, I sail through the Lincoln Way underpass and head into the dismal urban landscape.
Something metallic zips overhead. It’s moving so fast I almost miss it. But I don’t.
“What the hell?” I mutter, leaning forward and straining to see into the sky. As quickly as the thing flew by, it’s gone.
“Okay…”
Taking a hard left down Irving, I cruise down what I consider to be the most depressing road in history. I’ve just come from Golden Gate Park, this gorgeous, lush, green park; Irving is all concrete, sagging telephone lines and compact two story homes of every color and sort. If I saw someone laying dead in the gutter, honestly, I wouldn’t be shocked.
A quick drive down Dirt Alley and I’m at our detached garage. I pull in, shut the door, then traipse across to the backyard and enter into my house through the back door.
Inside it feels extra empty.
I should be coming home with a hot meal. I should be curled on the couch reading a book or watching TV or listening to music. Instead I’m trying not to freak out because every time I look outside, the smoke rising up over the city is starting to resemble some huge, ominous cloud in the making.
Could there be an attack? Exploded gas lines? An alien invasion? At this point, I really wish my dad were here.
You’re far enough from the smoke, Indigo, I tell myself. So stop acting like such a child.
I try finding the local news stations on TV, but the TV is screeching with an emergency broadcast signal. I punch the OFF button, check the internet. It never gets me to my home page; rather it just freezes up, almost like there’s a bad connection. I turn on my phone and try the internet there. Same story. Trying not to panic, I make a call to my house and the landline rings.
Oh, thank God.
For whatever reason, because at least this one service works, I wonder if this will all pass over shortly. It’s just exploding gas lines, I tell myself. A problem with the cell towers.
I turn the TV back on and flip through the channels until the emergency broadcast noise finally stops. Two television stations are still working. Both cable news networks. I watch for like an hour, but no one is saying anything. It’s just recycled stories from last week: a small Minnesota town is flooding while the state of Virginia is rocked by political scandal, and then the governor of California is announcing that waking up on the left side of the bed is now illegal and we’ll be taxed for waking up on the right side, blah, blah, blah…
