by Vince Milam
“That idiot?” he asked, throwing a thumb toward his former shop floor position.
“He’s an artist,” Willa said.
“He’s a pissant dweeb.”
Willa gripped my arm and said, “Remember this the next time you feel burdened.”
We laughed and joked and they both touched my body with rubs and pats. And they touched my soul. Willa explained the machine shop as a natural offshoot of her upbringing. Her father operated a Fresno, California, machine shop and she grew up among the magic of working metal. She strove shoulder-to-shoulder with five brothers and at the age of twenty made master machinist, kissed her family goodbye, and headed for the Pacific Northwest.
“It tugged,” she said. “Hard explaining. But the pull, the draw, is real.”
Her business grew and, as she put it, “It was time to open the doors wider.” Her brainchild consisted of renting, at cut-rate, metalwork space for artists, dreamers, and dabblers. The core business kept the cash flow steady, but her passion turned toward the artistic side of things. Bella Forme. Pretty Forms. An Artisanal Machine Shop.
“And how does Mr. Nuance fit into this?” I asked, indicating Catch.
“The commercial side,” she said. “He’s not half-bad with big metal. Cutting, welding.”
“Let me see the arrow wound.” He plucked at my shirt.
“Leave me the hell alone. So do you also send him to meet customers? Sales calls?” I asked her, attempting a clarification of Catch’s role at the shop.
“Are you nuts? I still have to maintain revenue.”
“Come on. Let me see it,” Catch said.
He wouldn’t relent, so I unbuttoned the top of my shirt. He, and Willa, leaned close.
“Cool,” he said. “It’ll make a nice scar.”
“Poor thing. You seen a doctor?”
“Can I poke it?” Catch asked.
“No. And it’s healing well, Willa. Thanks for asking.”
Willa enquired of its origin, and I dodged the answer. No point wading those waters. “Is Bo at your place? I’d like to settle if it’s okay.”
“You have the address. Bo’s out back,” Catch said.
“Lives in a van,” Willa added. “Up a tree.”
“Of course he does.” I explained dinner tonight was my treat as long as Willa chose the place.
“How about dancing after?” she asked. “Are you okay with that or do you need rest?”
“Whatever you want. I’ll make a video of Catch busting moves. Post it on YouTube. Million hits, easy.”
“As the riffraff learn from a master,” he said. “You know, you’re not as pretty as you once were. Wussification taking its toll.”
Willa whacked him across his arm. He grinned large, tried kissing her as she punched his chest. Their love—tangible and real and grounded—shone bright.
I waited for my cab outside. Several people came and went through the hard drizzle. They wore rain jackets. A few used the jacket hoods; others wore ball caps. No one carried an umbrella. A part of life, the rain, and you moved through it with acceptance. Everything was green. A different green than a tropical rain forest. Emerald. Grander, less threatening, more inviting. Massive fir trees lent a cathedral-like atmosphere. The Pacific Northwest.
They owned a couple of acres at the edge of town. A tight two-story Victorian wooden house sat near the street, painted blue, the roof mossy. Using the key Catch gave me, I let myself in and tossed the rucksack into a spare bedroom. And sought Bo.
The kitchen window provided a grand view of the backyard acreage. Douglas fir trees—tall and stately and dripping—covered the area. It took a second to spot. An old VW Bus, without tires or, likely, an engine, was suspended thirty feet off the ground. A rusty large-linked logging chain held it against the tree trunk. A couple of massive limbs were cut away, making room. The old VW nestled there, hidden by adjoining branches. It emitted wood smoke from a homemade chimney pipe. Remnants of tread tracks remained where a crane had maneuvered across the back lot, the old bus dangling, and lifted it into place. Willa could not have been pleased last fall when the grand estate of Bo Dickerson was installed. Or maybe she thought it cool. Hard to say.
I squished across the thick grass. Bo hadn’t built a ladder. Access was attained through climbing branches. As I approached the bus shifted, the sliding side door flew open, and a mass of wild red hair appeared. Bo extruded through the opening, held on to the inside ceiling, and leaned over the thirty-foot drop. Buck naked.
“Hi ho said the ’shroom to the sun. I sensed your arrival. But wait, my brother. Wait!” He disappeared back inside.
My blood brother and dearest friend. Man, I missed him.
“Uh, Bo. You haven’t primed any welcome wagons have you?” Trip wires, traps, explosives. Bo liked protecting his position.
Red hair jutted from the opening, long enough for a reply. “Mother Nature. She whispers warnings. Enough, enough if we listen.” His eyes sparkled, the toothy grin classic and a joy. Unlike Catch, Bo’s scraggly beard lacked definition or grooming. He disappeared again. The logging chain creaked as the rusted bus shifted against the tree trunk.
“You are at less than full capacity.” His voice drifted from the bus’s interior. “Otherwise I’d ask you to join me. The climb, the ascent. Too much?” His head shot out again, waiting for an answer. He’d donned a few articles of clothing.
“I’d prefer not to.” The shoulder and chest had progressed toward severe tenderness. It was healing. “But if that’s what it takes, move your Okie butt aside.”
He grinned, laughed, started to disappear, and popped out again. We locked eyes.
“Slings and arrows aside, you appear hale and hearty, my cretinous Georgia peach. And I missed you.”
“And I missed you, Bo. Big time.”
“To understand and to be understood. You and me. Seneca was right.”
“Amen.”
It would appear weird, two grown men staring, one thirty feet above the other. But the love and bond and connectivity was as real as life itself. And I washed in it.
Bo didn’t climb down. He walked. Each step onto a thick lower limb—a three- or four-foot drop—taken with acrobatic aplomb. He spiraled around the broad trunk as he descended, turned, and spiraled back. The moss draped across the limbs showed irregular wear.
“Is there any point suggesting you take a customary path down this honking tree?” I asked, and marveled at his balance.
“A customary path.” He halted, one foot suspended for the next limb drop. “Been mulling that over. From a metaphysical perspective.”
“Okay.” I couldn’t stop grinning.
He stopped the descent and squatted, perched on a near-ground limb, and extended his arms. Easing through the foliage, I came face-to-face. We placed hands on shoulders until he pulled my head forward.
“You happy, old son?” he asked. He smelled of ginger and curry. Drips of water from the conifer needles plopped on our faces.
“Yeah. Yeah, pretty happy. You?”
“Continuous and always in pursuit. With grinding bumps. Part of the package. I missed you.”
“You too.”
He gripped my nape and pulled me away. A crow landed well above us and croaked a call. Another answered in the distance.
“The flight of an arrow can be transformative,” he said.
“Or kill you.”
“Yet here you are. Allow me.” He tugged at my top shirt button.
Spend enough time in Delta Force and you will collect scars. Battle scars, both physical and emotional. The physical ones acted as totems, benchmarks, a tale to be told. A few were merit badges and others reminders of horrors. The emotional ones—folded, tucked away. Sitting silent, neither denied nor mulled over or analyzed. Part of your fabric, good or bad.
Bo, like Catch, requested a view of Case Lee’s latest landscape change. They both carried plenty themselves. Four buttons later, he inspected my wound with great gravity.
&nbs
p; “It’ll make an excellent scar.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Sliding the last several feet, he landed and guided me toward the street.
“Let’s walk and talk and go visit my favorite budtender. A celebratory endeavor. My missing piece, a sight for sore eyes, has appeared.”
“Budtender?”
“Herbalist.”
“You’re taking me to a pot shop.”
“Aye. Tell me a tale, bucko. It’s been several months.”
Chapter 13
Marijuana shops sprinkled Portland. Common and advertised and now part of the city’s culture. No one blinked an eye, and life continued. We passed homeowner’s vehicles parked along the street—a ubiquitous Portland trait—and chatted and laughed and kidded. My PNG engagement remained a back burner item. A simmering stew, waiting to be stirred, tasted, and assessed when it was quiet. When the three of us were alone together. A team.
Tranquil Waters Dispensary appeared, discreet and, I supposed, welcoming.
“You packing?” I asked. The bounties on Bo, Catch, myself, and Marcus ensured we remained prepared. Always. The Glock rubbed against the small of my back, tucked into the jean’s waist.
“Several. But none of your apparent new favorites.”
“New favorites?”
“It’s hard hiding bows and arrows this day and age without a cloak. But that’s always an option.”
“Funny. Wonder how Tranquil Waters would take the knowledge of our hidden high-powered armament?”
“False boundaries, Robin Hood.” He swung the shop’s door open for me. “Not a bad name for a rock band. False Boundaries.”
Several patrons perused the selection. An extensive array of varying marijuana grades and attributes. A young lady, hair woven into a long ponytail, smiled large and slid from behind the counter. Her floor-length granny dress, blue paisley, lent the impression of her floating toward us. She carried a beatific countenance, either through spiritual wellness or a great buzz. She lifted both arms around Bo’s neck and they kissed. A deep, passionate kiss—full frontal and more than a little awkward watching.
“Not yet,” she said, stroking his unruly hair.
“I understand. Meet Case. Blood brother. Case, this is Rainbow.”
Rainbow. Of course. She released Bo and drifted my way, head cocked. “I sense pain.”
“Minor injury. Nice meeting you.” She wafted past my extended a hand, laying her head against my chest, hands at my waist. She smelled of cedar incense.
“Spiritual pain. You’ve come to the right place.”
“Good to know.”
She took my hand and led us to an empty spot at the immaculate counter. The place held a mellow pharmacy vibe. Portland had changed.
“I’m thinking a celebratory bud,” Bo said.
“Mellow or encouraging?”
“Encouraging. With a dash of heroic times past.” He turned and rubbed my head. “And glorious adventure ahead.”
Rainbow—quite serious—nodded, turned, and contemplated Tranquil Water’s selection.
“Bo.”
“Speak, my wandering pilgrim.”
“Portland suits you.”
“For the moment. The path stretches ahead, lost within the glorious fog of uncertainty.”
“Okay.” My jaw ached from the nonstop grin.
Rainbow offered a blend appropriate to Bo’s desires. They discussed attributes, the connoisseur and sommelier. He paid cash. As we began exiting, Rainbow approached again. She wished me well and touched my cheek. She kissed her fingers and placed them on Bo’s lips. He closed his eyes in reciprocity.
Back on the sidewalk I asked, “What’s with the ‘not yet’? Rainbow?”
“Her path, at the moment, is avoidance of physical intimacy. Will you try this?” he asked, displaying the pot container.
“No. But it’s clear you two have connected in the past.”
“When the alignment is right.”
“And how’s the alignment thirty feet up a tree?”
“There’s an organic quality to it. And the chain squeaks. Willa has commented about this.”
“Do tell.”
“I believe she appreciates, in her own way, the juxtaposition of metal and anatomy.”
“It’s artisanal.”
“Precisely. Where, pray tell, are we dining tonight?”
“Willa’s call.”
Willa chose a small neighborhood place. The Spinning Rock—A Sustainable Eatery. We passed dozens of hole-in-the-wall restaurants during the drive. Portland was a foodie’s dream.
Willa donned yoga pants and a thigh-length loose blouse, belted. Her vibrant blue tats peeked at openings in the material. Hair down, earrings dangling, she glowed fine and full of life.
Offered a table near the center of the room, we asked for a corner spot. Backs against a wall. Habit. An eclectic crowd, black the dominant clothing color of choice. The men wore tight-legged pants with high-water cuffs. You’d be hard-pressed hiding a Glock in those britches. The women, attractive, sported a range of tats and piercings unlike anywhere I’d seen stateside. Animated, they discussed and laughed and engaged. The men appeared focused on maintaining a look. A benign crowd, nonthreatening.
Willa ordered for us. I asked her to toss the kitchen sink on our table. Provide the Spinning Rock an opportunity and give it their best shot. Our conversation remained light, fun. The craft beer, outstanding. The mood was joyous and celebratory and loving.
“You’ve made this home,” I said, addressing Catch. “Good for you.” I meant it.
“I’ve gotten into it,” Catch said. “Opportunity abounds.”
“Opportunity to irritate the locals,” Willa said.
“I’m a local.”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “Eastern Oregon. High desert. Cowboys, guns, and wing nuts galore.”
“You speak of my people.”
She turned to me. I raised a hand, palm out, smiling. “Got no dog in this fight.”
Willa plowed ahead. “Last year’s annual World Naked Bike Ride, as an example.”
“I’m unfamiliar with this event,” I said. Unfamiliar, but not surprised. Man, Portland had changed.
“Ten thousand Portlandians,” Catch said, excited.
“Portlanders,” Willa said.
“On bikes. Naked as jaybirds.” Catch smiled large. “Me and Willa right in the middle of the pack.”
The waiter brought appetizers—delicious, fresh, and exceptional. Willa asked for another Oregon pinot noir. Catch and I ordered another round of craft beer. Bo asked for iced tea.
“Ginger or thyme infused?”
“Ginger. With carrot honey, please.”
After the waiter left I asked Bo, “What has gotten into you?”
“He’s bitten bad,” Catch said. “Gone native. Full immersion, baby.”
Bo only smiled. Bo—the wildest warrior any of us had ever met. Our Delta spearhead. Fearless. First in, with his own brand of madness and deadly effectiveness. Now ordering ginger tea with carrot honey.
“Leave my Bo alone,” Willa said. “He belongs.” She patted his hand and plucked a grilled mushroom swimming in a garlic sauce on the way back.
“So, ten thousand people?” I asked.
“Naked,” Catch confirmed.
“Is there a theme? Other than the obvious.”
“We celebrate body positivity,” Willa said. “And encourage renewable energy.”
“Okay.”
“And we encourage individuals to celebrate their own causes. With body paint on our backs. Individual expression.”
“Okay.”
“Last year mine said ‘Celebrate Metal.’ Written with glitter paint. A blend of bright blue and metallic silver.”
“And you participated?” I asked Catch. This required confirmation. Catch, prone to exhibit wild behavior, didn’t dabble in the realm of weird. Most of the time. Still, it was Catch.
“Hell yes!”
&n
bsp; “And what celebratory statement did you display across your backside?”
Willa groaned and shook her head. Bo laughed, teeth flashing. Catch was serious.
“A profound message. Large letters.”
“I’m doubting Willa helped paint it.”
“You’ve got that right,” she said.
“Found a bum,” Catch said.
“Homeless person,” Willa corrected.
“Found a bum figuring how to take a dump in Starbucks. Customers only.”
“A street artist,” I said.
“Don’t encourage him,” Willa said, plucking a corn chip smeared with wasabi caviar and crunching it.
“Gave him two bucks. Enough for coffee. So he could take a dump.”
“And the large lettered message displayed across your ugly back?” I asked, already laughing.
“There’s room for all God’s creatures. Right next to my mashed potatoes.”
I couldn’t stop laughing and asked, wiping tears, “What, exactly, does this message celebrate, oh brother of mine?”
“This good earth’s bounty!”
“Bet you were a big hit.”
“I’d say so. Got lots of comments.”
Willa shook her head and offered me the wooden board containing our ham flight. It, too, was delicious. “It is so fine getting to know you, Case. I feel like I already did, but this fills the gaps. Rounds it out.”
“You too. You folks make quite the pair. And it’s a joy to see.”
“We’re a team,” Catch said, rubbing Willa’s back.
“And I’ve discovered Bo’s found love as well,” I said, winking toward my tree dwelling friend.
“Love resounds,” Bo said. “And I’ve loved staying here among the dripping conifers. I’ve internalized the experience. Part of me, embedded forever. Yet the time draws near.”
Catch and I exchanged glances. Bo would move on. To where—anyone’s guess. I’d caught it in his eyes earlier. And failed broaching the subject because it would have dampened my joy. And because the timing of the call was his prerogative. When he lived deep within the Dismal Swamp, Bo was master of his domain. A watery snake- and gator-infested domain, but his turf. Now he visited. Hung from a tree, an observer. He’d seek his own turf again.
“Time for what?” Catch asked.
