Getting to Grey Owl

by Kurt Caswell

  Well, we whiled away the rest of the day, ducked into Jimmy Chung’s for our early supper, and then swaggered out drunk on grease and MSG.

  “I could use a beer,” Scott said.

  “That’s the whole point,” I said.

  We found a little place and ordered up two pints. Then another two. Maybe one more round, and it wasn’t long before the sun was down and the streets darkened and the city whispered its history to the dingle stars. We certainly were not drunk, but we’d had a few and decided to turn in for the night. Now, here is where the story really begins.

  We had almost made it to our hostel when we happened by another little place called the Arcade, just across the street and a little down from Fleshmarket Close. It looked inviting. Scott stopped at the door.

  “Just one more,” Scott said. “Whaddaya say?”

  We were in Scotland, after all, and there was no telling when we would travel together again. So I said, “Why not?”

  In we went, and no sooner had we come through the door when we hear a familiar voice. “Hiya, boys,” Sabrina said.

  “Sabrina,” Scott said. “What a surprise!”

  Sabrina, despite that moment of lucidity, was under the spell of some great quantity of alcohol and a certain Spaniard, on whose lap she was now sitting. She had only just come up for air, and as we pressed our way to the bar, she went back down, fishing for his tongue with hers.

  “Goodness,” I said. “Now that’s the way to cuddle.”

  “It certainly is,” Scott said, and ordered us a couple of pints.

  “You lads know her?” asked a stubby little man to our left. He was balding, wore jeans and a T-shirt, maybe in his late forties, and looked a couple days out from a shave. Maybe a couple days out from a bath.

  “We met only recently,” Scott said.

  “So you’re Americans,” he said. “The accent. I’m Jordie,” and he stuck out his hand.

  A fellow as friendly as this wants something, especially this time of night in a small pub next to a blitzed American witch sucking face with a Spaniard. We shook hands with him anyway.

  Our beers came up, and Scott nodded and raised his glass. We made a little toast to the unexpected, as Jordie made a little argument against us.

  “Now look,” he said. “You bloody Americans are a belligerent lot. Going into Iraq the way you did. A bloody belligerent lot. And I don’t mean just the invasion. You’ve been going about the world doing it for decades. Decades.”

  “I see,” Scott said.

  “You certainly do,” Jordie said. “A belligerent lot, going into Iraq the way you did.”

  I wondered if he’d forgotten the violent history of his own country—not just Scotland and its wars with England and the like, but, well, you might remember the British Empire, an empire based on belligerence and bullying and theft and on which once upon a time the sun never set. Not to mention that it was the British Empire that cobbled together a few cultures who had long been at odds into the thing we now call Iraq. It was not, in those days, a country, but rather the Brits’ idea of mopping up their own mess.

  “We’re just here for a pint,” Scott said.

  “Well, you’re gonna get more than that, lads,” Jordie said. “Which brings me to the truth: the people in Iraq don’t want you there. Anyone can see that. My countrymen don’t want you there either. And my countrymen don’t want to be there themselves. It’s you Americans who got us into this war. You bloody Americans. And it’s that cowboy Bush who muscled Blair into following. That little fop has no stones of his own.”

  “Really,” Scott said.

  “Really,” Jordie said. “And if we pull out, if the British pull back, you’re fucked. You’re fucking fucked. Ya see, it tells the world that you done wrong. That you shouldn’t have gone in in the first place. So you need us, see. In fact,” he said, “you need us more than we need you.”

  “I see,” Scott said. “We need you more than you need us.”

  “That’s right,” Jordie said. “And I’ll tell you another thing—”

  Then we heard a sound from Sabrina, whose cuddling had increased in pace and vigor. It seemed she was about to tip slightly over the edge into some kind of preliminary stage of sexual arousal, what with the moaning and all. She was still inside the limits of her licensure, Scott and I agreed, but it was clear that there wasn’t much wiggle room anymore.

  “Fuck me,” Jordie said, his lips all shiny from his beer. “That chick is ripe. She’s really coming on now. Tell you what, fellas. I’m gonna shag her. I’m gonna fuckin’ shag her.”

  A redundancy, I thought, for sure.

  Sabrina made another little moan, and then she lifted her head up from the Spaniard’s mouth and hopped off his lap, no worse for wear. She moved in between Scott and me, sorta forced her way in, rubbing up against us a little. I could smell her breath. Yep. Really, really drunk.

  “You boys have a good day?” she asked us.

  “I’m gonna shag ’er,” Jordie said in a dark little whisper. “I’m gonna fuckin’ shag ’er.”

  “I had a really great day,” Sabrina said.

  I could feel the heat of her against me, and she leaned in a little too close, a little too much: not sensually, really; rather, she needed help standing up.

  “Well? Did you?” she said.

  “We did,” Scott said. “A very fine day.”

  “Ooohhhh,” she said. “That’s nice.” Then she stumbled off to the water closet.

  “That’s right, lads,” Jordie said. “I’m gonna shag ’er. Now where was I?”

  “You bloody Americans . . . ,” Scott said.

  “Right, you bloody Americans need us more than we need you. We don’t need you at all. We don’t give a damn about you. But you need us.”

  “OK,” Scott said. “Whatever you say.”

  “Bloody Americans,” Jordie said.

  Now, Scott is a big man, a good six feet two, carrying 230 pounds. He could squish little Jordie between his fingers. But Jordie seemed not to notice his disadvantage because he was drunk too, and he probably had something else there hidden in his jacket. A sharp blade? A Ruger .357 mag? A wounded heart left over from his mother’s sexual betrayal of his father, which caused him at the tender age of nine to blame himself for their divorce? It was hard to tell.

  “I’m gonna shag ’er,” Jordie said, watching Sabrina as she returned from the pissoir. “Hi, love,” he said to her. “You gonna ride down with me tomorrow like we said?”

  “That would be really great,” Sabrina said. “Really great. I don’t wanna buy a train ticket, you know. Not a lot of money left. I’d appreciate the ride.”

  “That’s right, love,” he said. “You’ll appreciate the ride. Lads,” he said, now turning to Scott and me, “I gotta make a delivery down in Manchester tomorrow, and this bitch here is gonna ride down with me. Now that’s how you get things done, lads.”

  “Yeah,” Sabrina said. “He’s got to make a delivery down there.”

  “That’s right, love. Got some biz-nuss down there. And you’re gonna ride down with me, aren’t you? Won’t cost you much at all.”

  “Oh, good,” Sabrina said. “I don’t have much money left.”

  “Not much at all,” Jordie said.

  Things seemed to be spinning out of control for Sabrina. Here she was, an American witch in Edinburgh with a license to cuddle, drunk off her head, and she had a Spaniard all worked up on the stool over there and Jordie the drug dealer ready to drag her into Fleshmarket Close and lift up her skirt.

  “You on your way back to your room?” Scott asked Sabrina.

  “You boys going that way?” she asked.

  “We are,” Scott said.

  “I’ll walk with you,” she said. “Two nice boys like you.”

  “All right, we’ll walk with you,” Scott said. “Let’s go.”

  “Not just yet,” Sabrina said. “How about one last round?”

  “We’re done here,” Scott said
. “We’re headed back to the room. If you want to come with us, come with us now.”

  I appreciated this move in Scott. It was obvious Sabrina needed a little help. If we could get her out of that bar, it would probably be better for her in the long run.

  “Not just yet,” Sabrina said again, and hopped back on top of the Spaniard. Then Jordie started in again. What else was he to do?

  “That’s right, lads,” he said. “I’m gonna take that bitch down in Manchester. I’m gonna shag ’er.”

  “Nice talking to you,” Scott said.

  “Leaving so soon?” Jordie said.

  “That’s right,” Scott said. “You enjoy your evening.”

  “Nice talking to you lads,” Jordie said. “You take care out there. You never know what can happen.”

  Scott turned to coax Sabrina down off the bar stool, but abracadabra, she and the Spaniard were gone.

  Outside in the night air, Scott worried over her safety. “Man,” he said. “She’s gonna end up raped and murdered in some alley somewhere.”

  “God. Horrible,” I said. “Maybe we can look around a little for her. She can’t have gone far.”

  “Yeah, let’s have look,” Scott said.

  Making our way back to the hostel, we cased Jackson’s Close and then Fleshmarket Close as we passed by. Nothing.

  “She’s a grown woman,” Scott said. “I mean, what can we do? Are we now responsible for her? What if we’d never met her? I mean, she is a grown woman. Doesn’t she know what she’s doing?”

  “She is,” I agreed. “And maybe she does. Of course, she’s drunk. That’s a problem. I don’t know, man. I doubt we’ll find her.”

  “Right,” Scott said. “Let’s head back.”

  At the hostel, we got ready for bed, and the four Chinese women sharing the room with us were doing the same. I climbed into the top bunk, and Scott sat down on the lower bunk.

  “Don’t forget I’m down here,” Scott said. “Don’t be firing off any rounds up there.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I sure hope she’s OK.”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking over at Sabrina’s empty bed.

  Scott went across the room to the light switch and indicated to our four roommates that he wanted to shut out the light. They nodded it was OK, and the room went dark.

  Just then, Sabrina walked in and flicked on the lights. “Hi, boys,” she said.

  “Good to see you’re all right,” Scott said.

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Well, we did,” Scott told her.

  She came in close, leaning in against the upper bunk, where I sat now with my legs hanging down. Scott stood there beside her. She was drunk, of course, but it appeared that she could manage it. She leaned in and took up my left foot in her hands, and began to work it over. She pressed my foot in against her chest.

  “This,” she said, finding a particular pressure point, “is your liver.”

  “No,” Scott said. “That’s his foot.”

  “Very funny,” she said. “No. It’s his liver,” and she pressed in on the place, and it felt really nice.

  “I can tell you one thing,” Scott said, exercising his signature humor. “His liver is in better shape than yours.”

  “Very funny,” she said, leaning in on my foot, pressing it between her heavy breasts. “Very funny.”

  She worked my foot a bit, and suddenly I felt happy and relaxed. But I resisted.

  “We’ve got an early day,” I said. “Right, Scott? Off to bed now?”

  “Yep, that’s right,” he said.

  “All right, boys,” she said. “I’m pretty tired too.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said.

  “Yeah, and you’re gonna have a headache in the morning,” Scott said.

  “Whatever.”

  Scott and I settled into bed, and Sabrina went out to the facilities, came back, turned out the light, and settled into bed herself. Our Chinese roommates were either asleep or pretending to be asleep, who could say. The room was still, very still, and I was just dropping off when Sabrina got up wearing her nightclothes, some kind of long gown, and came by our bunk. I could see her down there pacing at the foot of the bed in the darkness. She walked in little circles, around and around, back and forth. Around and around. Her pace seemed to quicken, until she took hold of the end of the bunk and climbed in on top of me.

  “I just wanna cuddle,” she said into my ear.

  I have to admit here a certain rise in my interest, as she was a warm and pleasant presence, stretched out fully on top of me, her curves palpable along my body. She sorta worked her way in and pressed in against my pelvis and put her nose against my chest and kissed me.

  “What are you doing?” I said, rather lazily.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Just cuddle with me. That’s all I want.”

  The Chinese woman closest to us leaped out of bed in terror and hurried over to climb in with one of her friends at the farthest reaches of the room.

  “Sabrina,” I said. “We really do have an early morning train.”

  “I just wanna cuddle.”

  “I know, but I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “Really, I just wanna cuddle,” she said again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I do have to get some sleep, and this is a very public room.”

  “Oh gosh, oh god,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “Oh, no, no,” I said. “No.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh gosh,” she said, and hurried down over the end of the bed and left the room.

  Scott took hold of the edge of the upper bunk and pulled himself up, just as I leaned over to hang down: our faces met in the darkness.

  “You’re killing me, bro,” Scott said. “Can I come up there and cuddle with you?” And we laughed and laughed.

  Scott and I rose early and made our way out into the city. Sabrina was there in her bed now, sleeping heavily, reestablishing the balance of the four humors, and it was doubtful that we would ever see her again. We walked up to the head of the Royal Mile, where you could get an early coffee at the corner shop. As we sat there together with those lovely lattes, the Edinburghness of Edinburgh spread out before us, a world of possibility opened with the rising sun.

  “I wonder what’s going to happen next?” I said.

  “I do too,” he said. “I do too.”

  In Inverness, Scott and I had just come to a sort of stopping place in our conversation about relationships and marriage, and so naturally, after the food and the beers at Bella Italia, Scotland’s version of the Olive Garden, Scott, the best man at my wedding—which, five years later, had ended in a divorce—got up and headed north to the facilities.

  He’d just confessed the hardships and struggles he and his wife, Kacey, had passed through, empathized with my plight, and acknowledged that it could have easily been him. (And her, of course.) But you know, they had the children, and maybe that helped bind them together in a way childless couples are not bound together, and they had the house on some beautiful acreage in southern Oregon, and yes, they also loved each other, and so they worked through the garbage to come out on the other side. “There is nothing stable in the world,” Keats writes. “Uproar is your only music.”

  “Now things are better than ever,” Scott said. And then, “You’re not going to have children, are you?”

  “I’m gonna have a vasectomy.”

  “Really? Well, it’s not too awful bad,” Scott said, rubbing his balding head. “You can’t drive home on your own, but a long weekend will see you through recovery. Except you have to wait awhile afterwards before you can use it.” Then he left for the loo.

  That’s when Tia, the hostess at the restaurant, came to my rescue. She arrested my descent into a minor depression, the kind that usually follows such a grave conversation, especi
ally after your buddy gets up for a piss and you’re left sitting alone in Inverness, Macbeth’s happy town, fiddling with your fork or napkin or whatever.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  She was the most gorgeous creature I’d seen all day. Shoulder-length black hair, kinda ratty and witchy, huge dark eyes like Bambi blinking at that raging forest fire, a long graceful line down the length of her tight black trousers, and the most unexpectedly perfect chest. She spoke in a dark smoker’s voice, which, unbeknownst to me until then, kinda turned me on.

  “From?” I said, always at odds about how to answer that question. “I live in Texas, but I’m not a Texan. I grew up in Oregon. But I wasn’t born there.” Slow down, I thought, that’s enough.

  “Oregon,” she said. “That’s a beautiful place, isn’t it? And what are you doing here? Just traveling?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just a summer journey. I’m here with an old friend, and we’re seeing the country, climbing some mountains.”

  “How long are you here?”

  She spoke with an accent, not heavy, but certainly not Scottish. When Scott and I walked in the door earlier, she said, “Buona Sera,” which made me hope that she was Italian, because I had never really recovered from that Italian romance I’d had—her name was Daniela—while backpacking through Europe fifteen years earlier.

  “We’re here just for the night,” I said. “We’re heading to the Lake District to climb a mountain.”

  “That’s not long,” she said, “one night.”

  “So, if you had one night in Inverness, where would you spend it?” I asked.

  “In my bed,” she said.

  “What?”

  “In my bed,” she said again.

  But I still wasn’t convinced I’d heard her correctly, and I was a little startled, a little hopeful, a little weirdly surprised, so I nodded and said, “Aahhh.”

  Scott arrived at the table then, and she scooted away back to work. As we were settling the bill, she returned again, and this time slipped me a scrap of paper with her name and mobile phone number.