by Rich Foster
Alan went down to the waters edge where reeds grew in the shallow area. He scooped up muck and smeared it on his arms. Instantly he felt relief though he did smell like a swamp, but soon he no longer noticed it. Gradually he covered most of his body in mud. As he moved around the woods he had the appearance of a wild native or some new undiscovered beast. As the mud dried and began to cake, it would itch, but a splashing of water and new application would remedy that.
Alan climbed as high as possible in a pine tree but he was in a basin and his range of vision was limited. All that was visible were the tops of trees, which ran in a solid blanket up the hillsides. He decided that he would hike up one side and then the other in an attempt to orient himself. He could always go back down river he thought but felt it was better to rest for a day or two where he had a supply of food.
The climb up the tree left him exhausted. He realized his body’s reserves were badly depleted. It was only mid-morning but he was ready for a nap. Just twenty minutes rest, he told himself and, lying down, he was soon fast asleep. When he woke up the sun was well past midday. The mud on his skin had dried into hard cake and as he moved it cracked and chipped off. He bathed in the water. When he put his clothes on they were still damp and cool against his skin. The constant nag of itching made him wish for calamine lotion, or an aloe plant. As he gathered firewood for the night he wished for an ax. While gathering food he longed for a grocery store. He found himself wishing for many things he had taken for granted.
The afternoon bore on quickly as he tended the duties of gathering food and fuel. He filled his rucksack with acorns. It fairly depleted the supply under the grove of oaks. Back at his camp he worked at mashing them with a rock, as he used his free hand to read Kubler-Ross’s book about the five stages of death.
Alan found himself talking to Ralphie as he had in his youth. Ralphie, who Alan could conger up at will, had at times been more real to Alan than the adults who had filled his childhood. It was to his imagined friend that he poured out his troubles. It was Ralphie that filled the void created by his brother’s death. In fact it was this projection of his ego that allowed him to survive the disasters and rejection that befell his family.
“Anger, denial, bargaining, depression, acceptance.” he read aloud.
“Where are we at?” asked Ralphie
“I guess, bargaining. I ran out of anger pretty quick. It didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere. And it’s pretty hard to be in denial when you’re about to be washed over a waterfall. Either way I’d do a lot of bargaining if I could right now. Breaking firewood up with your hands is no easy chore.”
“Who’d you bargain with anyway?”
“That’s the question Ralphie, my boy!” Alan said imitating W.C. Fields.
“How about God?” asked Ralphie.
“Well if there is a god, what makes you think he’s willing to bargain? Everyone runs around acting like they can somehow please God. But once you buy into the existence of a supreme being, by definition God is God. Therefore he or she can and will do whatever he, she or it, likes. He doesn’t have to be nice. He doesn’t have to listen! What if God is a mean nasty guy who likes to squash bugs and you happen to be one of them? What right do you have to argue? It seems to me that if there’s a god, he can throw my sorry butt into this wilderness and I have no right to challenge it.”
“He doesn’t sound so nice.”
People believe that with the right combination they can force God to their will. If they chant the right prayer, or follow the correct set of rules then God will have to magically give them what they want. And the Satanist’s aren’t any better. They believe the same tripe, that if you use the right incantation the Devil’s going to have to serve you.”
“But doesn’t God want us to do his will?”
“Ralphie, where are you, back in Sunday school? Just why would God need help from mankind enforcing his rules? Why do we have so many people who are quick to kill for their god? Why can’t God do his own killing? Anybody who starts telling me what God thinks has megalomania. It seems to me that if God is talking to someone, then everybody else should be hearing the same thing. If there is a God how could we possibly know what he thinks? Shoot! I couldn’t even understand calculus much less the universe. Did you ever read Steven Hawking’s book about the universe?”
“Naw, I never finished second grade.”
“Don’t feel bad, I never finished the book. But he writes how man can never know what’s outside of the universe or what came before the big bang. He speculates on the possibility that there could be more than one universe. Well any god would be outside that universe wouldn’t he? One night I dreamed that I was in a cheaply paneled office without windows and God was sitting behind the desk. He was just like the pictures, long gray hair and a beard and he was doing some sort of bookkeeping. On his desk were two terrariums, and they were joined at the bottom by a narrow tube, which was the big bang. I thought to myself, wow, there really are two universes! And God just sat there smiling and then he pointed at the one and said look in there. Inside of the terrarium I could see black interstellar space and bright blobs of light, which were swirling galaxies. It was like those pictures they take with the Hubble telescope. Anyway God pointed out this insignificant speck and said, “That’s where you’re from. That is the Milky Way.”
“Gee, what happened then?”
“I woke up. And my first thought was why didn’t I ask what was on the other side of the office wall!”
Alan pushed a stick into the fire and a stream of sparks cascaded upward on the smoke. He thought for a minute and then looked at Ralphie.
“On the other hand, it leaves us with two questions. One, if there is no god, then how come so many people are nice? If we’re just chance chemicals why shouldn’t we grab for what we want? Is morality just the fear that the rest of the bugs will gang up on you if you get out of line? And two, if there is nothing, why don’t more people kill themselves? Once you are dead you won’t be there to know if your life was good or not. It seems, philosophically, anyone who puts up with all the crap in life is silently affirming the belief there is something on the other side.
“So, there’s no one to bargain with?”
“I don’t know Ralphie. Perhaps there is someone, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t barter!”
Alan picked up his book and continued to read about the five stages of death. He looked up and in his minds eye he pictured Ralphie skipping stones on the water.
And, Ralphie reminded him of himself at that age. He thought about his brother. He thought about death.
“Are we going to die?” Ralphie asked.
Alan was silent for a minute.
“We might,” he said. “We might!”
“You don’t sound afraid.”
“I’m itchy, hungry and sore, it hardly seems to matter any more. Or perhaps I’ve skipped depression and moved right on into acceptance. We all wonder how our life will end. It’s strange to see what it might be.”
“Maybe this is a dream.”
“If it is buddy, then I’m ready to wake up,” and with a wave of his hand Alan dismissed Ralphie from his thoughts.
Some rest and food were rejuvenating Alan. He was well rested by the next morning. His diet of fish, miner’s lettuce and acorn mash was nourishing if short on flavor. The poison oak had spread to his face. His eyes were puffy. They wouldn’t fully open until he bathed them with water. He set off to hike up to the ridge and see if he could locate where he was. He laid out a course straight up the hillside. Fearful, lest become lost, he piled up rocks at regular intervals. He always had two piles visible behind him. It took about thirty minutes of hardscrabble climbing to reach the ridge but the woods were too deep to have any vista. He climbed a tree and soon was high enough to see mountain crests in the distance. He saw a cut in the hills and could see water cascading through a break in the trees. Certain he had located the river; he laid out the direction of it relative to where his camp was
. The water was probably two to three miles away. But as he turned to climb down he noticed white water in the opposite direction. It was in the distance, visible just above the ridge on the other side of the valley of his camp. He hadn’t realized how many streams there were in these mountains. He might be lost but at least he wouldn’t die of thirst.
He returned to camp, eager to amass a supply of food and head out after one more day of rest. It was tiresome trying to keep up with supplying heat, fuel and food for himself. It seemed two thirds of his food energy was spent gathering wood or more food.
In the late afternoon he took a break. He caught several more fish and smoked them over his fire. He tried to read his book. It took some careful effort to separate pages that had stuck together from being soaked in the river. He was grateful for something to help pass the time but after only a few pages his eyes were scratchy and not focusing well so he put it aside. He ate the fish and then still being hungry he tried a stiff white fungus he had snapped off a tree. He had read that they were edible. That might be true if one was desperate. He found them tough and chewy; with difficulty he swallowed a few bites. He had no idea of their food value, but at least it was filling and different.
During the night he roused up only enough to stoke the fire. His eyes were swollen and crusty with sleep. He was tempted to wash his face but sleep gained the upper hand and he drifted off again. When morning came he couldn’t open his eyes. The skin on his face was taught. His eyelids were glued shut. Feeling his face it felt almost flat across his cheeks and eyes and the skin was rough with poison oak rash. Alan groped around for his thermos. He put his hand on the ashy but hot coals, slightly burning his hand. Finally, his hand found the thermos. He poured some water out on his handkerchief and washed his eyes. Slowly he got them open but it little more than a slit. He made his way down to the water and filled the metal shell of the thermos with water. This he put among the coals to warm the water. When it was ready he bathed his eyes some more but he could still barely see.
The itching of the poison oak was still maddening. It was possible his legs were improving but this was based more on feeling than anything he could clearly see. It was hopeless to try and hike in this condition. He sat by his fire and the first niggling hints of depression whispered in his ear. Philosophy was fine and good when things were going well but what to do when doubt and frustration began to creep in and gnaw?
He filled his thermos with hot water before he lay down to sleep. By now he was like an old man with prostate problems who woke several times a night to use the bathroom, except Alan roused up to feed his fire and to bathe the accumulating crud off the edges of his eyes. As a result by morning his eyes were partially open, yet his cheeks were swollen and the skin remained puffed up and tight.
In the he thought he had developed an eye disorder but slowly the world came into focus. Clouds had settled on the landscape and fog shrouded the valley. Objects nearby were softened, and those not far away became dissolved in the gray. He shivered. His clothes were damp and the chill air had left his body stiff despite his fire. He stirred the coals, added a cluster sticks, and blew the flame into life.
It was apparent he wasn’t going anywhere this morning. His water was gone from bathing his eyes so he made his way down to the waters edge. It seemed hard to believe but in the short distance back from the water he lost his way. Where he thought the fire would be he came upon a dense clump of trees. Panic welled up in his chest. The disorientation of the fog was nerve wracking. Alan forced himself to relax and breathe deeply. He told himself he was behaving like a frightened child.
He turned slowly in a circle trying to identify where he was, but if anything the fog was thicker than when he woke up. It surprised him how on edge his nerves were. He told himself he couldn’t be more than a hundred feet from his camp yet he was too frightened to move. The thought of becoming lost from the small comforts he had acquired was overwhelming. He sat on the ground and hoped for the fog to lift. He saw a glimmer of yellow light, which faded to a soft glow in the fog. The light would build and fade. He found the air was clearest close to the ground. So, Alan crawled on hands and knees in the direction of the glow. Soon it resolved itself into flames flickering in his fire. He felt a swell of relief, which was far greater than the circumstances, warranted and realized that emotionally he was vulnerable.
The day crawled by in endless, sensory numbing gloom. The fog persisted. He had thought by mid-morning it would disappear. At midday the sky above was the same even gray. There was no shine of sunlight on the clouds above him. Occasionally it would thin to where he could see further. Using one opportunity he hurried over to his fish trap but was disappointed to find it empty. He scurried back, like a rat to its nest. On another occasion he sought to augment his dwindling woodpile. The fine mist from the fog had caused him to stoke the fire into a larger blaze than usual to drive back the fogs clammy hands, which tried to grasp him.
The fog was much the same as a sensory deprivation tank. Sounds were muted. His eyes would strain, but objects failed to focus. The fire would cast shadows of light on the fog around him. Completely isolated, it was a day given to fantastic imaginations. False hope would spring up, and unfounded fears would materialize. Someone would emerge from the fog, only to turn into a nearby tree. A hungry mountain lion ready to pounce was an odd shaped boulder. He was yo-yoed back and forth between expectation and fear. He hoped for rescue but feared the looming form of imagined rescuer. He heard the faint distant throb of a motor, and knew the highway to be nearby, until he realized he was listening to the beat of his own heart.
Looking for escape, he tried to read. The book only increased his sense of malaise and growing depression. Without the sun his spirits quickly failed. He found himself focusing on his feelings, feelings of helplessness and of being trapped. The fog became a personal hell from which there was no escape. He fought down the urge to hop up and run, to flee this gray purgatory. But he knew there was no way out. He could only cluster around the flames, which promised warmth and life.
A thought nibbled at the edge of his consciousness, as he huddled by the flames. It was a thought about life, and about being trapped. He felt tightness in his chest, a trembling in his body. Anxiety grew. With an effort he forced the thought down. There were places in the mind he didn’t wish to go. He wanted to avoid life and death. He avoided thinking of his brother, Eric. He tried to avoid existence itself. Given free rein his thoughts would run amuck and carry him off into the paralyzing world of anxiety attacks.
Alan turned to the mundane. He painted a mental picture of his house, of his office, of his wife. Once again the thought occurred to him that his life was a successful series of small failures. They had purchased the house with the expectation of rising affluence. It was a larger house than they needed and a bigger mortgage more than they could easily afford. Then in a burst of exuberance they had bought the cabin as an investment, instead the housing market had sagged. Overnight it seemed that a glut of homes fed a sated market. The low variable rate that was so attractive was now a millstone around their necks. The house was worth less than they had paid, and the bank wouldn’t refinance. He feared each increase in the payment.
The house had been furnished by credit. Simply sign and have it today. Alan had not really cared, but Lilly wanted their home to be a showpiece. The furniture was by Visa. The decorating was by Master Card. Dining out was via American Express. A credit line had landscaped the house. When they were late on a payment the interest rate had soared. They were reduced to making minimum payments. A lifetime of credit servitude loomed before him.
His work was not fulfilling. The aspirations he had in college were slowly compromised. Perhaps things might have been different if he had not dropped out of law school. He knew that what he did was meaningless, nothing more than a cog in the machine, moving papers from A to B. There was no glory, no sense of accomplishment. Forty years would earn him a Timex watch and a good-bye party. Two days later h
e would be forgotten. Voss hated his guts. Of this he had no doubt. He was a cog, which threatened to break. Voss wanted to replace him before it happened. Alan was a cipher in the spreadsheet of costs. Focus on profits not people; was the company’s unstated motto.
Lilly had given up a thriving career in leaving Denver. He wondered if she now resented him for it. Beaumont was too small and lacked sophistication. They should have seen that before they moved, but they were carried away by Beaumont’s beauty, lower house prices and that “small town feel” which is widely praised but in reality often disliked. Sure, he thought, there were those who wanted an interior designer, but most people in Beaumont were inclined to have “Interiors by Wal-Mart.”
For a while they were swept along by fixing up the house. They talked to contractors rather than to each other. They knew more about what color the other liked for the sunroom than they did about the others emotional health. Rather than cementing bricks in their relationship, they had settled for paving the landscape walks. Alan knew they seldom spoke of the past. After Lilly miscarried they spoke less and less of the future. As money troubles closed in they did not speak of the future at all. Lately, Alan realized, they had hardly spoken in the present. Perhaps his acceptance of Lilly’s silence was a mistake. He assumed that her self-containment was who she was. Certainly, he had stopped talking. What was there to talk of? The thoughts, which bedeviled his mind, seemed to be an annoying moth to Lilly. She would shrug as if to say “Whatever.”
I wonder if she misses me? Alan mused. It was hard to picture her missing him. She had used those words when he was away on a trip but they always rang false. To miss something a person must need it or certainly want it. Lilly never seemed to need someone. What she did need was assurance! Assurance that the sun would rise tomorrow, that Alan would be there, that life would be all right. Her longings ran more to props than to actors on the stage of life. Her life and career were fundamentally committed to creating stability in the world around her, whereas Alan lived in pathos, Lilly lived in predictability. Alan wondered how he had never seen this in her. He realized his wife was a woman of shallow desires. She thrived on stasis not change. The very serenity that he once found enamoring, he now considered to be intellectual indifference.
