The '49 Indian

by Craig Moody

  I looked away as my brain began to take in the site of her nipples and pubic hair.

  “What about you, Dustin?” he questioned, his eyes awaiting mine. “You have a girl?”

  I nearly choked. I didn’t know how to respond. The sudden personal question not only caught me off guard but also alarmed my nerves and stoked my discomfort. The mixture of the naked female and Gauge’s pressing gaze was both cringeworthy and intimidating.

  “Hey, man,” he continued after I failed to respond. “It’s cool. There is plenty of time to make it with the ladies.”

  He closed the Playboy, tossing it to the floor before scooping up the others and dropping them to the same fate. Carefully, he closed the photo album, the tender care he displayed revealing the importance of the leather-bound book over that of the endless stack of magazines.

  “Do you have a girl?” I managed to ask, my voice surprisingly calm and firm.

  He looked up at me, a slight pause before a smile broke across his lips.

  “I did,” he answered, his eyes drifting to the corner of the room. “Her name was Rebecca. Cute girl, man. I really dug her. She broke up with me when I told her I was moving. She said she couldn’t deal with the long-distance thing.”

  “Where did you move from?” I asked, an unfamiliar tinge icing over my words, a knife-like prick dancing across my gut as he spoke of the girl.

  “Milwaukee,” he replied, a slight laughter accenting his words. “Place is cold and boring as shit, man. Aunt Mert got a good transfer here, so we headed down.”

  Again, his words drifted into his silent thoughts.

  “I came along. With Pop gone, there really wasn’t much for me to do up there.”

  He let out a breathy chuckle.

  “Well, besides Rebecca of course.”

  He burst into laughter, his hair grazing the tops of his eyebrows like feathers from a raven’s wing.

  I sat in silence before forcing a returned laugh, reeling from the flashing images of Gauge and some girl that my imagination forced across the vision of my mind.

  “Down here, man,” he continued, his voice calming from his laughter, “the girls are beautiful. I love hanging out at the beach just to check out all the women in bikinis.”

  He waited for my eyes to reconnect with his.

  “Jerking material for days, you know what I

  mean?”

  I humored him with a returned laugh as I followed my sinking heart as it came to terms with the reality that Gauge was attracted to the opposite sex. A bitter chill clouded over my one-sided fantasies like an unexpected blizzard rolling across the Canadian countryside. I began to plan my excuse to leave, when Gauge grabbed my arm.

  “Come on,” he said with excitement, pulling me from the bed and into the darkened hallway.

  I followed blindly, the gentle security of his hand around my wrist my only guiding point.

  Within seconds, we were back in the garage, the unmistakable thickness of heat and humidity absorbing our bodies like an invisible quicksand.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting as Gauge shuffled through the massive array of cardboard boxes. I located a stack of yellowed newspapers to sit on as I waited for him to find whatever it was he was searching for.

  “Here we go,” he announced as he pulled a pile of books and papers from one of the endless boxes. “I was scared for a minute that maybe these didn’t make it down here with us.”

  He moved toward me, crouching down to match my seated height.

  “I’ve got the entire thing mapped,” he said, opening a disheveled notebook, pamphlets and map clippings spilling from its pages and onto my lap.

  “What is all of this?” I asked, allowing my fingers to shuffle through the overflow as it continued to fall across my legs.

  “You said you wanted to be an actor, right?”

  Gauge asked, our eyes meeting.

  “Yeah,” I replied cautiously, unsure as to where he was going with this. I was accustomed to my mother mocking me whenever the topic of my dreams to become an actor arose. To her, such ambitions were merely far-fetched delusions that distracted me from a more realistic and tangible career path. I suddenly regretted even mentioning the topic to Gauge.

  “Well, if you wanna be a movie star, you gotta go to Hollywood, right?”

  He moved his hands to reveal a worn and tattered map of the United States. Streaked across it, like a wild vine stretching the side of an old church wall, was a blood-red marker stripe that highlighted the highways and interstates that would lead to the west coast from the east.

  “This is my second edition,” Gauge continued, carefully managing the fragile paper in his hands. “The original was from Milwaukee to LA, but I started over when I knew I was gonna be heading down here.”

  He lifted his gaze to mine.

  “I’ve always dreamed of going to the West Coast.”

  He flipped through the notebook, locating several brochures on California.

  “See,” he declared, as though he needed to provide evidence for his statement.

  “Like you, I’ve always wanted to swim in the Pacific.”

  He shuffled the pages of the brochure until he came to a full-page photograph of several surfers riding the crest of a mammoth wave.

  “I mean, the Atlantic is beautiful and all, but dude, you can’t do this down here.”

  His eyes sparkled with pure enthusiasm as he moved his fingers over the image. I could tell that in his mind, he was there, the power of the water surging beneath him, the blast of the California sun heating his pores with a crisp dryness that lacked the suffocating humidity that plagued the Florida air. I felt myself begin to crack a smile as I took in his excitement. His passion was palpable, his childlike dreaminess inspiring and addictive.

  “We should road-trip out there,” he said, his eyes still scanning the photograph. “Think about that ride, man. Crossing the country. We’d see everything.”

  My heart fluttered as I listened to him include me in his plans. The feeling of disappointment regarding the reality of our connection began to fade as I realized I would rather continue pursuing a genuine friendship with this kindhearted man than impose any sort of imagined or fantasy-driven illusion. Despite any uncontrolled, deep-rooted fantasies and desires I held for Gauge, my wish to just remain near him, at whatever capacity, was enough to sustain me.

  “Then when we got there we could check out some auditions for you to do or something.”

  I could only stare at him, shocked and amazed at not only his interest in me and my dreams, but also his belief and support in them. I had never experienced anything like this before.

  “Would you like that?”

  Again, I could only stare, several seconds passing before I could forcefully muster a verbal response.

  “Yeah, sure,” I warbled, my voice awkward and uncertain. “I think that would be great.”

  “Cool,” Gauge smiled, closing the notebook over the sea of spilled contents. “Maybe after I save up some dough we could try and head out there.”

  I nodded.

  “Yeah,” my voice cracking over my

  confusion. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  Here was a person I had only known a matter of days, yet he not only encouraged my lofty goals and ambitions, but he also offered to be a part of them, assisting me across the country after just one rambling conversation while crouched naked in a lake.

  “Let’s do it then,” he declared while standing to his feet. “I’m gonna keep these out so that we stay aware of the plan.”

  I met his eyes, the gleam of California dreams still turning inside his pupils like the moon’s steadfast rotation around the Earth.

  “Come on,” Gauge motioned with his arm.

  “Let’s go see what Aunt Mert baked up.”

  I followed him, again allowing my feet to simply move in the direction of his voice.

  I listened as Gauge continued a laugh-heavy, one-sided conversation about the colorful
characters he knew in Milwaukee. In the shadows of the dark house, I smiled, content to be alongside this man, wading in the warm pool of his words as calm and peaceful as a swan gliding over a summer pond. In the distance, the inviting aroma of his aunt’s freshly baked delights beckoned us toward the kitchen like two worker bees obeying the pheromone release of the queen.

  I spent the next two hours fully immersed and engaged with my new neighbors, absorbing their stories and laughter like the cracked, barren desert floor after the first rainstorm of a three-year drought. Time slipped by without notice, the comfort and joy of the shared company filling the space around us as warm and inviting as the appetizing smell of Aunt Mert’s baking.

  The house was still and quiet when I finally returned home. I was surprised that my mother was not around someplace waiting for me. I glided up the stairs and slipped into my bed unnoticed. A smile stretched across my face as I faded into the darkness, my heart beating softly, my mind calm and at ease.

  ***

  I spent every day with Gauge. The remainder of the summer consisted of return trips to the lake; long, lazy days at Hollywood Beach; or even countless hours spent at our houses, playing cards, watching movies, or just talking in the backyard.

  My mother was suspicious of Gauge. I could tell by the way she looked at him. She was polite enough, but her demeanor and cautious line of questioning each time he was around was enough for me to realize her uncertainty about him. Gauge was always respectful and kind to her, so I was never quite sure what caused her subtle, but obvious to me, disdain. It was as if she knew something about him but wasn’t quite sure how to explain it. If she could, she most certainly would have said something to me by now.

  I didn’t care, though. I was happy just being with Gauge. It didn’t matter what we did or where we went. As long as we were together, I was content. The days rolled past us like train cars on an endless track, the miles yet to travel blurred and faded by the heated wave of distance.

  Our daily routine became so consistent that I could practically predict the next day’s events without even suggesting or questioning a thing.

  We would meet sometime in the early afternoon and partake in whatever activity far into the night. This had become so methodical and expected that my mother would no longer ask who I was with or where I was going. Though she was not fully approving of my company, she allowed me the freedom, and only harped on me for neglecting chores or leaving dirty clothes on the bathroom floor.

  Then, one day in late August, everything changed.

  The day began like any other, the summer sun scorching the Florida sky like a flame dancing over a pool of gasoline. The stale summer air sat heavy over the humid landscape like a giant, sticky, thick Jell-O mold. The sound of the blue jays and black grackles echoed over the treetops like a summer song. The droning buzz of the nearby powerlines sizzled over the rooftops, replacing the distant sound of the voices of children, who had recently returned to school.

  I met Gauge in front of Aunt Mert’s garage.

  With a giant smile locked across his handsome face, he motioned for me to follow him, putting a finger to his lips to signal my silence. Obeying his lead, I shuffled behind him toward the back of the house, Aunt Mert’s giant orange trees commanding their presence with an overflow of oranges, both ripe and rotten. The smell of the citrus fruit seared my nostrils, the sharp, pungent aroma invading every centimeter of my sinus cavity.

  I stood in place as Gauge crept into the corner near the shed. Removing a debris pile that consisted of rusted tools and yellowed newspapers, he retrieved a large, clear bottle filled to the brim with some sort of brown liquid. With the excited smile still emblazoned across his lips, he bounced back to me, tucking his secret treasure in his arm as if to conceal its obvious identity.

  “Jack fucking Daniel’s,” he announced excitedly as he lifted the bottle near my face. “A brand-new bottle, my friend.”

  One would have thought Gauge had stumbled upon the Holy Grail by the amount of excitement in his voice. Aside from when he spoke of riding the Indian to the West Coast, I had yet to witness Gauge so stimulated. It was as if locating the bottle of Jack had earned him some unseen fortune. I certainly was not as impressed by the unexpected discovery of the liquor as he was.

  “Let’s get fucked up!” he declared to the entire backyard.

  “Gauge, wait. I don’t think it’s a good idea to—”

  Gauge stuck the now open bottle rim to my lips, lifting it high so that the warm contents would slip into my mouth. A stinging rush of alcohol washed over my tongue and down my throat. I began to choke and gasp for air as the whiskey singed its way down my trachea and into my stomach.

  “Aw, come on now, man. Don’t pussy out on me. I know this ain’t your first time taking a swig of ol’ Jack!”

  Hot tears began to stream down my cheeks as I struggled to catch my breath. A twisting vine of laughter and anger began to rise within my core as I slowly regained my composure.

  “You asshole!” I yelled, punching him in the chest. “That shit burned like hell!”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I watched Gauge’s face pinch into a fit of laughter, his joyous, deep voice booming around me like thunder over the open sea. Any tinge of anger I felt quickly faded into the fog of my infatuation. As much as I had been resisting, I had fallen in love with Gauge, my heart willing and open, yet fully aware of the one-sided desire.

  “Man, I wish you could have seen your face,” he continued, his words broken by his steady laughter. “You woulda thought I shoved battery acid down your hatch.”

  I laughed with him, the forgiveness brought on by love quick and instant, yet strong and definite.

  “Come on,” he said, nodding his head toward the back side of the shed.

  I followed him to the pile of cinderblocks that aligned the rusted aluminum wall, and sat beside him. I watched in amusement as he began to chug the whiskey.

  “Where did you even find this?” I asked, suddenly concerned that he was downing a substance that had perhaps been lying dormant in the yard for who knows how long.

  “It was my pop’s” he answered, keeping his eyes trained on the weed-covered chain link fence that stood just feet before us. “I found it in one of the boxes of his things.”

  We sat in silence as he continued to drink. The innocent partaking of something forbidden had suddenly become a somber yet spiritual experience. It was as if consuming the bottle of Jack Daniel’s was somehow connecting Gauge to his deceased father. I no longer felt the need to stop him. I simply remained still and observed as he continued with haste.

  “Here,” he said several minutes later, slowly moving the now half-empty bottle toward me.

  Not wanting to disappoint him, I accepted the large glass container and lifted it to my lips. Filling my mouth with another giant gulp, I held my breath as the burning liquid permeated my upper body like a poison. As much as I dreaded the awful taste of its contents, the chance to share the bottle’s rim provided me the opportunity to exchange saliva with Gauge. It was the closest I would ever get to kissing him. Or so I thought.

  Just as I was lowering the cylindrical neck from my whiskey-soaked mouth, Gauge knocked the heavy canister from my hand, the sound of the remaining liquid as it glugged across the soft dirt proceeding that of the muffled thud of the bottle.

  I lost all sense of time and space as Gauge pressed his wet lips onto mine. I didn’t move, I didn’t breathe, I wasn’t even sure if my heart was still beating. I merely remained still, the overwhelming scent of Jack Daniel’s consuming the shared air between us.

  His face was shaking, his body trembling. I wrapped my arms around him, choking back a sudden sob as he lifted both hands to cup my face. I opened my eyes to see the reflection of my expression staring back at me in the darkness of his gentle gaze, my brimming tears evident even in the shadowed closeness of our faces. I watched as my reflection fell from the black hole of his eyes and down the pinkness of his cheeks. The s
ob escaped me as he again pressed his lips to mine, our skin so close that the water of our eyes began to mingle like the confluence of two rivers.

  In the distance, a lawn mower fired to life and a dog barked at the sound. Reality found us, and a space fell between our lips. I could only stare at Gauge, too amazed and shocked to move or speak. I watched as he wiped the liquor and saliva from his mouth and stood in place. Brushing some dirt from his jeans, he moved to the chain- link fence and leaned against it, his face turned to the neighboring yard.

  I stood and moved to stand beside him, when he stopped me.

  “Go home, Dustin,” he said softly, keeping his face straight ahead.

  I thought to speak, but no words found me. I nodded, knowing full well that Gauge could not see me, and turned to leave. All of me wanted him to stop me as I crossed the distance between the shed and the side of the house. I didn’t turn back or even glance over my shoulder. I simply kept moving forward, a knot around my heart that wrapped tighter with each step.

  A flood of tears greeted me as I rounded the side of Aunt Mert’s house and bounded across her lawn toward home. Once inside, I paused at the front door, attempting to regain my emotional composure. Slowly, I ascended the stairs and turned the corner toward my bedroom. It was then that I nearly collided with my mother.

  “What’s the matter?” she queried, squinting her eyes in the dim hallway light. “Have you been crying?”

  “No,” I replied without hesitation. “Someone is cutting their lawn and the dust has my allergies all flared up.”

  She continued to stare at me, her eyes twinkling with the certainty of disbelief.

  “You need to clean your room,” she finally spoke, her face still transparent with her knowledge of the truth. “And I mean all of it.

  Vacuuming, dusting. Don’t just throw stuff under the bed and think I won’t see it.”

  I rolled my eyes as I passed her.

  “And don’t roll your eyes at me, young man.

  I will not be disrespected.”