Clouds Like Schooners
Sitting atop the windswept, rusty brown mesa in the early evening coolness, he pushed up the brim of his battered hat with the tip of a dirty index finger, leaned back on strong freckled arms and began to count the clouds. They were smaller today, each flat-bottomed with three fluffy white sails like the 19th century scow schooner he’d seen at Hyde Street Pier, swept by the almighty wind in all directions across the clear blue firmament like the sailboats on San Francisco Bay. The Honor Society trip six weeks prior was the first time he’d seen the ocean and he posted a million pictures and strained to breathe as much of the salt air as he could from San Diego to Neah Bay feeling alive and ornery like the loggers and prospectors and troublemakers he’d learned about on the Underground Tour in Seattle. Returning home he immediately missed the Pacific but realized for the first time how much he loved the big, broad, clear blue sky of his family’s Eastern Washington farm, a sky that curved around and arched over and stretched from one end of the earth to the other.
The dusty, scratched iPhone 3G in the left back pocket of his Carhartts vibrated, letting him know it was time to get moving: no cell coverage for a half mile in any direction but he’d never worn a watch in his life. He got up, brushed the dirt from his backside, picked up his 30-30, removed the handkerchief tied over the muzzle and shoved it into a pocket, triple-checked the safety and started down the trail, his boots magically kicking up little dirt devils like the almighty wind does in the plowed fields between Washtucna and Othello. Ten minutes off the mesa and then fifteen minutes down the trail running along an old split-rail barbed wire fence brought you to an ancient root cellar dug into the side of a hill and a roughly square brown patch of ground that his dad said used to be a cabin. The bottom of the red sun had just kissed the horizon when he came around a bend and saw her standing there, just like his parents’ old Beatles song. She was toeing the earth, her .243 in her right hand, a camo baseball cap turned backwards on a head full of red: she didn’t look up until he stopped a couple feet away and toed the earth himself. She offered a small smile and looked him straight in the eyes as if searching for something. Not sure if she’d found it or not, she lifted her cap off and shook out her hair a bit, not too much, checked the safety on her rifle and gently laid it on a clear patch of ground, muzzle nestled in her overturned cap. Pulling his handkerchief out of its pocket, he mirrored her maneuver, toed the earth again, looked up, offered a small smile and said “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I didn’t know if you’d show.”
The hint of smile on her face disappeared faster than a flushed quail. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“Yeah, you’re right. My bad.”
She nodded. “S’alright. I got some of that coming I suppose.”
“I’m…glad. I mean I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
Knowing better, he pushed again: “What changed?”
She nodded, looked down, looked at the sun slowly slipping behind the distant Cascades and said “Your brother.” He stiffened a bit and she hurried: “Last week was the first time I’d seen him since he came home.”
“OK. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How’s he doing?”
He regurgitated the paragraph like he’d done a hundred times before: “He’s doing good. Drives the hour to the VA twice a week. Gets his meds, talks to the doc. Spends an hour or two visiting those worse off than him. Works hard on the farm seven days a week. He’s doing good.”
She nodded several times quickly and thrust hands in her back pockets. “Has he said anything about it over there?”
“Hey, look. Maybe this wasn’t such a good…”
“Please.”
“The only thing he’s told me is that they would pile into vehicles every day and drive around until the bad guys either shot at them or tried to blow them up. Then they’d try to kill as many as they could without hurting civilians, most of whom were probably helping the bad guys. He was shot once and was hit by an IED three times during his tour. I try to imagine what it was like. I read all the books. I watch the videos on YouTube. I can’t understand. So I’m sorry. What does that have to do with…this?” The sun was nearly down. The eastern sky was gun barrel blue. The western sky was on fire.
“My priorities were upside down. I was acting like an idiotic high school chick and that affected how I reacted to you on the trip. I knew it all along but I was able to ignore it until I saw your brother. Everything I was into was fake. Life is real. Death is real. I’m 18. Time to grow up and be real. No more BS. You. You’re real and I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He leaned in and kissed her hard, too awkwardly and pulled away before his south-searching hands could reach her ass. He’d never been cool a day in his life and he almost had to bend over to catch his breath.
She smiled: “Like I said, you’re real.”
He took his hat off and wiped the sweat up and over his closely cropped hair. “You don’t have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that. Well, not exactly that. It was always a lot more smooth when I imagined it.”
She laughed a sweet laugh and looked at him. “You got a headlamp? Forgot mine.”
“Huh? Oh yeah. Here we go.” He replaced his hat, lit the lamp and put it on. “Walk you home?”
“Sure. Only cause you got the light, though.”
Copyright 2014 by Robert R. Mitchell
The dusty, scratched iPhone 3G in the left back pocket of his Carhartts vibrated, letting him know it was time to get moving: no cell coverage for a half mile in any direction but he’d never worn a watch in his life. He got up, brushed the dirt from his backside, picked up his 30-30, removed the handkerchief tied over the muzzle and shoved it into a pocket, triple-checked the safety and started down the trail, his boots magically kicking up little dirt devils like the almighty wind does in the plowed fields between Washtucna and Othello. Ten minutes off the mesa and then fifteen minutes down the trail running along an old split-rail barbed wire fence brought you to an ancient root cellar dug into the side of a hill and a roughly square brown patch of ground that his dad said used to be a cabin. The bottom of the red sun had just kissed the horizon when he came around a bend and saw her standing there, just like his parents’ old Beatles song. She was toeing the earth, her .243 in her right hand, a camo baseball cap turned backwards on a head full of red: she didn’t look up until he stopped a couple feet away and toed the earth himself. She offered a small smile and looked him straight in the eyes as if searching for something. Not sure if she’d found it or not, she lifted her cap off and shook out her hair a bit, not too much, checked the safety on her rifle and gently laid it on a clear patch of ground, muzzle nestled in her overturned cap. Pulling his handkerchief out of its pocket, he mirrored her maneuver, toed the earth again, looked up, offered a small smile and said “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“I didn’t know if you’d show.”
The hint of smile on her face disappeared faster than a flushed quail. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“Yeah, you’re right. My bad.”
She nodded. “S’alright. I got some of that coming I suppose.”
“I’m…glad. I mean I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
Knowing better, he pushed again: “What changed?”
She nodded, looked down, looked at the sun slowly slipping behind the distant Cascades and said “Your brother.” He stiffened a bit and she hurried: “Last week was the first time I’d seen him since he came home.”
“OK. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How’s he doing?”
He regurgitated the paragraph like he’d done a hundred times before: “He’s doing good. Drives the hour to the VA twice a week. Gets his meds, talks to the doc. Spends an hour or two visiting those worse off than him. Works hard on the farm seven days a week. He’s doing good.”
She nodded several times quickly and thrust hands in her back pockets. “Has he said anything about it over there?”
“Hey, look. Maybe this wasn’t such a good…”
“Please.”
“The only thing he’s told me is that they would pile into vehicles every day and drive around until the bad guys either shot at them or tried to blow them up. Then they’d try to kill as many as they could without hurting civilians, most of whom were probably helping the bad guys. He was shot once and was hit by an IED three times during his tour. I try to imagine what it was like. I read all the books. I watch the videos on YouTube. I can’t understand. So I’m sorry. What does that have to do with…this?” The sun was nearly down. The eastern sky was gun barrel blue. The western sky was on fire.
“My priorities were upside down. I was acting like an idiotic high school chick and that affected how I reacted to you on the trip. I knew it all along but I was able to ignore it until I saw your brother. Everything I was into was fake. Life is real. Death is real. I’m 18. Time to grow up and be real. No more BS. You. You’re real and I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He leaned in and kissed her hard, too awkwardly and pulled away before his south-searching hands could reach her ass. He’d never been cool a day in his life and he almost had to bend over to catch his breath.
She smiled: “Like I said, you’re real.”
He took his hat off and wiped the sweat up and over his closely cropped hair. “You don’t have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do that. Well, not exactly that. It was always a lot more smooth when I imagined it.”
She laughed a sweet laugh and looked at him. “You got a headlamp? Forgot mine.”
“Huh? Oh yeah. Here we go.” He replaced his hat, lit the lamp and put it on. “Walk you home?”
“Sure. Only cause you got the light, though.”
Copyright 2014 by Robert R. Mitchell
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