A weekend...

Bugs swarming from every direction, his hand swatting and waving at just air, trying to get his hand through as much of it as possible, the idea that the bugs being so small they won’t be able to move out of the way. Carpet-bombing in the world of insects. The stream in back of the cabin moving slow and lazily down it’s path, still bearing the scars and pockmarks from summers uncountable that kids had built dams to try to make a hole large enough to sit down in or maybe even swim. Sitting in his chair made by a local craftsman who chose to make furniture out of saplings and small twigs. The chair is surprisingly comfortable and inviting. “How often looks deceive.” he thinks to himself and lightly chuckles. The bugs have either learned their lesson or gone home, having had their fill or decided to cut their losses and head for the hills. The beer in his right hand is cold and sweating in the warm evening’s breeze while the cigarette slowly burns in his left. The air seems to hang suspended in time and space by strings attached to a puppeteer’s hands; someone whose only task was engineer perfection on earth. For a moment he thinks, “Maybe this is heaven.” Time seems to slow, he barely remembers being on the porch, made of stone all the way to the streams edge. The only thing that matters now is sucking this moment for all it’s worth. The rest of the world has ceased to exist. His new job and the new responsibility, the bills sitting unpaid on his desk, the relationships nagging at his thoughts, all into the ether. Into the gap between what matters now and what matters in the long run.
“Hey, you need a beer?” Brian asks, holding the screen door open.
“Nope, I’m still milking this one, thanks for asking though.”
The cigarette is nearing it’s end and even though he said he was fine, the beer is warm and almost not worth finishing at this point. Snapped back to reality but he doesn’t mind. He stands, stretching his travel weary arms and legs out and yawning at the same time. Breathing in hard he smells the bar-b-que chicken cooking on an open grill, the smell of moss and cold fresh water, and smoke exiting from a chimney somewhere. The smells mixing in his nose and in his mind, bringing back memories of his childhood, times before the stress of the world had been placed squarely on his shoulders.
“Hey, dinner’s on the table. I grabbed you another beer, that one looks pretty well worked over.”
“Yeah it’s about that time, thanks man.”
He stumbles up the short path to the cabin’s back door past the small porch with the old wicker love seat and small coffee table made out of what looks to be an old Indian drum. The screen door pulls open easily and slams surprisingly hard behind him as he walks inside. He steps up to the sink in the kitchen and washes his hands. Washing the smell of stale cigarettes off his hands, he smells the hand soap next to the sink. Vanilla and brown sugar. He always thought it was strange to take things that were mostly remembered for their taste and turning them into memorable scents. He turns the hot water off and dries his hands on a towel.
“Tyson, I made you a plate, it’s already out on the table.” Brittany says as she passes him, moving quickly out the back door. His eyes hardly had a chance to see her pass by. If she hadn’t said anything he wouldn’t have even known she had been there at all. He looks around the small kitchen trying to find anything that might have been forgotten in the rush out to the table. The kitchen floor had been redone since he had been here last, brick pattern linoleum covered what he remembered as a strange orange colored linoleum that seemed to be as old as time. Pushing the screen door open he takes in the full breadth of the back porch and patio. The loveseat and drum-shaped coffee table to his left, to his right a smaller portion of the deck that had been used for storage since he had been coming here and what he felt must have been a very, very long time. The wood porch beneath his feet bends and pops and creaks under his weight. There is a small path that slopes gently down to where a small dock had once hung over the stream. On either side of this path are patios that are elevated above the path that divides them.
He walks down the small cement sidewalk to the old metal table where Brian and Brittany are already sitting, waiting to begin eating until he gets there. The new beer has already begun to sweat onto the table, leaving a perfect ring of water on the dusty table. Sitting down at the table he picks up his fork and steak knife. The chicken looks perfect, like something you’d see in a cooking magazine you were bored enough to read while waiting for a plane at the airport newsstand.
“Well, quit staring and eat.” Brian teases
“I don’t know it looks a little too good. I don’t wanna ruin it, I might feel bad.”
Dinner doesn’t disappoint. Its every bit as good as it had looked. His stomach full, it’s time for another smoke. Fingering a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket he lifts it and briefly leaves it there while he searches through his pockets for his lighter. The air, which had been warm and inviting, is now crisp and rejuvenating. The cement beneath his feet still warm but getting colder and making him wonder if it’s time to put his shoes back on.
Earlier Brian had retrieved his fly pole from the truck and decided to try to catch something in the small stream. When Ruca, a Newfoundland mammoth of a dog, had decided to go for an excursion in the front yard, something off limits, Tyson had been given the pole. Removing his shoes and stepping into the cold water he began to flick the pole back and forth, releasing enough line to get the momentum required to cast to just the right spot, to put the fly exactly where it would make sense for a fish to be minding it’s own business. The rocks mossy and slippery beneath his feet, the water cold but not numbing. There doesn’t seem to be any fish to catch but that’s hardly the point. Fishing to him had never been about the catch; it had always been something to get lost in. To lose the madness in something that was all about rhythm and required every bit of concentration and focus you have available. There doesn’t seem to be any fish but in the cool of the evening, the briskness of the breeze and he last vestiges of sun peaking through the green quakie leaves, there’s not much to be disappointed with.
“Ruca! Get here!”
Silence.
“Ruca! Get here!” Brian says patiently, a hint of anger coming through.
Casting. He keeps casting until, snag. He’s caught something but it’s not a fish. Looking over his right shoulder he sees what he’s hung up on. A branch about 25 feet up in the air has his fly and about 2 feet of line wrapped firmly around it.
“Mother fucker. That’s a lost cause. That’s never coming down. Ever.”
Reeling to one side and then the other, jerking the pole in hopes that he’ll jiggle something free. This goes on for about 5 minutes. The tree, the fly, and the pole: nothing escaping the wrath of his verbal assault.
“Awwwwe godddamned mother fucking piece of shit. Could I have gotten that any further up in the tree?”
Pulling hard enough to make him think that either the line or the pole was about to snap he relents, wondering which would give first, his sanity, the pole or the line. Brian comes around the corner grinning wide and trying not to laugh.
“What’d you catch? Looks like a big’un.” He says mockingly.
“Sure is, we shoulda just set me free with this earlier, we would’ve been eating well for weeks.” Tyson says with a huge chunk of sarcasm attached.
Brian was always wearing sandals. Most people you think the opposite. When you see someone in sandals it’s usually the weekend or some sort of vacation. Tyson could count the days he’d seen Brian in normal shoes on both hands.
Hopping down into the river Brian snatches the pole away. Laughing he begins pulling the reel side to side. Pulling with more force than Tyson had dared.
“This way, if something does break or I lose the fly, I can’t be mad at anyone but myself.”
“Yeah, that sounds fine to me.” Tyson says although he still felt guilty for getting the line stuck in the first place.
After a good solid 10 minutes of wrangling, the line finally snaps. The fly still lodged somewhere inside the tree branch.
“Whelp, that’s the last of that.” Brian says, trying to assess how much line he’s lost and probably wondering which fly he had on there and how much he had actually just lost.
Tyson had already started heading back towards the rocky bank of the creek, stepping lightly, trying to avoid the sharp edges of rocks that hadn’t been at the bottom of the creek long enough to be worn round by the passing water. Reaching his destination he realizes that he’s gotten the bottom of his shorts wet, something he was desperately trying to avoid. The air had gotten much colder and even crisper. He pauses momentarily trying to think about what he had packed and where his jacket was. Realizing he had left it in his car, which was a good 600 miles away, at home tucked safely away in his garage he quickly forgets the idea and decides to just tough it out. It was just barely cold enough to need one anyway.
Sleep came easy that night. Dreams filling his mind with better times and ideas and feelings never brought to fruition.
Waking the next morning, the cold of the night before still fresh on his skin, he rose to the smell of fresh coffee and feet moving across the wood and linoleum flooring. Sitting upright in bed he waits for the haziness of sleep to fade and clarity of mind to take hold. Rubbing his eyes and curling his toes he sits, trying to possess the carelessness and happy-go-lucky feeling that filled him. No work, no stress, nothing in this moment to cause him any grief. Standing he walks to the mirror hanging in his room above a dresser he looks in the mirror.
Scruffy. This is the first word to come to mind.
He hadn’t shaved for at least four or five days, the hair on his head standing on end in every direction. He had decided not to wear a shirt to bed the night previous so the marks from his hand being tucked underneath his chest while he slept on his stomach were still bright red and clear enough to see from a distance without his contacts in. Leaning over he finds his contact case and puts them in one by one. The scene is even worse than he had originally thought now that he could see clearly. For someone who normally based his entire self-image and confidence on his image and appearance, this didn’t bother him in the slightest. He wasn’t here to look good; he wasn’t here to care about how he looked. This trip had been about rest, relaxation, and the time he’d spend with his friends that he’d had since he was young.
Friends he’d watched grow from young highschoolers who dyed their hair black and based their entire existence on punk rock to mature adults. Working more than full time jobs, buying new cars and houses, living and loving each other. With life being so damn busy all the time he’d seen less and less of them. It was the natural order of things he’d told himself. How many people are still friends with people they knew in high school? Not many, of that he could be sure.
Throwing on his t-shirt from the night before and a pair of basketball shorts he walked into the living room. Normally he could count on someone being there to greet him, even if it was just the dog. Not a soul in sight. He still smelled the coffee, a sign he hadn’t been abandoned and left at the cabin for sleeping too long. Walking through the living room he makes his way to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was just enough coffee for one more cup. Next to the fridge was an old cupboard with glass doors that held all the plates and cups. Opening the door and looking through all the coffee cups, he tries to find the one that would best express the way he was feeling that morning. It’s a funny way to express yourself but sometimes a coffee cup can say a lot. Finding the mug that had a fish painted on the side whose tail continued out and formed the handle, he pulls it out and fills it with fresh black as night coffee.
“Lots of cream, lots of sugar.” He says aloud, to whom he’s not entirely sure.
When you spend as much time alone as he had become accustomed to you learn to entertain yourself. Quoting movies that you know you’ll recognize because you’re the one saying the line is surefire way of getting a chuckle.
Pouring some french vanilla creamer into his coffee he closes the cap and places the bottle back inside the fridge. He faintly hears Brian talking, of what he can’t hear well enough to guess. Opening the screen door to the back porch just enough to stick his head out.
“Morning, sunshine.” Brian quips.
“Gooood morning to you sir, and you as well madam.”
“Mornin’.”
Pulling a cigarette from his shorts and thumbing his lighter he lights the morning’s first smoke. There’s something holy about that first one, an admission of a coming day. Giving yourself time to process the day ahead of you and what could happen and what you’ll be doing.
“Well how did you guys sleep last night?” Tyson says, taking a drag from his smoke and exhaling while taking a sip of the coffee that was still extremely hot.
“Good, and how about yourself?” Britt asks.
“Pretty well, had some crazy dreams. The ones where you wake up and find yourself relieved that it was only a dream. I have way too many of those ones, but I guess it makes me more happy to be waking up.” Tyson explains.
“Ha. I know allllll about those.”
“So what’s on the menu for today?”
“I think there’s a pancake breakfast because of Labor Day we could hit up if you’re interested.” Brian says.
“Yeah, I’m down. Whatever’s clever. I’m gonna go take a shower and get ready.”
He heads into the house after finishing his smoke. In the bathroom he takes another look at himself in the mirror. The scene not much better than before but at least his eyes were open all the way. Turning he drops his shorts and boxer briefs in one foul swoop and removes his shirt. Walking to the shower he opens the small glass door and pulls the knob out. At first just cold water, then warm and warmer until it was just a tad too hot. Turning the knob slightly until the water is just the right temperature he realizes that this will be his first hot shower in over a month. About a month ago the water in the apartment he was renting with his roommate’s gas had been shut off which meant no more hot water. At first the cold showers had been refreshing as it was just too hot outside still to take hot showers anyway. When the temperature outside had begun to drop, being that it was the end of August, he craved nothing more than a hot shower. A giddy feeling now filled him. Hot water.
It never occurred to him how strange it was that he would be so thankful and excited for something so simple as a hot shower. Stepping into the small shower that was all one big, molded piece of plastic framed by 2x4s that had likely been there since the cabin was built in 1914, he feels the warmth of the water covers his body. He doesn’t have he space to move around and slowly get used to the water. The shower is only about two feet wide and the same length across. He washes quickly and pushes the shower’s knob in. He steps out of the shower onto the mat on the floor. Drying himself with a towel he quickly pulls on a pair of black briefs and an undershirt.
The plan that night was to go out. It was the first time all of them had been out of town together since Brittany had turned 21 two months previous. Whiskey Jacques was the name of the local bar that seemed like the place to be on Saturday night. He found his favorite pair of Diesel jeans and a pair of dark socks from his backpack and pulls them on. The shirt was going to be the hardest part. First he pulls on his favorite green t-shirt that was admittedly overpriced but it gave him confidence. Finding that the shirt made his belly seem bigger that option was out. Next he put his blue and yellow flannel button up that he had brought because he thought it would be funny to wear a flannel to a country bar. The next option was just a simple v-neck. This would end up making the cut.
“You two ready?”
“Ready when you are.” –Brian
“Let’s head out then.”
Luckily the way that Ketchum is laid out, the bar is only a 10-minute walk away. The idea is not only appealing because of how close it is but because there’s no chance of making the wrong choice and deciding to drive home drunk.
“Alright Ruca, you’ve gotta stay here. You have to be a good boy.” Brian says in a childish voice to the dog.
Leaving the dog inside the house the trio set out to the bar. Having never been to a bar like this they have no idea what to expect. All having different ideas of what they want and what they’re expecting to find there. Walking through the streets Tyson lights a smoke, trying to get it out of his system so he could enjoy a drink with his friends before having to excuse himself to do it then.
“So how stoked are you guys? What if it’s just a redneck bar? Country bar I can deal with, hell, I could even have a good time,” Tyson says, “if this place is just packed with rednecks, I’m gonna be pretty upset.”
“Nah man, it’s supposed to be pretty rad. It’s in all the ski mags as a place to go when you’re in town. I think it’ll be a good time.” Brian says.
They get to the bar and walk inside; right away he notices that it’s a non-smoking establishment. He wonders if this is just because the owners want it this way or if it’s something forced on them by a city ordinance. They show their IDs to the doorman and pay the five-dollar cover charge to get inside. The doorman isn’t overly friendly and gives the impression that he’s been doing this for quite some time. They each get a stamp on their hands and walk up the couple stairs and find a table not too far from the bar. There’s music playing through thru the bars system but it doesn’t feel like something that would be played here.
“Hey, what are you drinking? I got the first round.” Brian asks.
“ Rum and coke. You sure?”
“ Yeah it’s totally fine. You’ve got next though. Alright, I’ll be right back.”
Brian comes back in a few minutes with the drinks and sits down at the table.
Over the next fifteen minutes or so most of what they’re doing is watching the local girls come in the entrance. He’s surprised by some of these girls. Tonight could get very interesting he thinks to himself.
It’s been about 25 minutes by now and his rum and coke is now just melting ice.
“Alright, second round coming up. You guys just want more Jack and cokes?”
“I’ll have a Maker’s Mark on he rocks actually.” Brian says
The club had begun to fill up at this point and a live band had taken the stage. Reading lips was about as clear as it got now.
“What?”
“Makers Mark, rocks!” Brian shouts next to Tyson’s ear.
“What about you?” Tyson asks, pointing at Brittany.
Leaning over the table to try to make this whole process easier, “Ask them if they’ll do a Salty Dog.”
“Is that real or are you just trying to make me look like an idiot?” Tyson shouts back.
“Ha. It’s real. If they won’t do it just grab me another Jack and coke.”
Walking up to the bar he’s already sizing things up, trying to get an idea of the size of this place and the people who are filling it tonight. It’s about 10:30 now and it’s starting to fill up. There’s people on the dance floor, spinning away to the live band that’s playing covers of musicians like Steve Earl, Sublime, and even some Johnny Cash. What surprises him is the diversity of the bar’s patrons. Like the bands that are being covered the locals seem to be just as diverse. Hipsters there with their fake, thick rimmed prescription glasses, sports fans there to watch their college football team on the numerous TV screens all over the place, country music fans in their tight wrangler blue jeans, button ups with leather vests and overly pointy cowboy boots. Finally making his way through the people standing next to the bar he waits to get the attention from one of the two bartenders.
“What’ll it be?” one of them asks after a few minutes.
Relaying the order, he watches as the drinks are made trying to see if the pours are metered like back home where the separation of church and state is almost non-existent. No meters, the best of which is Brian’s Makers Mark. It’s a glass full of ice, which surprises him at first because most of the time when you order a whiskey on the rocks it’s just a few cubes, next the bartender pulls the bottle and pours for a solid four seconds. Filling the small rocks glass almost to the rim. Now he waits for the price. Back in Utah that drink would have had to be poured over at least three or four doubles.
“That’ll be 15 bucks.”
“Here you go man.” Tyson says as he hands the bartender his credit card.
“You just want to leave this open?”
This had always been Tyson’s weakness. An open tab meant that he could get drinks whenever he saw fit, which was usually too many, without ever having to hand anything over except on the first order.
“Yeah. Just hang onto my card.”
Picking up the three rocks glasses he heads back to the table. Maneuvering with all the concentration he can muster he weaves his way through the people still waiting to get a drink. He spots some girls that must have gotten while he was waiting. Surprisingly, they seemed to be looking just as much at him as he was at them. He reveled in the thought of going up to them and maybe introducing himself. As he walked by he thought about the missed opportunity or the bullet he may have just dodged. This was the bane of his existence. Never knowing if he had just missed the chance of a lifetime or possibly preserved the little sanity he had left.
Returning to the table he sets the drinks down on the aged and worn wood that looked like it had been the side of a local barn for 100 years before someone decided to make a table out of it.
“Holy shit. Is that mine?” Brian asks with his eyes wide.