A Project Presented to the Faculty of California State University, Chico

WATER SPOTS

______

A Project

Presented

to the Faculty of

California State University, Chico

______

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree

Master of Arts

English

______

Spring 2015 WATER SPOTS

A Project

Charles Bradford Walker

Spring 2015

APPROVED BY THE DEAN OF GRADUATE STUDIES AND VICE PROVOST FOR RESEARCH:

______Eun K. Park, Ph.D.

APPROVED BY THE GRADUATE ADVISORY COMMITTEE:

______Guy Q. King, Ph.D. Paul S. Eggers, Ph.D., Chair

______Guy Q. King, Ph.D. Robert G. Davidson, Ph.D. PUBLICATION RIGHTS

No portion of this project may be reprinted or reproduced in any manner unacceptable to the usual copyright restrictions without the written permission of the author.

iii DEDICATION

This project is dedicated to Jerry and Jan Walker.

iv ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This creative writing thesis project was made possible with the help, guidance, and friendship of many. I would first like to thank Professor Paul S. Eggers, my long time creative writing instructor and thesis Chair, for all of his patience, knowledge, and advice throughout this writing process. I would like to thank the English Department as a whole for the community of support and guidance they have offered me in both my undergraduate and graduate studies. A very special thanks to those Professors I worked especially close with over the years: Robert G. Davidson, Jeanne E. Clark, Kim Peck

Jaxon, Tracy R. Butts, and Aiping Zhang.

In addition to the faculty, I would like to thank the wonderful academic and writing support I have received from my many peers and friends throughout the years by way of conversation, critique, and sense of community. I would like to especially thank

Jeremy Wallace who has been there every step of the way with me on this journey from

Bachelor’s Degree to Master’s Degree. His friendship and brotherhood has meant the world to me.

I would also like to thank my immediate family including my mother, father, and three younger brothers, my niece and nephew, and all of my close friends who have been there for me with a shoulder to cry on and an open ear to hear me scream.

Last but not least, I would like to thank Sharon Demeyer for her help with all things English Major, but more importantly for her friendship and laughter on those days when I needed it most. v TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

Publication Rights ...... iii

Dedication...... iv

Acknowledgments ...... v

Abstract...... vii

PART

I. Critical Introduction...... 2

Finding My Literary Landscape ...... 2 My Fiction Stories and Theory...... 9

II. Water Spots...... 19

A River’s Forge ...... 20 Houseboats ...... 35 Concrete River...... 51

Works Cited...... 66

vi ABSTRACT

WATER SPOTS

Master of Arts in English

California State University, Chico

Spring 2015

Water Spots is a collection of three short-fiction stories written over the course of the past five years. These stories share themes in their characters’ search for identity in changing environments while often dealing with a sense of loss—the loss of others and the loss of their sense of self and place. These stories were not originally written as a collection, but they will be discussed and analyzed in this project as if they are because they represent my writing style over my recent academic career and give the reader a glimpse into the way in which I create and craft my stories.

vii

PART I

CRITICAL INTRODUCTION

Man’s most valuable faculty is his imagination. Human life seems so little designed for happiness that we need the help of a few creations, a few images, a lucky choice of memories to muster some sparse pleasure on this earth and struggle against the pain of all our destinies – not by philosophical force, but by the more efficient force of distraction. (287)

~ Germaine de Stael

Finding My Literary Landscape

One of the reasons I chose to concentrate my studies on creative writing when

I came back to school at my age was because I have always loved to play with words and create a poetic rhythm, in both poetry and prose. I was once told by a fellow creative writing student that she could always tell a fiction piece was mine because of the language and my use of imagery.

When considering this project, I looked back at the creative work I’ve written over the past five years, as both an undergraduate and graduate student. I wanted to choose stories that I could present to an audience as a collection in terms of my themes, styles, and my growth as a writer. The three works of fiction that I chose to discuss and analyze in this project are “A River’s Forge,” “Houseboats,” and “Concrete River.”

These three stories fully span the five years of creative writing I have experienced while being back in this academic world. They were written in three different creative writing classes, but share similarities in character struggles, thematic styles, and use of the natural world and imagery.

2 3

One of the biggest challenges for me as a writer has always been taking a story to an end point, having peace of mind in knowing a story is complete and needs no further revision. As I approach completion of my graduate studies and achieving my master’s degree, this uncertainty in having a finished product is still a dilemma. Even after critiques from peers and professors and multiple revisions, I read through my stories and continue asking myself questions about the characters and their struggles; I am always wondering if there is something more that can be done to heighten an awareness of what I am trying to convey to a reader. But the fact that I still question when a story is finished and if the ending is the actual ending has not hampered my knowledge of the means by which my stories begin and what makes them tick along the way. I know the triggers that begin my creative writing process and keep my characters afloat, paddling down the stream.

Images are and have been an important element in my fiction writing. They are important to my written work as symbols and metaphors and also to my writing process and approach to developing a story. More often than not, it is an object, setting, or scene that is the origin of my fiction. The trigger behind my stories is typically not a character’s conflict or dilemma, but rather an image. Images are my jumping-in point, the place where I begin to write my way into a story. When I am lured to an image, I begin to question the reasons for this interest. I question the relevance an image has to my personal experience and sense of self. I look, in other words, for connections that may exist between an image and my life. The source of my intrigue could be a forgotten memory, one recalled through the agency of image, or a life-changing moment. Through images, I seek to discover inroads to the mysteries of our human condition. I use images

4 not only as the starting point to my stories, but also as a device that propels the story from one scene to the next.

In the three short-fiction stories that make up this project, images of both natural and man-made worlds are an ever-prevalent trigger and accompaniment to the characters’ dilemmas. These two different worlds in which my characters both live and imagine play a large part in the push and pull the characters experience in choosing one life over another, the city over the country, or a known past over an unknown future. My use of natural images often creates opportunities and environments for characters to pause and reflect on themselves and their desires. For example, in my short story “A

River’s Forge,” Luke, the main character, sits at the bank of the grand Kuskokwin River and thinks, “It must be nice to be a river, always flowing, always knowing where to go.”

This image of the river Luke conjures as he stares out across the water offers him a chance to ponder his life. He is also able to find reason for his attraction to the natural world in which he lives because of the river’s actions. Luke sees the river as having a sense of knowledge in its life’s purpose, as opposed to his lack of purpose in the city life he fled.

I use not only grandiose natural world images such as rivers, lakes, and oceans to serve the story and character, but also simple, mundane man-made objects. In my story

“Concrete River,” for example, the unnamed main character drinks from a coffee mug that was given to him as a gift from his father years previous. While the character is sipping his coffee and questioning his current state of existence, the mug triggers memories of his father. Because of the memories attached to this mug, he begins to question his upbringing by his father. He wonders to what degree, if any, his current

5 identity stems from a childhood controlled by his father’s decisions; he considers the possibility that his life struggles in the present originated because of his father’s choices long ago.

I also use the mug as a symbol which helps readers more fully understand the instability and uncertainty this main character is experiencing. Though it is not a travel mug that fits easily into the drink holder of an automobile, he travels with it in his car, anyway. The way the oversized coffee mug sits precariously in the car metaphorically speaks to the character’s current disposition: “With my feet on the pedals and eyes on the road, I kept the coffee mug from spilling by taking my right hand off the stick-shift.” The self-aware, yet reckless, way he drives in order to keep the mug from spilling can be read as symbolizing his current, not yet fully realized station in life. He is frustrated at the world around him, yet aware of the role his own actions play in creating his sense of anxiety and dissatisfaction. The coffee mug does not rest easy in its place, just as he is not resting easy in his.

So knowing that I am drawn to images and fully aware of their importance in helping me create and develop my stories, I have to ask myself: Where does this attraction to images come from? Why is it that I find images to be such crucial elements to crafting my stories?

I can look to my personal life and upbringing to find some of these answers. I have made a habit of using natural and man-made images as road maps for my life. A great deal of my childhood was spent being uprooted as my family moved from one town and state to the next because of my father’s government jobs. My adolescent years were heavily influenced and marked by the many different images found in the often-changing

6 environment that I experienced. When an image triggers my memory, that memory often stems from a multitude of places and environments from my adolescent life—a life I was constantly trying to adapt to.

The many changes in surroundings I experienced and the feelings of alienation that accompanied new and unfamiliar places are themes that can often be found threaded throughout my fiction, to one degree or another. Or maybe it makes more sense to say that my not having a childhood, or adulthood for that matter, rooted in one particular place is a theme that comes out in my stories. Characters in my stories find themselves plagued with feelings of uncertainty in their surroundings and environments.

They are often found looking back in search of a family culture that they can use to identify themselves. My characters deal with loss, both the loss of loved ones as well as the loss of friends and family relationships, due to a move and relocation.

In a similar way, changes in my real-life environment were always followed by the need to discover and adapt. I approached this need differently each time, depending on my age and maturity. Place and environment are as important, and readily seen, in my writing as are images. The effect that place has on my characters, and to my themes in general, will be discussed and analyzed further in the theory section of this thesis project in conversation the writing of critical theorist Homi K. Bhabha.

Images and Family Relationships

Not by coincidence, the three stories I will be discussing here show characters ranging in age from adolescence to adulthood who use their environments for clues as to who they are and what they should become. In dealing with these environments, the

7 characters also question their relationships toward family members, especially father figures who played a role in disrupting their childhoods.

An author who often explores the dynamics of the father-son relationship and whom I regard as big influence in my creative writing life is Tobias Wolff. Whether writing fiction or nonfiction, he often pits the son figure (himself when it’s nonfiction) in struggle and confrontation with a father, or fatherly figure; he also makes much use of images in his stories. In Wolff’s short fiction piece “Powder,” a son of divorced parents is on a ski trip with his freewheeling and carefree father; the life with his mother is much more structured and free of risk taking. In the following passage from this short story, images play an important role in defining the father-son relationship:

Down the first long stretch I watched the road behind us, to see if the trooper was on our tail. The barricade vanished. Then there was nothing but snow: snow on the road, snow kicking up from the chains, snow on the trees, snow in the sky, and our trail in the snow. Then I faced forward and had a shock. There were no tracks ahead of us. My father was breaking virgin snow between tall treelines. (238)

I appreciate how Wolff uses, in a metaphorical sense, the image of snow in this passage.

This father and son are forging a new path, both physically and literally. Their “trail in the snow” behind them and the “virgin snow” ahead of them (symbolizing the sense of change that is occurring between the father and son) is something that I am drawn to as a writer.

Although a father character does not always readily appear and fill the pages of my stories, he often exists in the character’s thoughts or through the narration. In “A

River’s Forge,” for example, Luke’s father has passed away before the story begins, but the reader is made aware of the relationship that existed before his passing in flashback scenes and Luke’s thoughts. When Luke thinks back to a time when he and his brother

8 went camping for “a little ‘brother time’ alone to a place on the river where their dad used to take them before the business stole him away,” the image of the river trip without their dad is telling in the loss-of-father that began to affect him long before his father actually died. As the story shows, the decisions Luke makes are influenced by the changing relationship he had with his father along the way.

Image as a Trigger

In the graduate class Workshop Form and Practice which I took my first semester as a graduate student, we read the book Conversations, by Michael Ondaatje. In this book, Ondaatje interviews famed editor Walter Murch on creative practices. Their conversations are expansive, ranging from writing, editing, revising, collaborating, idea generating, audiences, and so on. When talking about what he is influenced by when creating, Murch states:

Hermann Hesse talked about this—about how a writer is influenced. He said there are various stages of influence. Kind of like chakras. The lowest, least noble method of influence is, say, reading Hemingway and then deciding to write like Hemingway. This is natural, it’s something we all go through, but you have to go beyond this to higher and higher levels until you reach the point where you’re influenced by reading something like the equivalent of the back of cereal boxes. Somehow just purely mundane or accidental things have such magic to them that they influence you and make you see things. I tend to think of film in that way. When I’m working on a film I try to open a certain part of my brain and ask myself, What’s going on in the world? (203)

This passage has stuck with me with me in thinking of my writing practices. As I mentioned earlier, I do not find myself necessarily sitting down to write a story with a topic or theme in mind. I am more apt to look at the images from my life and around me that I find appealing or of interest. I encounter images on a regular basis that I feel a need

9 to put up to a light, question their existence, place, and purpose. I like to take the

“mundane or accidental” and begin creating from there.

While in an advanced poetry class a couple semesters ago, for example, I came across the word jetpack, and I couldn’t let it go. I became intrigued not only by the crisp, sharp sounds of the word, but by the possible meanings and implications this image might hold; I cannot remember at what age I first became aware of a jetpack, but I know I was young (it was probably the early 1970s). I thought of the movement and freedom a jetpack offers a person. This device, used to propel oneself in new, out-of-the-ordinary ways, gave me a sense of the future. After walking around for several weeks wondering what I was going to do with this image, knowing that I needed to do something, I happened upon a documentary of the 1962 World’s Fair in Seattle. The theme of space and America’s future that this World’s Fair promoted was similar to what the jetpack meant to me as a kid. The image had me looking to my future, and a way for me to blast off from this world. It was the perfect marriage between word and setting, and ultimately

I created a poem from it. This process of taking a small image and moment and then holding it up to the light and making connections to the world around me is a way in which I get a story off the ground.

My Fiction Stories and Theory

In life, there are no guarantees that one’s decisions will ultimately be the best ones in the end. Obviously a drug-addicted character who is able to kick his drug habit will lead a better life physically and mentally, so long as he stays off drugs—but my stories and characters do not tackle issues as black and white, or cut and dried. In “A

River’s Forge,” Luke must decide between a life in the family business and a life created by his own doing (one he believes he will have more control over). But regardless of the decision he finally makes, neither path will come without its share of hardships. All of life’s roads carry struggles.

Epiphanies

My fiction stories in general do not end with the main character having a full ephiphanic resolution of his conflict; they do come to fuller realization of an issue or a problem, but do not necessarily find an absolute answer to overcoming their dilemma. In the collection of essays Bringing the Devil to His Knees: The Craft of Fiction and the

Writing Life, edited by Charles Baxter and Peter Turchi, author Jim Shepard writes:

One effect of the tyranny of the epiphany in the short story is the assumption that an enhanced level of self-awareness is inherently liberating; in other words, once we realize we’re doing something self-destructive or foolish, we won’t do it again. Alas, we know from the rubble of our own lives that this isn’t always the case. (19)

This idea that in the real world epiphanies are not “always the case” makes perfect sense when considering a person with a drug problem; drug addicts rarely take to recovery easily and relapses are common. In the case of my stories here, the characters learn from the conflicts at hand, but do not necessarily have full resolutions. There is no magic pill that can cure the hurt felt from loss. It is impossible to know whether a decision to live a rural life forged by one’s own doing over a city life working for the family business will ultimately be the most satisfactory one.

My story “Concrete River” is a first-person narrative in which the main character begins his nine-to-five workday routine heading from his apartment at the beach to his office in downtown Los Angeles. He has become disillusioned and bored

11 with his life. He lacks a sense of purpose and is questioning his existence in this big city.

As he drives to work through the changing neighborhoods, divided by class and culture, he contemplates his identity and his culture. He has no family here in this big city, no roots. This cannot be something that he has suddenly realized on this one particular day that the story is taking place. This is not the first day of his life that he has acknowledged his alienation to this city in which he lives and works. There is no epiphany being thrown at the reader in this regard. This character’s frustration and confusion with his life in this environment has been building over time, and there is going to be no singular moment serving as a cure-all for his situation.

At the end of “Concrete River” the main character sits in his car thinking back to a moment when he actually enjoyed a day at the beach. This was a day years earlier when he first moved to the city. He realizes that there is a chance to continue a life here and persevere because he was able to cope in the past. But he still has not discovered exactly what needs to take place for him to overcome his unhappiness with his life. The character simply begins to see that it is possible to find satisfaction in this city life; he has done it before. He does not have an “aha moment” to better his perception of himself and his place, but he knows that he has possibilities; he has experienced a sense of purpose in this place before.

In my story “Houseboats,” the young main character Adam has recently moved to a new town and has found a new best friend, Eric, living nearby. Adam’s joy at finding this new best friend is short lived when it is learned that Eric will be moving away soon to live with his mother; Eric’s father and mother are divorced. These kids embark on a road trip with Eric’s father and stepmother which also involves a houseboat

12 adventure for several nights. Through these travels, Adam questions his identity in the changing environments as well as the sense of loss that he is about to face with Eric moving away.

In the story’s conclusion, Adam does not come to a full understanding of how he will be impacted by the loss of his friend who is moving far away. He has no epiphany in what needs to be done to lessen the pain, but in the end he appears to have a better understanding of the fact that life is full of losses and everyone has to deal with them on various levels and to varying degrees. One of the closing lines of this story as he jumps from the cliff to the lake below is, “With one last breath, Adam pushed off the rock with his legs and fell through the air keeping his body and mind in tight form,” showing he is capable of conjuring his strength when circumstances call for it—but Adam does not look at this jump as the solution to all his grief.

The “Houseboats” story as a whole is a movement from one place, or scene, to the next as Adam embarks on this one last adventure with his best friend Eric and his family, first by car and then on the houseboat. Adam observes different situations on their various stops along the way that could have an impact on ways of dealing with the losses he is facing; Grandpa Douglas, for instance, is dealing with the recent passing of his wife.

With a further exploration of the use of epiphany in fiction, Charles Baxter writes this in Burning Down the House: “Stories can arrive somewhere interesting without claiming any wisdom or clarification, without, really, claiming much of anything beyond their wish to follow a train of interesting events to a conclusion” (52). It is this kind of direction that takes place in “Houseboats.” Adam is on a final journey with Eric, encountering different environments and situations that may offer him some further

13 insight and wisdom to coping with feelings of loss. Because of Adam’s young age, and my natural tendency to lean toward characters who do not find full resolution in their struggles, it is not apparent in the story whether he makes these connections or not.

I have also found reader-response theorists illuminating in understanding the underpinnings of epiphanies. In his essay “The Reading Process: A Phenomenological

Approach,” scholar and theorist Wolfgang Iser writes:

A literary text must … be conceived in such a way that it will engage the reader’s imagination in the task of working things out for himself, for reading is only a pleasure when it is active and creative. In this process of creativity, the text may either not go far enough, or may go too far, so we may say that boredom and overstrain form the boundaries beyond which the reader will leave the field of play. (1003)

I am always searching for this balance in my stories and I think that non-epiphanic stories fulfill this notion of the reader-response theory. Epiphanies are not common place in real life. In offering the reader a story in which the character does come to a full epiphany, I am offering them a truer sense of the real world in which they live. A non-epiphanic story mirrors the life of reader and can therefore give the reader a chance to engage in the text at a level of self-discovery. The reader can ask the same questions of the struggling character who does not find full resolution as they can ask of themselves in their real daily life of constant hurdles with few epiphanic moments. Fiction stories of literary merit must be embedded with ideas relevant to the human condition and therefore the reader should be offered the chance to find their own life within the lines.

The fact that these are male-centered coming of age stories also played a role in my decision to lean toward anti-epiphanic endings and characters who do not find full resolution. Through my own experiences, the tough decisions I have been faced with

14 came with a complete understanding that there would be no one right answer. The path that is chosen, regardless of which path, will offer growth and wisdom for better or worse. Throughout our varying stages in life, we all approach problems with mentalities and mindsets that are constantly changing. We choose paths and make decisions that we question knowing that what lies beyond is unknown. Creating characters that do not come to full resolution of particular problems, but are left open to a further interpretation of the never ending questions in life, seems more apt to the our own realities, at least from my perspective and the life I have led.

Stillness

Because of my use of environments, when creating my stories, I often have scenes in which the settings and images become center stage, if only momentarily.

Moments where both the character and reader are able to take pause from any immediate or overall concern that has been driven along in theme. Charles Baxter talks of these moments I find occurring in my stories and others when he talks of “stillness.” In his book, Burning Down the House, he writes:

Stillness in fiction arises when the dramatic action pauses, and when the forward movement of thought appears to cease as well. Instead of the forward dramatic line we (at least temporarily) have the absorption of the character into the minutiae of the setting. The dynamics of desire and fear are momentarily displaced by a rapt attention to small details, to the cultivation of a moment’s mood for its own sake without any nervous straining after insight. Stillness is not the same as epiphany. Attention flows away from what is supposed to command it toward the peripheries: the river, the bank, the trash floating down the river, the sound of the cricket. In a moment of stillness, the atmosphere supplants the action. (181)

Environments have the ability to become devices that allow a character to bide and take notice of a developing newness, but not necessarily have to engage it.

I find this sense of the stillness that Baxter speaks of in Joseph Conrad’s novel

Heart of Darkness, which is one reason in particular I am drawn to his writing. His use of the environment and the way the characters navigate their surroundings are similar to the ways my characters perceive and react to their surroundings. In the opening pages of

Heart of Darkness we read the following:

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished spirits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth. (15)

There exists a stillness in this scene that allows for characters to pause and experience the moment without the necessity of having to form insight of great significance. The environment itself becomes the story and holds meaning for the reader. We read that the

“tide seemed to stand still” and “a haze rested on the low shores.” Here exists the stillness of the atmosphere. It is the environment that is telling the story.

In this same vein, I use the environment to offer my characters moments in which they can be, “temporarily,” free from thoughts of concern—relying on the setting and the specific images within this setting to tell the story. In “A River’s Forge” I write:

Luke helped Mother Kelsey clear dishes from the table as the Kelsey males made themselves comfortable on the front porch …Out on the porch, Luke plopped down in a chair, the fog still thickening ever so lightly. Their cabin was a few hundred yards from the river yet they could see an eagle flying up its course. Wings stretched out, head down, gliding almost to a stop and then diving down out of view before coming up to be seen again with a fish flailing in the grasp of its talons. They watched as the eagle soared off into the distance to feast.

There is a stillness that exists on the porch as the Kelsey men and Luke sit in quiet. They are far enough from the river that its sounds cannot be heard, yet we know the sounds are there. We cannot hear the flapping of the eagle’s wings, but we can imagine it. These images offer up a sense of stillness and it is in this stillness that Luke is offered time to simply exist in his environment without having to react.

A Sense of Place

In “A River’s Forge,” one of the outcomes of Luke fulfilling his desire to create his own path in life is losing a sense of his cultural identity as a middle-class young man joining the family finance business. During his summer job and work in

Alaska, he experiences a family and culture unlike those found in his city life. He is attracted to this place where the community has formed an identity based on fishing.

These people are happy and content with the solitude of the small fishing town and the life it provides—something Luke does not experience in his city life. While Luke works this summer job in Alaska and questions whether he will move back to San Francisco, he exists between two cultures. This moment of existence between two cultures is what critical theorist Homi K. Bhabha calls the “beyond.”

In Bhabha’s book The Location of Culture he writes:

The ‘beyond’ is neither a new horizon, nor a leaving behind of the past…Beginnings and endings may be the sustaining myths of the middle years; but in the fin de siècle, we find ourselves in the moment of transit where space and time cross to produce complex figures of difference and identity, past and present, inside and outside, inclusion and exclusion. For there is a sense of disorientation, a disturbance of direction, in the ‘beyond’: an exploratory, restless movement caught so well in the French rendition of the words au-dela – here and there, on all sides, fort/da, hither and thither, back and forth. (1)

Luke is living in an “exploratory restless movement” at this moment of his life. He is not a full-fledged member of any one community. As the story opens with Luke in Alaska, we see the beginning of his contemplation in becoming a member of this new culture, but he has not made that decision and is not a member. Luke explores his struggles with identity, desires, purpose, and sense of place while living in this state of “beyond;” he is in a sense between and being pulled by two cultures and two identities.

In “Concrete River,” the main character also has moments where he feels this sense of living in the “beyond.” When he leaves the beach neighborhood on his way to work, he spends part of his day in a barrio and the other part driving around, contemplating his upbringing on the East coast; he reminisces about the farm environment his grandfather grew up in and that he once knew. He finds himself with this

“sense of disorientation” and a “disturbance of direction” Bhabha says exists in the

“beyond.”

It is in this sense of existence that I have often found myself over the years.

Moving from one city to the next, carrying a culturally and environmentally based identity into a new place, I have experienced that “beyond” that Bhabha theorizes. I have felt the restlessness of a new place and have found a reason to explore these struggles and conflicts of my own through the fictional eyes of characters and within story.

In the End

So as I stated at the beginning of this project, these three stories were written over a five-year period. I did not originally sit down to write any of these stories with the intention of discussing similarities in their themes or character’s conflicts. I did not even consider their similarities until I began to ponder my writing arc over these past five

18 years when looking for works to use as the basis for this project. I’ve been, at times, surprised in finding common threads in these stories.

So now that I am ending an academic chapter of my life being immersed in creative writing courses, deadlines for workshop drafts, and revisions made from the outcome of these workshops, where does my writing go from here? I think the obvious answer is, I can’t really be sure. Just as my characters, I will be leaving college with no one epiphanic moment that has given me the wherewithal of how to write the perfect story or create the most dynamic of characters. I can say for certain that images will not be taking a backseat to my writing process. I know that environments, both rural and pastoral, will always have a place for my characters to question themselves and others around them. The one thing I hope to find along my writing path, now free from the constraints that exist within academia, is the ability to find a story’s final stage. To see a story to a certain end and be able to say, “That’s a wrap, this story is done!”

PART II

A River’s Forge

The small crew pulled the last of the fishing nets for the day. Luke hosed off the deck and watched in silence as the Kelsey brothers tied down bundled nets to the boat’s stern. The labored tasks of the vessel were made with an effortless rhythm and movement that only seasoned and dedicated ship hands could perform. These Kelsey siblings had grown up on this sea and this boat. It was their home, job, life, and a family affair. With only one day left to the fishing season, Luke wondered where he would be at this time next week.

“Hold tight,” the father, Captain Bill Kelsey, shouted from the wheel deck. He slowly turned the 40 foot vessel to a southeastern direction toward home. The whole while he simultaneously kept his eye on the sea and crew of three: his two sons and Luke.

“I’m gonna hit the radio,” Kenny Kelsey, the youngest, yelled over the sound of a revving engine, the boat slowly settling into the current with the motion of the waves now at their backs. They had ventured out fifty miles to the north for that day’s catch. It would be a while before the bay was in sight. An old slow blues number came up over the speakers.

A most appropriate song, Luke thought as he looked out at the sky and open sea with a slight evening marine layer settling in above them. Nothing too heavy. The constant summer sun of the Alaskan wonderment would not cover easily. If the sun set at all, it was only for an hour or two. The days that did not turn into nights took time to

20 21 become acclimated to. Luke was a long way from San Francisco and everything else he considered home.

Pete, the eldest Kelsey sibling, reached into the holding bin and pulled out one of the larger pollock fish for their daily offering back to the waters. An old ritual common among the smaller family-run fishing boats from these parts. The silent crew watched as

Pete held the fish up over his head with both hands, looked toward the sky, and then released it off the side of the boat. With a kick of its tail, the fish vanished out of sight.

Kenny and Pete lit up a smoke. Luke removed his waders and rubber boots and went into the cabin to catch a break from the long day’s work; it had been six weeks of hard work for that matter. As he stretched out on the dining nook bench for a quick shut- eye, he heard Captain Bill shout out, “You boys keep those smokes away from the engine now!”

***

“You boys drive safe now!” shouted Luke’s father. Luke was fourteen and his older brother Lyle was behind the wheel of their dad’s old Chevy Nova. Lyle had just recently received his driver’s license. With surfboards strapped to the top of the faded- blue eight cylinder machine, camping gear and cooler in the rear, Lyle backed the car out of the driveway. This was the first trip of many the brothers would set out on without mother or father. Their father’s accounting business was expanding and he was becoming consumed with the demands of finance businesses throughout the downtown San

Francisco area. The income did provide them with a comfortable lifestyle, but the days of complete family togetherness were coming to an end.

They were heading to a little beach and surf spot north of Santa Cruz to meet up with some friends for a weekend of camping; Luke was always the youngest of the bunch, tagging along with his older brother. Luke was accepted by this older crowd for his excellent abilities out in the water, and his all around good humor. He could keep up with the best of them out in the surf. And around the late night bonfires.

Rolling down the highway up and over the Santa Cruz mountains Luke held his arm out the window, riding the air like a wave with his hand. The evening light, getting low, cast long shadows through the trees as they sped along the curving roads trying to make it to camp before sunset. They came to Highway 101 and drove north just another ten miles to their beach camp. The sun was hovering just above the horizon as they pulled up to the sand.

“I’m gonna go for a quick swim,” said Luke, the Nova’s engine still humming under the hood.

“Luke, we’ve got stuff to do first!” demanded Lyle.

“I’ll be right back!” he said, throwing the door open without a glance toward his brother.

“God dammit Luke, I’m not setting up your tent!”

Luke threw his shirt down to the sand and high-fived a couple of the boys as he sprinted past them and out to the water. Lyle started loading gear down to where the bonfire was being built, keeping one eye to his little brother swimming out past the breaks.

***

Luke woke to Kenny kicking him in the leg. “Get up,” Kenny said, “we’re about to the docks.” Luke lumbered from the bench, stretching his way to his feet. He pulled his waders off the hook, slipped on his boots, and prepared to unload their catch of the day.

The sun still high in the air, the boat eased its way through the bay.

Their fishing grounds were in the Bering Sea at the southwestern edge of the

Alaskan coastline. Their home base was a small fishing village just east of the mouth of the Kuskokwin River. The river’s mouth expands nearly ten miles where it enters the sea and stretches over seven hundred miles inland to the north, originating at the southwestern edge of the Alaskan Mountain Range. The river and sea have provided a way of life and existence to people from these parts for thousands of years.

As they approached the docks, the flock of gulls following their boat looking for fish scraps had grown immensely. It was like a cloud of circus acts dancing and squawking to the hum of the outboard motor. Several dock hands huffing on cigarettes were busily securing boats to the unload dock for quick retrieval of their day’s catch, all the while shouting commands to try and keep some sort of sanity to the arrival of dozens of boats that had been out on the sea that day.

“Howdy, Captain Bill,” hollered an older dock hand with a cigarette dangling clumsily, but securely, in the corner of his mouth. “We’ll have this spot here ready in a minute,” he said, pointing to a boat that had just finished unloading and was unlashing the lines tying them to the dock.

Captain Bill maneuvered the vessel into position to tie-up and the crane moved in and over the deck of the boat. Pete, Kenny and Luke quickly filled the first of several nets

24 that were lowered onto the deck from the crane. It wasn’t a banner fishing day, but it was a healthy enough catch. That’ll feed us for another day, Captain Bill had exclaimed earlier on their way back to port. Captain Bill went into the count house to collect the fish slip for the day’s catch while the boys finished up on deck. Pete and Kenny high-fived to the end of another successful journey. They looked to Luke, and Kenny motioned with his head for him to come over. Then all three raised their hands in the air and slapped palms.

“You did good out there today, surfer boy,” Kenny said, lighting up another smoke.

“Thanks,” Luke said. “I’m learning.”

“That’s what we do,” Kenny said.

“I think we’ll keep you around,” said Pete sincerely, but snickering because he had no say in who stays or goes on his father’s boat.

Captain Bill returned from the count house. “You boys can jump off here and get yourself cleaned up for dinner,” he said with a tired smile, his hand clasped to the envelope full of that day’s pay. “I’ll take the boat to the slip.”

“You don’t want any help, old man?” yelled Kenny, already making his way up the dock.

“Go grab some beer and I’ll see you at home.”

The boys sauntered up the dock paying no mind to the commotion of the fishing business around them.

“I’m driving,” said Kenny, as they approached the old dusty blue Ford pick-up covered with swaths of primer. It looked like an oil painting of a sky on wheels.

Luke hopped in the bed of the truck with the boys up front. He watched them laughing and joking about as the truck kicked up clouds of dust leaving the dock area.

They seemed so happy and content with their lives in this isolated region of the expansive northernmost state, Luke thought. They motored only a few miles down the road and

Kenny pulled the truck up to the market, an old wooden building with a front porch that sagged to the right side.

“I’ll grab this round,” Luke said from the back of the truck.

“Grab a case,” said Pete. “Only one more day left.”

Luke jumped out over the side of the truck’s bed. He raced up the steps with the wooden planks creaking beneath him, pulled open the weathered screen door and the little bell clinging loosely to a screw chimed his entrance.

***

The ringing of the phone on Luke’s desk pulled him out of his slumber. He kicked his heels off the desk and sat upright, reaching for the phone.

Luke had worked part-time at his father’s accounting firm every summer since graduating high school, only this summer was different. His father had passed away several months before. Heart attack in his sleep. No rhyme or reason, really. Lyle had taken over running the company. It was an easy transition to make. Lyle had been working side-by-side with their father for five years at that point, not counting his part- time work while he was studying for his business degree. This was the summer before

Luke’s senior year at Stanford, where he was graduating with an art history degree. He didn’t need an accounting or business degree to work his expected position in the family company. He had grown up with accounting on the brain.

***

“Hey surfer boy,” said the beautiful, naturally-featured Lisa from behind the market’s counter, “what can I get you today?’

“Just come in to grab some beers.”

“You must be gettin’ ready to head back south after tomorrow.”

“That’s the plan, I guess.” Luke rummaged through the beer cooler, finding a twelve pack of light beers and one a little heavier. He lifted them up to the counter.

“You startin’ to like this slow pace life, huh?” said Lisa.

“It’s a nice change from the traffic. And those damned office cubicles.”

“Well, I hope we see you around a while longer,” she smirked.

Luke slipped her some cash and hauled his catch out to the still-running truck.

“Come on Luke, hop in,” said Pete. “We’re gonna stop off at the river before headin’ home.”

The truck rambled down the dirt roads, weaving around corners, heading northeast up the river, inland. Luke, bracing himself and the beer, looked up to the sky with the light marine layer seeming to get a little thicker, the sun still set overhead. He watched a lone bird soar high above them. Possibly an eagle, its altitude too high to clearly make out. The truck barreled its way down an embankment and skidded to a halt with a cloud of dust catching up and engulfing them.

“Grab one of those twelvers,” hollered Kenny as he jumped from the driver’s side and made his way to a large rock at the river’s edge. Pete picked up the box of darker beer and they made their way to the rock Kenny had perched himself.

“Man, I love this spot,” shouted Kenny to the world in front of him.

“Yeah, I’ll miss this place,” said Luke, more to himself than anything.

“Haven’t heard you say you weren’t staying,” Kenny said.

The three sat crossed legged on the flat top of the rock five feet or so above the river. They each cracked a beer and in silence watched the river’s currents turn wildly as it made its way to the sea.

“Our mother’s family has fished and trapped on this river for over one hundred years,” said Pete. “Beaver trappin’ was big money until the hippies changed the laws in the sixties.”

“Probably a good thing, those laws and all,” Luke said.

“Probably,” said Pete. “You know, I was telling ya that every summer after the fishing season Kenny and I take a small boat up this river for two weeks of fishing and hunting. We motored up over a hundred miles last year. Not a soul around.”

“Sounds good,” said Luke.

“Real nice,” said Pete. “We’ve been talking lately, want to ask you to come along if you want.”

Luke sat and stared out at the river. It must be nice to be a river, always flowing, always knowing where to go.

***

It was that same summer before Luke’s senior year at Stanford that he and Lyle set out on a camping and fishing trip in the Sierras. A little “brother time” alone to a place on the river where their dad used to take them before the business stole him away; and then the inevitable that took him for good. It was just a three-day excursion. It was supposed to be a peaceful time of remembrance, but took a bad turn when Luke told Lyle he was unsure of working for the company. Lyle did not take this news lightly. Lyle was heavily invested in the business mentally, physically, and financially. It was always the plan for the family to work together. To carry on the business with their father. The business that their father had created. The business that sent them both to Stanford. The business that their father expected them to carry on long after he had passed. But he passed away a lot sooner than anyone had expected.

***

“So what do ya think,” Kenny said. “Do you want to come along up the river with us?”

Luke did not take his eyes off the river. He made no movement, no motion, no sound to either of the brothers. He simply sat in silence.

“Let’s throw these beers down,” Pete said. “Mother’s got dinner waitin’.” They swilled their beers and headed back up to the truck.

Bill was just getting out of his truck when the boys rolled in. A simple, but comfortable four-bedroom wooden cabin. Smoke was coming from the stone-built BBQ pit off the kitchen side door. Mother Kelsey could be heard preparing food from inside.

They were feasting on caribou this evening. She had even splurged and bought some corn on the cob. Not an inexpensive eat up in those parts.

Mother Kelsey was born and raised in Alaska. Her family was of Yupik Indian descent. Bill had come up in the mid-seventies after the war to “get away from it all,” he had said. They met in Anchorage while he was on a break in between the fishing seasons.

Moving out to toward the bush, starting a small fishing operation, and raising a couple of boys came naturally to both of them.

The boys sat down at the table and Mother Kelsey served up the goods. They all bowed their heads and Bill gave thanks to the land and all it has offered them. They held up their glasses and bottles to toast.

***

That first Christmas dinner without their father was a troubling one. Lyle was ranting and raving about the economy and the pressures of the business without dad.

Luke knew what was coming next.

“Hey Mom,” Lyle said, “did you hear that artsy boy here might abandon us?”

“Don’t drag her into this, Lyle.”

“She’s part of this Luke, quit being so selfish.”

“This business is what you want!”

“It’s what we all want, right?”

“Then why am I an art history major?”

“Then why did you waste your summers in the accounting office?”

“Dad! Because of Dad. He wanted this. He forged his life. Now we’re just along for the ride and we lost our captain.”

***

Luke helped Mother Kelsey clear the dishes from the table as the Kelsey men made themselves comfortable on the front porch, seemingly to watch the sunset. It was comforting for Luke to be with a family so content with their lives in a place so magical with life and so void of so many pollutions. She motioned him away as she started to scrub the dishes.

Luke went to the porch and plopped down in a chair, the fog still thickening ever so lightly. Their cabin was a couple hundred yards from the river and they could see an eagle flying low up its course. Wings stretched out, head down, gliding almost to a stop and then diving down out of view before coming up to be seen again with a fish flailing in the grasp of its talons. They watched as the eagle soared off into the distance to feast.

“Now that’s life,” said Luke, beaming with a full belly and satisfaction of a hard day’s work.

“So Luke,” said Bill, “have you made a decision about staying?”

“I’m sorry Bill, I’m not sure what I’m doing.”

“It’s not a worry, I just want you to know that you’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“Another fishing season will open up in four weeks. If you decide to go, you can come back then. We should finish these beers and get some sleep, boys. One more day.”

The fog horn could now be heard from the jetty at the harbor. They all stared out at the elusive sunset then made their way to their beds, one by one, without another word between them.

In his bed, horizontal, Luke stared at the wood-beamed ceiling, listening to the fog horn, the muted light of the sun still finding its way through his window. Slowly drifting into sleep.

***

The bonfire was raging and the sound of the fog horn off the point was heard at precise intervals. The surfing crew had gathered one last time at their beach in Santa Cruz before the start of classes, Luke’s last semester, and the end of another summer vacation.

Even the overworked Lyle had made it out for this fiesta. Luke was looking forward to his last two semesters of college, but was living with great uncertainties for his life and family. This group of brethren were rowdy, a mix of old and young, local Santa Cruz surfers, and guys from all parts of the bay that had made friendships out in the water and in the sand over the years. The beers were flowing, guitars were being strummed, and several ladies were grooving and shaking the night away around the fire’s glow.

“You up for a swim?” Luke shouted across the fire to his brother.

“Can’t see a thing out there.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Waves sound kind of big.”

“Come on big brother, we got this.”

Luke jumped up tossing his hoodie down to the sand and raced toward the dark and foggy waters. Lyle hesitantly got to his feet and followed.

“You sure about this, Luke?”

Luke was already knee deep in the water and couldn’t hear his brother’s last question to the sound of the pounding surf. He was not even sure his brother was following. With the new moon and the fog, he swam out with only the sounds and feel of the breaking waves guiding him. He dove under wave after wave, trying to make it out beyond the break. The waves were bigger than he had imagined, but after a while he was out past the crash and crush of the sets. Luke hollered to see if his brother or anybody for that matter had followed him, but heard no response. He saw the glow of the bonfire through the fog as he bobbed up and down to the motion of the waves rolling in. He made out dancing and singing figures around the pyramid of fire.

Luke’s mind shifted gears as he was suddenly lifted and tossed over the falls of an enormous wave. A big outside set was crushing down on him. He was sucked under, pulled, and rolled in every direction. Not expecting this, he had not gotten a good breath of air and was flailing under water to fight his way to the surface. He found the bottom of the ocean floor and kicked off with all of his might to get out of this mess. It worked. He gasped for air and struggled, trying not to panic, but was not above water for more than a few seconds before another wave came crashing down upon him. This one had the same effect. He was in the shit. Had anyone even seen me jump in the water? Was it really this bad? He made it to the surface a couple more times, but was immediately pummeled by another large wave. His last thought was of his brother and mother.

Luke came to on the shore with his brother over top of him performing CPR. He coughed up salt water, choked, and gagged for a bit.

“Just take it easy,” Lyle said. “You’re alright.” The crowd of partygoers started clapping and light cheering, some of the girls were crying. “Good thing I followed you out there little bro, that was some gnarly stuff.”

***

Luke rose in a cold sweat, sitting upright and trying to shake off the memory.

With the light still coming in through his window, he had no idea what time it was. He reached for his watch on the bedside table. Four in the morning. Still another hour before the family gets up to start the day.

Still feeling startled he got up from bed and went out to start the coffee. He made his way to the porch and scanned the horizon. The fog and marine layer had dissipated.

Birds could be heard chirping in the brush throughout the valley. The sun still keeping an eye on the landscape. He took a couple of deep breaths of that crisp morning Alaskan air and returned to his quarters to prepare for the fishing day.

It wasn’t long before the Kelsey brothers could be heard chuckling and talking as they gathered supplies for this fishing season’s last day. Bill was outside with the hood of his truck popped, adjusting the idle. Mother Kelsey was in the kitchen preparing lunches for the boys. Luke emerged from the bedroom, and placed his duffle bag and suitcase near his bedroom’s entrance. He was ready for his last day of this fishing season.

On their drive to the docks that morning, Luke thought of those days by a river with his father, days of casting lines with his brother, and those many days paddling out

34 over rolling waves with Lyle by his side. He thought of that pitch-black night Lyle pulled him from those dark ocean waters. He thought of his brother working those long hours to keep their father’s business afloat with no one by his side.

And then he thought of yesterday’s beer with those Kelsey brothers by the river. A river’s always flowing, always heading home.

Houseboats

Adam awoke to the not-so-distant sound of laughter. Not a bellowing laughter or even a laughter among friends, but the lone voice of a man seemingly laughing in solitude. There was a light wind and the houseboat rocked from side-to-side. The air was warm and humid, the breeze giving little relief to the summer-desert night. Adam wondered whether it was the laughter that woke him or maybe it was the movement of the boat. Regardless, it was the laughter he was hearing when his eyes and mind were conscious of being awake.

He lay still and listened, wanting to get up and fetch a glass of water but feeling shy and awkward. Adam was only ten years old and he was a guest on this boat. But after several long minutes, his dry throat demanded that glass of water. He climbed down from the top bunk carefully as to not wake his best friend Eric in the bunk below, and not wanting to disturb the others either. He stepped off the ladder and as soon as he turned toward the kitchen area, he could see Grandpa Douglas chuckling to himself on the front deck of the boat. The old man was leaning with elbows on the deck’s rail. On the rail to either side of him a couple of lines were tied that kept the boat anchored to stakes on the sandy shore. Grandpa Douglas smoked a cigarette and swirled ice cubes in a glass.

Adam was sure it was a gin and tonic. He stepped ever so quietly to the kitchen not wanting to be seen by Grandpa Douglas. Adam did not want to bother him as much as he did not want to be bothered by him.

35 36

Quietly pulling a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water from a plastic gallon jug, he took a big swig, then refilled it. As he headed back to the bunks with his water, he heard what now sounded like weeping. He turned toward the bow of the boat to see Grandpa Douglas with his head down and cries coming from between his hands. He crept up the ladder rungs carefully with water glass in hand. Listening to the muffled cries coming from the bow, he started to feel sad himself. There would be only one more night on the house-boating trip and this would be one of his last days spent with his best friend Eric.

The sound of Grandpa’s muffled cries continued to flow with the gentle breeze blowing through the screened window by Adam’s pillow. Ripples of water lapped the pontoons and echoed from the boat’s hull. Adam held back tears, thinking of Eric leaving for Hawaii to live with his mother. He wondered who he would rely on for those lazy summer afternoons when boredom needed to be fought off with friends and adventure.

***

They had met only the summer before when Adam’s family first moved to Las

Vegas. They shared a cul-de-sac with Eric’s family and a few other houses. Those other homes offered little signs of life other than the comings and goings of elderly couples on their way to the casinos for nickel slots and all-you-can-eat buffets.

The day Adam was moving into this new home, Eric appeared from his garage, riding down the drive on his bike. Adam’s parents, Bill and Suz, were busily directing the movers to the destinations of boxes and furniture. Adam was sitting in the front lawn,

37 head down, rummaging through his backpack of several books, notepads, and action figures.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Eric shouted from across the cul-de-sac, riding in small circles with his shoulder-length hair covering half of his face.

“Adam, Adam Lavelle,” he said hesitantly.

“You have a bike?”

“Yeah, but it’s still packed in there,” Adam said pointing to the moving truck.

“I have an extra one if you want to ride it,” he said cruising up and stopping on the sidewalk in front of Adam. Their friendship had begun.

Within a week they were spending every waking moment biking and swimming away the hot desert days, playing board games in their air-conditioned homes when they had exhausted their outdoor fun. Their families too, became quick friends. Adam’s dad was busy most days working in casino management. Eric’s dad was a sociology professor at UNLV and was around the home a lot more. But grownups found time for a poolside cookout and get-together at one another’s home almost every weekend from that first week on. A couple of weeks before the start of that fifth-grade year Adam was invited to make a road trip to Seal Beach in Southern California to visit Eric’s Grandpa Douglas.

Eric’s dad, Fred, drove his baby-blue ’72 Cadillac with his new wife, Paula, beside him. Adam and Eric relaxed in the spacious back seat playing games of gin rummy to five hundred. They took breaks to snack on bags of Doritos and get sugar highs from cans of Coca-Cola. They would also put down their card games to sneak peeks of the latest issues of Playboy magazine, borrowed from Fred’s collection that sat stacked

38 on the floor behind the desk in his den. They rarely travelled far in those days without a few copies of Playboy to keep their minds active.

The trip was an exhilarating idea for Adam. He loved the water and had never been to the seas of the western coast. The big, baby-blue Caddie floated down the road through the summer heat. Their vessel hummed effortlessly with the feeling of flight.

The five-hour drive passed by without a thought of when they would reach their destination. The friendship taking place in the back seat was more than Adam could have asked for in his new environment where everything was unknown and everyone a stranger. Adapting to this most recent move was coming about without the anxiety and pains that he had felt in the couple of previous moves his family had already made in his short life.

They made their way into the Los Angeles area with the crowded freeways and sounds of horns and engines encompassing their big car. Adam was amazed at the size of the city, but felt protected in the back seat of their large vessel. The smooth motions of the Caddie and his new friendship gave this unwelcoming environment a sense of peace and comfort. The anxieties that usually overtook Adam and caused him to shut himself out of life were not being felt. He felt invigorated and alive for this new place and adventure with his friend Eric.

***

Their big blue car pulled into the driveway of a one-story bungalow only blocks from the beach. The old and tanned Grandpa Douglas Preston appeared from the front door with a smile and stood stoically as they all emerged from the big blue. Paula ran to

39 hug her dad. They embraced and his lips began to quiver. It was Paula who first burst into tears, and then Douglas’ tears followed. He had lost his wife only months earlier and this tall, strong-looking man succumbed to his hidden frailty with the arrival of his daughter.

Douglas and Paula made their way into the house as the others unpacked the car.

They made their way to the dinette area of the kitchen and Grandpa grabbed two beers from the fridge. He composed himself as best he could and sat with a sigh as his daughter pulled up a chair to join him.

“How have you been, Dad?” asked Paula quietly.

“It hasn’t been easy, baby darling.”

“I know, I know,” she said in her still-quiet tone.

“I’m glad you could come back so soon for a visit. The last time was too overwhelming. The funeral, I feel like I didn’t even get to talk to you.”

“Has my brother been stopping by?”

“He’s been by once a week, but he seems to be too consumed with school to have much to say.”

“I think he’s hurting as well, Dad. You know, him and Mom were really close.”

“I sometimes forget that I’m not the only one suffering. I think everyone has already moved on with their lives and I’m stuck in an empty house with only dreams of your mother.”

“We’re all suffering, Dad, but we’re here for you.”

“Thanks, baby darling,” Douglas said, taking a pull from his beer, his eyes welling up once again.

“Let me go help the boys unload and then I’ll make us all some lunch,” said

Paula, as she put her hand on her father’s shoulder and got up from the chair.

Douglas followed her out to the car and watched as the young boys pulled backpacks from the trunk of the Caddie. He walked over to Fred and they shook hands.

He was happy his daughter had found a man; a man who was a professor and a free spirit like his daughter. It gave him comfort in knowing that she was creating a family and finding her own comfort in life.

After exchanging words with Fred, Douglas’ attention went to Eric and Adam.

“Hey my little man,” he said putting his hand on Eric’s shoulder, “you ready for some ocean fun?”

“I can’t wait, Grandpa,” said Eric.

“Who’s your friend?” said Douglas, now looking toward Adam.

“This is Adam, he just moved to Las Vegas from New York.”

“Hi there, young man.”

“Hello,” Adam said with a shy grin, pulling bags from the trunk.

“Do you like the ocean too?” asked Douglas.

“Yeah, but I’ve never been to this one,” said Adam.

“Well, we’re only two blocks away so we will have to show you this one.”

The family pulled the last of their gear into the house. Eric and Adam were taking

Paula’s brother’s room because he was away at college. They made their way to explore the posters and music collection that filled the walls and shelves. Fred and Paula went to unpack in the guest bedroom. Douglas sat down in his living room, scanning the

41 memories that filled the space. Pictures of his two kids and deceased wife hung from the walls. Paintings and small sculptures from trips abroad were scattered about the way in which his wife had placed them. He could not settle on one piece to contemplate, but took them all in at once and was overwhelmed with emotion once again. He took a slug from his beer and again let tears flow down his face.

He looked up to see Adam standing in the hallway at the far end of the room. He wiped tears from his eyes and motioned for him to come closer.

“Don’t worry,” Douglas said. “I’m alright, it’s just a hard life sometimes.”

“Your wife is gone?”said Adam, not knowing what to say.

“She lived a happy life, we lived a happy life.”

“You still live a happy life, right?”

“I do, I do,” Douglas said, now starting to smile at the innocence of youth. “Now go play with Eric and I’ll see you boys for lunch in a while.” Adam walked off and

Douglas sat back in his chair. He dozed off for a while before being woken by Paula.

“Lunch is ready, Dad,” Paula gently said, with a hand on his shoulder.

Douglas was happy to have a house full of family. They all sat down to eat the sandwiches Paula made. Douglas told Eric and Adam his stories of life living at the beach that covered the past forty years. He talked of trips he and his wife took up and down the coast. His sad demeanor changed as he remembered the early days of raising a family in the very house they ate lunch that afternoon.

He told them of a time when he drove the family up to camp in Big Sur for the weekend. Their old station wagon was packed with coolers and camping gear. The kids

42 sat in the back seat, excited for their first family camping trip. Douglas and his wife were young and in love. Their smiles matched the smiles their children wore, reading books and watching the world pass them by from the comfort of the station wagon. Douglas said this was a time when the world seemed to be a never-ending road of good times and unlimited possibilities. His love was as strong for his wife that day as it was the day she passed. She was his partner and his guide through life with a family.

The guests to this house gave Douglas reason to relish in the good times of his life and distract him from the emptiness that he had been feeling for the past couple months.

He had reason to be happy about where his life had taken him and accept his loss, even if it was only temporary. He knew that he would have to adjust his life and daily activities to conform to life with a missing piece. A missing piece of himself. Grandpa Douglas thought he had grown as much as he needed to at that point in life, but was realizing that life was a never-ending process of growing, learning to live with the changes that could appear from any corner.

***

The next morning Fred fired up the Caddie to take Grandpa and the boys up the coast to Venice Beach for the afternoon. The ocean breeze and smell of salt air filled the cabin. Adam was once again seeing a world foreign to him. The weekend festivities taking place on the boardwalk of Venice were a sight to behold; street musicians and artists of every sort filled the strand with hats and instrument cases set out to collect money from the passersby. They stopped for flavored shaved ice from a man with a funny mustache who talked with a fake Italian accent. They ate lunch on the patio of a

43 small Mexican restaurant where they continued to watch the public entertainment that cruised up and down the strand at a seemingly endless pace. At times, the scene took on the looks of a carousel: a revolving wheel of colorful characters juggling, singing, riding funky looking bikes, and other unknown wheeled machines.

Adam closely watched the actions of Grandpa Douglas. He was quiet, but did not seem sad in any way. Adam listened intently to his stories of the old Venice Beach before all the “wild people” as he called them; a time when surfing was just hitting the States and the freewheeling Sixties had not yet carved their groove into the American youth.

Adam’s eyes scanned the crowds and shops as Grandpa Douglas kept the stories rolling.

Adam tried to take in the present day Venice, but also put himself in the Venice of the past. He could see the years of change in the chipped paint of buildings, revealing colors painted over long ago. He could see the years of change in the lines of Grandpa Douglas’ face. Adam thought of all the changes he had seen in his short life with the constant moving from one place to the next while his own father tried to make a buck. He liked the way Grandpa Douglas talked of past days, but also of the excitement he felt with the changes that had occurred in the people and places. Adam was learning to accept the idea of an always-changing life.

After the excitement of that afternoon in Venice, they climbed back into the baby- blue boat. Adam and Eric stretched out in the back seat with Fred acting as their chauffeur and Grandpa Douglas their tour guide still telling stories of his years in

Southern California. Eric reached under the seat and pulled out two magazines for the slow cruise back down the coast. Adam and Eric quietly scanned the layouts of

44 voluptuous women of the late 1970’s as the coastal communities passed through the windows. They slowly drifted to sleep, falling victim to the long afternoon and the hum and smooth flow of the Cadillac’s ride.

***

The cries coming from the front of the boat soon vanished, but Adam was now filled with his own cries of sorrow. He was going to be faced with days of unknowns without his best friend. He was about to lose his partner in crime and the reality was becoming ever so present in these early dark hours of the houseboat bunk. The boat gently rolled and the desert breeze carried damp smells like that of the ocean air. He wondered if anyone else was awake to hear him choke back tears. Tears that had started from an old man were now replaced by tears of a young boy. In those fading moments before falling back to sleep, Adam pictured Eric boarding a plane to Hawaii. Adam wondered who he would rely on for company and adventure in his empty Las Vegas life.

Adam awoke to Eric shaking his shoulder as he hung to the rungs of the bunk ladder.

“Get up, man,” Eric said, “Paula’s making breakfast.”

Okay,” Adam yawned, not able to fully open his eyes to the bright desert morning of Lake Mead. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he mumbled. The summer desert heat was already much more intense than it was during Adam’s late-night excursion to get a glass of water. He lay in bed for a few minutes longer, listening to the activities of the family and wondering how they would deal with a life without Eric. Eric would still be their son,

45 but they would not feel his presence as they did now. The unknowns in life crept through

Adam’s being and he felt that tinge of anxiousness that he was all too familiar with.

Adam could smell the bacon being cooked on the stove. His overly tanned body was once again feeling the effects of dehydration, and the vision of a tall glass of orange juice brought him upright and down the ladder. Still wearing his swim trunks from the day before, he pulled on a T-shirt and stretched his way to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Adam yawned to the galley, as his arms continued stretching and twisting to shake off the night’s slumber.

“What would you like to drink?” asked Paula.

“Orange juice please,” he said, while taking a seat next to Eric. He turned to the back of the boat to see Fred and Grandpa Douglas chatting it up while their arms swayed with glasses of liquor in their animated conversation. Paula placed a glass of juice on the table and then a plate of two fried eggs-over easy with toast and bacon. Adam dug into the food and started to have that uneasy feeling again of the change that was about to take place. One more night aboard the houseboat and then he would see his friend to the airport. He was getting that sour feeling in his stomach like the Sunday before the first day of a new school year; the anxiety and unwanted sadness that comes on when change rears itself was overwhelming.

***

“My dad says after breakfast we’re going to take the boat to the other side of the lake to some rocks we can jump off,” Eric said with a mouthful of food being washed down with a glass of orange juice.

“Cool,” Adam said, shoving food into his mouth, his mind returning from a distant place. “Can we jump off the roof and swim here before we go?”

“Yeah, but let’s hurry up and finish eating.”

They both put mind to plate and fed on the food in front of them. Eric jumped up from the table first and raced to the front deck. He quickly climbed the ladder to the roof.

The patter of his footsteps could be heard as he ran across the roof deck. A loud scream of exhilaration was heard as he jumped into the water, landing right in front of Fred and

Grandpa Douglas. Eric’s howl and then large splash startled them both and Grandpa spilled the majority of his drink on the deck. As Adam was finishing the last couple bites on his plate, Grandpa Douglas came into the kitchen to pour himself a new drink.

“How are you today, Adam?” he asked with a smile.

“Just fine,” Adam made out, trying not to choke, his mouth stuffed with egg and bread. He watched him pour another drink with steady hands and a smile. Adam wondered if he slept last night after he had seen him on the front deck of the boat. He wondered how he went about his daily routine without having a wife to comfort him after so many years of having her by his side. He also wondered what images had been playing through his mind while he laughed then cried on the back of the boat.

Before Grandpa had finished topping his drink, Adam jumped up from the table and made his way to the roof deck. The same pattering of feet across the roof were heard before a howling jump into the water where Eric still floated and treaded, keeping cool from the heat. Adam landed with a cannonball and both boys gave out cries of joy as they splashed in the water.

“Alright boys, I’m going to start preparing the boat to take off, so another fifteen minutes and I want you guys back on deck,” Fred said, swirling the ice cubes of his glass.

The houseboat lumbered across the open water at a slow pace. Speedboats pulling water skiers caused wakes that rocked the boat from side to side. Fred had the radio cranked. It was a classic music station rocking tunes from the Rolling Stones and The

Beatles. Adam and Eric sat on the roof deck covered in sunscreen, sneaking peeks of their secret girlfriends on the pages of their Playboy magazines kept hidden in a backpack, both taking turns flipping pages and pointing to their favorites with raised eyebrows and satisfied grins. The breeze from the movement of the houseboat offered them some comfort from the sun, but the heat of the day was far too powerful to be fully satisfying. It would only be the comfort of the water that afforded them the satisfaction they desired. The sound of the boat motor, the lake views, and the magazine full of naked poised women gave them a distance and distraction from the grown-up activities below.

Adam sat with a smile, feeling uncomfortable in the heat, but fully satisfied with everything else that surrounded him at this moment.

They could see the rock outcrop off in the distance. Jumping off high dives, walls, and roofs into pools had been a favorite activity of both boys. Eric had been to these rocks before, but this was Adam’s first experience with climbing large rocks in order to plunge into the waters below. The closer they got, the reality of the grand size of the rocks started to take shape. They were a lot bigger than Adam had imagined. It was more of a large cliff face than a rock. The anxiety of this excursion started to take hold. It was not the saddened anxieties he was feeling earlier of losing a friend, but the anxiety of a

48 challenge that held fears of physical hurt and pain. The rock formations went up to a height of thirty feet or more above the water’s surface. As the boat made its way to a sandy beach area near the rocks, the full scale of this jump was apparent.

Fred cut the engines and dropped the anchor twenty feet from shore. Adam and

Eric jumped from the roof deck and swam toward the beach. The cool water rejuvenated their senses. Eric quickly made his way to the sandy shore and waved Adam to follow.

“Come on, let’s get up there,” Eric yelled, pointing to the top of the rock.

***

“You go first, I’ll wait here,” Adam yelled back to him. Adam was feeling

comfort in the coolness of the water and also apprehension about jumping from that

height. It was at least twice as high as he had ever jumped before and the dangers of climbing, jumping, and then landing correctly were far more evident than any of the pool

jumps he had done in the past. He watched as Eric made his way down the sandy beach

and approach the base of the rock cliff. There was a small path that could be made out from the many others who had made their way up to the top of the rock for a plunge. The

path snaked its way up, over, and around the smaller rocks that made up the base of the

one big rock. Eric climbed and scampered his way along the twisting path sometimes

dropping out of site for a minute, hidden from Adam’s view.

At last, Eric was at the top. He waved to them all and gave a loud howl as he leapt far out and into the air. He fell gracefully with a tight form, arms to the side and legs stretched out underneath him with toes pointed to the water. He hit the water with a small

49 splash, the thirty-foot jump taking only seconds to complete. He came up from below the water’s surface and let out another howl.

Eric swam back to where Adam was standing in neck-deep water. “You ready to give it a try?” Eric asked.

“I’m ready,” Adam said. “Are you going to jump again?”

“I’ll watch you from here and then we can both go again.”

Adam nervously walked out to the sandy beach and made his way to the start of the path that snaked up and through the rocks. He paused on his climb and could see that

Fred and Paula had joined Eric in the water. They were all splashing about and he could hear their muffled talk and laughter as he made his way to the top. Once there he looked anxiously at the water far below. The family kept cool in the water, watching him as he stood tall, gaining his composure.

Adam looked out and about the desert lake. The heat of the sun had already dried his body. The lake was full of boating activities and the sounds of motors could be heard from all directions. He looked down to the houseboat. Grandpa Douglas was now up on the deck looking up to him high above. Grandpa Douglas raised both arms into the air giving him a double-thumbs-up. Adam looked one more time at the water below and then back to the houseboat where Grandpa Douglas was taking a leap from the roof deck and into the cool clear water. With one last breath, Adam pushed off the rock with his legs and fell through the air, keeping his body and mind in tight form. He watched the landscape pass by him in slow motion and then hit the cool water with a splash. He plunged ten feet or more under the water, rising slowly upward. “Woohoo!” Adam

50 screamed as he surfaced to the hollers and claps from Eric and his family, who were all gathered on the sandy bottom of the water’s shallows. Adam swam to them, the towering rocky outcrop now to his back.

Concrete River

I will make it in to work. I will shower, dress, and get in my car. I will get on the freeway. I will make it into work.

I lived only a couple blocks from the sand on the second story of a rented bungalow conversion. A balcony off the bedroom offered me visuals of the sea and boardwalk. On weekends the strand filled with tourists, and the nearby street musicians, jugglers, and artists took advantage of this fact in making their riches. On weekdays they practiced their craft for nickels. This was a weekday and from my horizontal position on my bed, lying naked, only partly covered by a sheet, my view was limited to a slanting wood telephone pole with wires cluttering the air, making connections with one building to the next. Only a few feet separated any one house, apartment, or business. Everybody wants to live at the beach.

I could hear the small surf lightly crashing in the shallows. A typical beach break for this mid-spring time of year. I rolled from my side to back in order to stare at the ceiling fan and contemplate life longer, all the while smelling the wet ocean air with sand and salt-peppered breeze. “Man, why did I drink last night,” I said out loud in an unsurprised voice. “I do this shit all the time,” I said, still speaking out loud and not kidding myself at all. “Shit!” I shouted and then chuckled, realizing it was futile to try and play psychologist to myself while still holding a buzz from the previous night. I rolled my legs off the side of the bed into a sitting position and stretched my arms. I

51 52 shook my head vigorously back and forth for a couple seconds before walking up to the open screened doorway leading out onto the balcony. Dressed in nothing, I held the framed doorway with my hands and leaned outward, stretching my arms and body, trying to rid myself of the debauchery that existed at every woken turn in this current place. I thought about calling into the office right then, but that would only lead to cracking a beer and leaving the possibility wide open to feeling worse off tomorrow. I will make it in to work. I will shower, dress, and get in my car. I will get on the freeway. I will make it into work. Yes, an often used and very regular internal mantra I had developed. It seemed to help. I was still paying the bills.

So I showered, dressed, and had a breakfast of water, oatmeal, and banana. I followed it with a coffee and cigarette. I had another banana and filled my mug again with coffee before making my way downstairs in crumpled white-collared clothes. I slid into the slowly rusting sports car, careful not to spill the coffee from the not-so-travel- friendly mug. I hadn’t washed the car since early winter. Layers of sand-laden salt air coated the Bavarian-blue sheen that I’m sure still existed under the filth of neglect. I backed out from the driveway in those early grey hours of morning with a sputtering motor in desperate need of a tune-up. “If it drives, it drives,” I told myself every weekday morning. I could only wish for a breakdown to halt my progress toward the work day.

The only visible things stirring this early morning hour were cooing pigeons that stared from the webs of phone and electrical wires, and several bums pushing carts rattling with cans and other possessions that for a short while were owned by the same dumpsters they now searched for new-found fortunes. I held sympathy for these street

53 urchins and tossed them some change from time to time. I always left my recyclables to the side of the receptacle to make their life one hair easier on their daily trip up my alley in search of anything that would give them another day of life.

But at the same time I felt my life was not progressing in the right direction as I had intended. I wondered whether some of these homeless felt they had a chance to change their path or if they, like me, had prescribed to a feeling of succumbing to an unwanted existence. A lack of energy to even discuss a way out, all energy being placed on surviving in the current state of being and this very moment.

I clumsily shifted gears while punching at preset radio buttons, finding nothing of interest as usual. I rolled both windows down and watched the same storefronts, street signs, and structures pass by in a blur. I could measure the changes in stoplights from red to green with the tapping of my foot, I could sense the street-corner names and places by the smells emitting from restaurants, and I could probably make this drive from beach house to freeway entrance blindfolded.

With my damp hair flopping and flowing in the breeze through the open windows, the smells and sounds of beach life were slowly falling to the Inland Empire reign of smog, fumes, and sounds of an overpopulated existence. The beach was populated, but this inland life was a different beast. The ocean offered a boundary of hope. Something I could look out at and find comfort in, knowing that there is something else going on in this world besides people and progress. The ocean was a neighbor that made that great connection to the natural world that could bring some sense to this overpopulated and overproduced environment I lived in. The people who lived beyond the threshold of the

54 ocean air had only freeways and endless communities of tract housing as boundaries. The city offered no relief from the city. It feasted on its own.

The sky changed from the natural gray marine layer to the brown city layer without nearly a notice. The two had become accustomed to each other and weaved a blanket in which one could barely make out a line of separation. It was the smells and sounds that defined their separation. The freeway thumped and pounded with traffic twenty-four hours a day. The smell of tires and exhaust filled every orifice. The sounds and smells saturated my senses, causing an irritating numbness on most days. There were days of sunshine and days where drinking did not add to my numbing and irritated attitude, but even those days did not offer me comfort and fulfillment in space and place.

A few miles of stops and turns and I would come to the freeway that could congest into a stalemate of stop-and-go at any moment: blinker madness in finding the lane moving quickest, but everyone getting to their destinations at the same snail pace regardless of lanes or decisions. It was a little before 7:00 a.m. and the traffic was minimal under the blanket of murky sky that floated above. I raced up the on ramp and drifted across lanes to the fast one. I had a little more than twenty miles of northbound freeway before my exit into downtown Los Angeles and the office building tower that offered me no solace other than a paycheck that afforded my life at the beach.

Billboards flashed by as I sped down the near-deserted freeway. I hugged the guard rails and center freeway dividers. I stared at the blur of concrete and metal separating the north and southbound lanes. I liked the feeling of driving on the rail and the visions that came from the speed and close proximity. The perceptions of movement

55 were so dependent upon place and distance. Moving one lane to the right, just that little bit farther from the center divider, would offer me a completely different sense of my speed. The fast lane and the few feet that separated my car from that center divider came with such a rush.

With my feet on the pedals and eyes on the road, I kept the coffee mug from spilling by taking my right hand off the stick-shift. The coffee mug was a ceramic one that was not meant to travel or fit in a cup holder. It was glazed with a drawing of colorful row houses from New Orleans. My father had picked it up as a gift for me many years ago while on a trip to New Orleans with his motorcycle buddies. This was when we lived in southern Illinois, where my family had originated. I must have been six or seven at the time of this gift. We moved soon after and I rarely saw much close family again. It was a constant move from one western town to the next as my dad moved up the ladder of various management sales positions. Companies seemed to like the way he worked and were always looking to him to establish new branches in the ever-expanding world of production and profit.

***

My grandfather followed my family out west. Not right away, but within a year of us moving. This was the grandfather on my mother’s side. I don’t think he was excited about following my dad’s escapades from one life to the next, but after my grandmother passed away, I’m sure he felt a need to run from his sorrows and his memories of her. He talked about her often and about all the good times they spent as youngsters. They met and grew up as teenagers during prohibition America. He said prohibition made drinking

56 that much more fun. He talked of traveling through the Midwest and East with my grandmother before joining the military.

He was dead set on going to battle in the second war, but some medical condition prevented him. I cannot recall his ailment, but I do remember how upset he would become when retelling the story about his determination to fight for this country. All those years later and his medical discharge still did not sit well with him. I never heard him talk about the fact that if he wasn’t discharged his chances of being killed were great and in turn my mother would have never been born and in turn I would not have been born. But he was a tough old man and I’m sure he never perceived the possibility of dying in combat.

He saw the war from a great distance and no matter how much he read or how many pictures he saw, he lived with an illusion of the reality of it all. He wanted to fight for this great country he saw himself deeply attached to, and his heart was in the right place. But his perceptions of this military person he wanted to be and a place he wanted to go were misconstrued by the physical distance. Seeing something from afar is not the same as being there, and I don’t think he ever got that when it came to his lost dreams of fighting in the war.

I’ve always wondered what my life would have been like living in the same town

I was born, around the extended family I was only briefly connected with, an existence of familiarity and a sense of place. That is not what I grew up with and I was feeling disconnected to my place in its present state. But I was currently living in a place that I was all too familiar with and had planted some roots fifteen years previous. I had plenty

57 of close friends, yet I was no longer accepting of this life and saw no way or desire to find a way out.

***

I had only driven about ten miles before a wave of brake lights illuminated before me, hundreds of them snaking up and around a bend in the freeway. I slowed and approached the wall of motionless motorized reverberation while moving my coffee mug to my left hand as to not spill the now seemingly precious commodity. A sudden and complete stop of vehicles filling all lanes at this hour usually meant an accident and there seemed to be no movement from any lanes. I switched the radio to AM and dialed in a local news and traffic station only to listen to advertisements and weather.

I popped open the glove box and pulled out a pack of smokes. Nothing eased the monotony of a traffic dilemma like a cup of coffee and a pack of smokes. The limited amount of coffee scared me a little and the thought of needing more was creating another dilemma in itself. I was stuck in the fast lane and it would take four lanes of maneuvering to get into a position of exiting this frozen giant artery of conveyance. There being no movement from any lanes at that moment, I sat back, lit a smoke, and sipped coffee to the sounds of cars whizzing by in the southbound lanes and the murmur of idling engines all about me in the northbound ones.

The radio continued to offer weather information – cloudy in the morning, clearing up and low seventies in the afternoon – but nothing relevant to the status of

Interstate 405 northbound stopped traffic. As I deeply inhaled my cigarette and cautiously

58 sipped my dwindling coffee, I recalled being in stop-and-go traffic some years earlier on this same stretch of freeway.

***

It was during the early evening hours, that day some years ago, and I was heading south back to the beach after another day that is not worth mentioning for not much happens in my office building worth mentioning. I remember it was a usual Southern

California summertime, so one is always expecting traffic at all hours of the day. I remember it being a sunny day and I remember being in good spirits leading up to the event. It seems most likely it was a Friday so I was looking forward to a couple days near the comforts and confines of the beach world. I don’t remember exactly what I was listening to on the radio, but I do remember I had the radio up pretty loud to drown out the traffic noise. The northbound lanes were just as congested as the southbound and there were horn sounds of every dimension and from all directions which I found to be a little peculiar; not the sounds of horns in particular, but the number of them and the consistency of the honking did not make sense.

As the traffic crept along this summer day years earlier, I did start to feel something odd when the traffic lanes were merging to either side of the freeway. If there was an accident, they would usually move the debris to either the left or right lanes and then open the traffic flow to either lane accordingly. But as I progressed further down the road, it was evident that it was the center lanes that the traffic was being diverted from.

The lanes being offered were either the fast lane or the slow one.

As I contemplated the mess of the situation, I was now becoming irritated because the unusualness of the situation was presenting me with more of an opportunity to dwell on the events. My good spirited “it’s just another traffic jam I’ll be home soon” turned to

“what the fuck is going on here this is fucking ridiculous, why are they diverting us from the center lanes?” I kept to the left lane and felt a wave of angst and anxiety rain over me as cars jostled for position and the horn honking became more evident. As I approached the heart of the maelstrom, everything unfolded before me and there were no more questions as to what was causing this traffic nightmare.

The overpass to the exit before me was a collage of flashing, strobing, and blinking lights from a plethora of fire trucks, squad cars, and ambulances. They were gathered on the overpass, in the center lanes before me, and in the medians to both sides of the freeway. And high above this whole scene of thousands of brake lights, slow moving engines, a symphony of horns from vehicles of all sizes, and enough city emergency service personnel to tackle an event of catastrophic earthquake-like size, was a sole individual perched high atop one of the centered lampposts on the overpass one exit in front of me. He sat balancing where the pole meets the arm that extends out with the lamp, and his legs swung back and forth as if he were on a swing set or park bench, enjoying the view.

As I crawled slower and closer with the traffic, I could hear the car horn sounds were now mixed with the sounds of people screaming. People hanging out their car windows with middle fingers raised shouting:

“Jump, you jackass!”

“Just die, you piece of shit!”

“I will kill you if you don’t do it!”

“Why the fuck are you doing this to me!”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

I can’t remember which side of the fence I fell on during those few moments. I know I was upset at being delayed in traffic, but at the same time I was just starting to gather my thoughts about the enormity of the situation caused by one lone man atop a light pole. It was at that moment that he leapt. I’m not sure if “leapt” is the right word.

Maybe dived or plunged is a better way of describing his descent. I know that I was not expecting what I saw and the quickness of his fall still haunts me. His body hit the concrete middle lane of the freeway below at such an incredible speed. At the time of the fall I was in a position to witness the impact. It was immediately obvious he did not survive. But the speed of the fall, it was just so incredibly fast witnessing it from such a close distance.

***

The vision and memory of that day long ago was all I could take. I needed to get off this freeway and wait for this traffic to work itself out. Maybe I would grab some breakfast, at least get a fresh coffee. I could roll into work whenever I wanted anyways. It was my life and my money on the line. I only got paid when I put in the time and energy.

The traffic was slowly starting to move. Not moving at any impressive speed, but moving enough to offer me a chance at switching lanes. I threw on my blinker and negotiated a quick lane change to the right. There was an exit coming up in less than half

61 a mile; I knew I could make it with the proper patience and freeway etiquette of friendly waves, positive thumbs ups, and lackadaisical peace signs. Whatever my mood was, I had to present a positive self to get anything accomplished in this jacked up and cornered position I found myself in on this stretch of highway.

I made my moves, gave my signals, flashed the proper gestures, and found myself in the slow lane and exiting the freeway soon thereafter. This part of town was very much unknown to me. Because of the size of Los Angeles and my affinity for the ocean and beach, most of L.A. was off my radar. This didn’t look like the best of exits or the best of neighborhoods, but I was thinking it could be worse. Almost immediately I spotted, what looked like a small, locally-owned market and liquor store where several characters of mixed colors stood outside leaning on their cars drinking what appeared to be coffee in white styrofoam cups.

If I had been driving a cleaned-up car, or should I say if I had spent even a minute in the past five months lifting a finger in tending to my filthy ride, I may have had second thoughts about stopping at this local market in a neighborhood far from where I lived over boundaries that I am not used to going. My loosely buttoned, wrinkled white shirt, unkempt hair, and shoddy pants gave me the confidence that I would not be seen as some pompous jackass who had lost his way.

I gave a small hand gesture to the characters in the parking lot. I think I got a nod from one of them, but they did not miss a beat and kept at their lively discussion that seemed to be taking place in mostly Spanish. I could smell the coffee as I opened the door to the store and gave a nod to the young gentleman grinning and talking on the

62 phone behind the counter. He accepted my nod with raised eyebrow as I found my way to the coffee station and grabbed a large cup. They had two pots of coffee brewing and there was no discernable or marked difference between the two. I was a coffee man in the sense that I drank coffee to keep awake and help feed my cigarette addiction, so this type of operation made me feel right at home.

I approached the counter and the young man set down the phone. I set down the coffee and reached for my wallet.

“How are you today, sir?” the young man asked.

“I’m doing okay, thanks. Must be a big accident on the freeway.”

“There’s always accidents on the freeway,” he laughed.

“I’ll take that one dollar scratcher ticket, too.”

“Maybe you’ll win the million dollars,” he said.

“I think you can only win five hundred on those tickets.”

“I know, wouldn’t that be a miracle if you won a million dollars on that ticket then,” he said, finding even more humor in himself.

“I guess it would,” I chuckled.

I tossed a few dollars his way and made my way outside. The gentlemen that were gathered talking had left the lot. Probably on their way to make the money that feeds their families and pays for their place and space. I hopped in my car and took a slug off the fresh cup of coffee. I reached for another smoke and started up the rattling engine. I decided to stay off the freeway and just drive for a while. I could probably make my way

63 to downtown from this point one way or the other so I headed off in the direction I thought best.

This part of the city was foreign to me. The shabby front lawns, fallen down front porches, driveways with covered parking structures that were no longer covered was a different scene from even the most rundown beach-area buildings. They say that a dog takes on the look of his owner, but in this neighborhood the dogs took on the look of their homes. Beat-down and underfed pups on broken chains sleeping in dirt. The appearance of the neighborhood had a far different feel from the somewhat pleasant interaction I had experienced with the locals just moments before.

Sure I had seen neighborhoods just like this one before, but probably mostly on the news. I thought about the development of the city so many years ago. The city planners, land owners, and developers mapping out and segregating the masses. Once the houses were built, the contractors made their money, the real estate investors made theirs, the government officials made good on their promises of building a community with a park with green grass for the kids. But then what? The structure of the community was left and forgotten because there was money to be made elsewhere.

A community made to be settled by the poverty stricken and less educated pushed to the side and left to fall into ruin and disrepair because no one really cares. Viewing this community up close and personal was far different than watching it from a distance.

That’s what people do in life, look at things from a distance and have a distorted perception of the realities.

As I drove toward what I though was the direction of my office building, I decided I would probably not be going in to work today. I kept driving in that direction, but I would not enter that building. I needed to get my mind around some things and the nothingness I felt in that office was not part of my plan.

I drove in a northeasterly direction. I saw that I was still far from the office towers of downtown L.A., but I kept driving. I went through miles of neighborhoods that fluctuated in slow roller coaster fashion from dirt-poor and poverty stricken to breaching lower middle class. After an hour or more I found myself in the far eastern reaches of

L.A. County. The Los Angeles River was before my eyes. Not much of a river really, more of a cement valley with a small trail of brownish water trickling down the middle. I actually couldn’t tell if it was flowing from my vantage point at the top edge of the cement bank. It looked still and stagnant.

I sat in my car and wondered about the river before it was interrupted by all of this city, cement, and people. I thought about my short life in Illinois and the fields and rivers I had experienced for those few precious moments in memories that I held onto. I thought about my grandmother and the short time I knew her and the pain it must have caused my grandfather to not have his daughter there when she died of a heart attack. I also started to remember my parents talking of cousins falling victim to drugs and alcohol and, an uncle who went to federal prison for tax evasion and pilfering money from the inheritances of the elderly.

I looked up to the sky and watched a plane flying far overhead. So far in the sky that it could not have taken of from LAX— it was too far up in the sky for that. I was

65 amazed at how slowly it appeared to be moving across the now-blue vibrant sky. I wondered about the people on board and where they were heading. A plane moving at hundreds of miles an hour, but appearing to move at a neighborhood speed limit. My perception distorted by distance and place. The people aboard could be grieving. The people aboard could be dying and sick. How was I to judge from such a distance?

I sat back in my car that afternoon not so long ago. I remembered back to when I first moved to L.A. and one of my first days at the beach. I raced through the sand into the water. I dove under a wave and then floated freely in the afternoon sun. I could see my balcony as I buoyed up and down in the surf. I walked across the sand and tossed coins in the hats of strangers. I gazed at the sky that was clear and it made sense. I had really felt like I found home in that moment.

Not sure of which route I would take to make my journey back to the beach, I turned the key and started up the engine to that rusty old machine.

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