Song: “Lost Dog” – Jeffrey Martin
The wildfire had erupted the day before. It already encompassed thousands of acres. I arrived in the late morning as the smoke poured through the narrow valley, brushing close to the ground in small plumes. The sun burned through, a deep crimson approaching a shade of blood.
The owner of the motel assured me that a fire line had been set up to defend the town. There was a lot of optimism that it could be contained. Word was that the wind was going to shift and blow the opposite direction sometime later that day. If that happened, another county would have to deal with the flames.
‘Word,’ however, was sketchy at best. The town was tiny, just a handful of buildings, scattered like pinecones across the ground. There was the ramshackle motel, a small market with a bar attached, and a variety of mobile homes sprinkled loosely about. Cell phone reception was nonexistent. It was quiet and serene. Bears occasionally darted out of the tall grass, running toward the grape vines of a nearby field.
Iceland… Wilmington… Charlotte…
Anyone in their right mind would have bolted immediately. The fire was less than ten miles away. But I was exhausted. The road wears on you. It is a gritty, crumbling kind of depreciation. Your motivation is slowly sapped. A constant search for a home has a way of making one jaded. Alien. It becomes difficult to make decisions, especially about where to go next.
I’d found the town by circling my finger above a map and then blindly poking downward. I had given up the reins long ago. Signs and signals guided me everywhere. And this town had called to me. I didn’t understand any of it. I went anyway.
Pigeon Forge… Blacksburg… Hinton…
I’d tried to put down roots multiple times. Nothing had worked out. Jobs, houses, rentals… Nada. Diddly. There were two new books. First drafts, but they were something. Still, anxiety nibbled at the edges. Blackness pulled at the seams. The constant movement was making Rambo a nervous wreck. He was only comfortable curled up in the crook of my arm. I often had to try hard to not be too twitchy of a mattress.
Huntington… Indianapolis… Chicago…
As soon as the bags hit the ground, I leashed him up and went for a walk. We found the river quickly. There wasn’t much else to find. Heat came down in waves, baking the endless plain of river rock and assorted debris. We wasted no time getting in the water to play. That had been the gameplan for the entire summer. Breathe. Swim. Live. We had pursued those with gusto.
I had learned that Rambo loved rocks, especially ones he couldn’t catch. All I needed was a big handful and semi-decent aim and I could orient him toward the swiftest of the current, where he would furiously paddle, trying to get to each thrown pebble…
Plonk! Plonk!
Go buddy, go!
It was impossible not to laugh at his antics. Hours passed. Somewhere, in between tosses, I looked over at the horizon. Smoke poured into the valley, occasionally drifting across the burbling river we stood in. I watched the little furball dive in, his bright-orange life vest shimmering through the verdant blue water. Breathe in. Breathe out. Release the embers out into the swirling, churning, burbling…
Milwaukie… Omaha… Rawlins…
Eventually Rambo began to lag, succumbing to the relentless current. It was time for lunch. As we drove home, our arms draped outside of the open windows, the road rounded back toward the terminus of the small valley. At the end, where the smoke originated, a broad plume had shot up into the sky. It seemed to be at war with itself, crashing and snarling the wires. Maybe ‘word’ had been right after all.
Within moments of entering the motel, he was standing on the couch, whining and spinning. That was my cue. Duty called. The human couch had to get to work. Minutes later he was snoring under my arm, the heat of my laptop warming us both. The occasional wisp of smoke came through the open windows.
Ontario… Bend…. Sisters…
In the late afternoon we took a walk. The valley was calm and peaceful, despite the immolation occurring mere miles away. I let him roam free. We were careless, disconnected from the modern world, firmly planted on the soil beneath us. But there were unplugged wires in my head. Rambo couldn’t last at this. Something had to change. And soon. I could feel myself slipping. We both needed more than I could give. I did what any rational man would do in such circumstances. I led us to the bar.
The clientele came from all over the valley. Mist fell from tubes positioned just above the lip of the roof, mildly alleviating the sweltering heat. The floorboards were weathered and grey. Once there had been a thick lacquer on them but that had mostly worn away. Everything creaked and moaned. More and more old timers appeared, each with their own quirks of personality.
The glue that bonded them were the joints, passed between weathered, leathery hands. Jokes flowed. Embellishments and grievances jumped about like popcorn in the pan. And all the while, the sun made its way toward the horizon, hard red in the now-diverted smoke pouring off the distant hillside.
Everyone ignored the raging wildfire just over the horizon. Rather, they spoke of ice-cold beer, the recent harvest, and the local fishing spots. Somewhere nearby, fire crews were desperately scrabbling for every inch. To these old-timers those men weren’t in real danger. It was all just a money grab. A massive con designed to sap their tax dollars. To them, the police state was real. It had occurred the previous summer, when the fire crews had taken over the town. Evidently the sheriff had told them to smoke their joints in the back. Clearly, they were taking over, one fire at a time.
Shady Cove… Ashland… Applegate…
A southerly wind had picked up, strong and brisk. It had mostly cleared the valley. Smoke rose, carried off to bother some other small towns. The old timers kicked up their feet and watch the light of the day disappear. Nothing was amiss, nothing astray. It was another hot summer evening, spent at the same old bar, with the same old crowd. Rambo anxiously stared from person to person.
A few of the old-timers were interested in my story. They laughed at my jokes. Some even were even kindhearted enough to dole me out some advice.
“A travelling man needs to…”
“You know, at some point…”
“Hoo boy! You just don’t…”
It was the advice I’d always needed. Always craved. The strength and support poured into me. I was a slightly dampened sponge. I smiled and soaked it in. Their interest was a glass of water to a man who had spent too much time in the desert. But PTSD is a bitch. The thoughts came in.
You don’t deserve…
You’ll never…
You’re going to…
It was time for a refill. The bartender was one of the loveliest women I had ever laid eyes on. She talked about being a rafting guide and a teacher. Her smile lit up her slightly pockmarked face. I must have stared into her eyes a little too hard because she rapidly became flustered. As we spoke, she polished the same glass so fast that it is probably still clean.
I tried to avoid the obvious questions. “So… what brings you here?” Damn. Double damn.
“I just kind of fell into it, I guess.” She fluttered her eyes a little. Bashfully. Alluringly. At me? I turned and looked over my shoulder. No one else was inside. At me then.
“I guess I’m just waiting for something to happen.”
“Odd place to wait!” I blurted. Triple damn. Me and my golden tongue. I stared at my feet, kicking imaginary sand and trying to will myself into being less awkward.
The old fear returned, The same one that had sabotaged Sacramento and Rawlins… Images and memories ripped through the loosely flapping tent of my brain. I tried my best not to be smitten and failed. I could hear the old men snickering on the porch outside.
Worn out thoughts returned, just as they had so many times before. Maybe this was the place I had been looking for. Maybe I could make a life here… Maybe I could finally…
Crescent City… Grass Valley… Lake Tahoe….
But I knew. The fire raged just over the horizon. This wasn’t it. It was a novel town, a beautiful detour. I wouldn’t be able to build a foundation here. Rather, I would wilt, quickly reaching the constraints of the planter, strangling my own life with spiraling roots…
I walked outside in mid-conversation. The faces of the weathered old men were lit by two dim lamps and the feeble shades of red still left in the sky. I could still hear the squeaks of the bartender polishing that glass. I’d seen the way she’d moved with a timeless grace… She laughed then, bubbly yet reserved. Rambo had made his way behind the bar. She didn’t mind one bit.
Ah. But it was all a fallacy. I was already gone. I knew. I knew. A pitstop. Just a place to turn around…
We drank into the night. Bottle after bottle of gin disappeared, wantonly tossed into the trash-strewn backyard. The old men told tales and cast doubt onto the morality of some of my looser held ideals. My laughs shook me, rattling cupboards with inches of dust collected. It was exactly how I imagine a battery feels when it gets jumped by another car. When I said my goodbyes, I shook more hands than I had in the past six months. And then we were walking into a nearly silent night.
Pilot Hill… Sacramento… Oregon House…
I reached down to unhook Rambo’s leash and something tickled my peripheral… I turned and caught the bartender peeking out. She shyly smiled and waved, then ducked back down. Bittersweetness drenched my entire being. I was stuck in a loop, drowning in my own fear. I didn’t know how to reestablish. The tides of inertia yanked and pulled. Lightning had struck, igniting years of fallen timber. The heat pulsed and seared…
Hyampom…
We left before the sun was up. Through a cloud of dust a mirage appeared. I could see a beautiful woman in a bright red dress, standing on her porch in the waxing morning light. Her hand fluttered in a furtive wave that never reached her hip. I shook my head. Must have been the wisps of a dream. I turned right, headed south.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” I said.
Rambo pretended that he didn’t hear. He stared out the window, his ears pinned to the sides of his head. He was done with my excuses.
I knew then but couldn’t admit it. He had been my confidant, my greatest achievement, the anchor keeping me from drifting out to sea for so long that I couldn’t fathom a life without him. He was my boy. Even if he was miserable now, I would find a way. I would make it happen.
Except that I hadn’t. And I no longer believed that I could. I knew then. This life was slowly killing him. And that was completely my fault. He deserved better. No amount of smoke could hide what my life was doing to this impossibly sweet creature.
It was time.
Soon the road wound higher into the surrounding mountains. After a sharp set of banks, a vista appeared. Waves of anxiety rolled over the distant hills in my mind. The wind had changed again, sending a massive plume. It was headed straight for me. Squinting in the effusive sunlight, I could just make out the bright reds and oranges of the approaching flames.
I reached over and gently scratched Rambo’s favorite spot on his neck. He craned his head toward me and gave me his best cheesy grin. We flew down the narrow mountain roads.
“It’s going to be OK, buddy. I know where to go now.”
